Buffy woke up early, or at least what she considered early. The afternoon sun shone through the windows in little stripes, decorating her room in a light/dark pattern. Dust motes danced on the air and she felt completely and totally alive for the first time in ages.

She sat up and stretched the kinks out of her back and noticed the shirt still draped around her. Reality crashed into her sleep-fuddled brain and she sat straight up in bed, the previous night’s events coming back to her in full force. She wasn’t dreaming of the auction. Or Spike. Or his assistance in getting out of there alive. Or…what they did….

More what he did, Buffy thought, as she padded to her bathroom. She dropped the red shirt to the ground, then on second thought, picked it back up with a dreamy smile. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled the mingled scents of tobacco and the whiff of male clinging to the fabric, then laid it carefully across the lid of the toilet before she climbed into the steamy shower.

She washed herself perfunctorily as she thought about the auction. True, Spike could have let her be bought by the Gren’oth…he could have let her get slaughtered, but didn’t. Why? Why did he buy me instead? She’d heard the price he paid for her—where did he get that kind of money? He doesn’t have a job, but he always seems to have blood and cigarettes. So where did he come up with thirty-five thousand dollars?

She shampooed her hair lazily, the water beating a tattoo on her back as she entertained thoughts of where Spike could acquire money like that. Steal it? No, she thought. He was too proud to steal, except pocket change from Xander for fun. Gambling? Well, he couldn’t get that much money playing poker—something she had found disturbing, to say the least, when she’d busted up a game at Willy's one night. Already she had run out of possibilities and still had no answer to that question, or the other questions bouncing around in her brain.

Why did he buy her? He wasn’t the owner of slayers; he was the Slayer of Slayers. Even with a chip in his head, he hadn’t tried to kill her in earnest since the pact they made to defeat Angelus. Recently, he’d almost seemed…friendly. In fact, if anything, he had helped her immensely in the past year. Still, that didn’t explain why he didn’t let another demon or vampire buy her and…. The other possible outcomes sent a shiver down her spine. She could have been killed outright. She could be…dead. Or turned. Or being hosed off the wall in the tryout room, her corpse discarded or worse.

As she rinsed her hair, she wondered about what happened in the small tryout room. Her body throbbed in memory of the reactions he was able to draw from her, but she quickly shook off the sudden arousal and tried to think impersonally about the encounter. He had been gentle with her, something that she hadn’t expected, and he had thought of her pleasure first, something that really amazed her. Nobody else had ever done that for her—not Angel, not Riley, and especially not Parker.

Her body flushed with what she wanted to be the heat from the shower, but she knew deep inside that it was embarrassment from her admission after the…act. She really didn’t know what to call it. It wasn’t lovemaking—there wasn’t any love involved there. It wasn’t just sex—there was a whole world of feeling behind his careful touches and considerate preparations. She knew that he would blow off her questions if she asked him what it meant to him, but the bigger question in her mind was what did it mean to her?

She could lie to herself and say that it meant nothing, but it would be exactly that—a lie, and a big one. She turned the water off and stepped out to grab her towel and her eyes fell on his shirt, lying innocently on the lid of the toilet. Her eyes filled unexpectedly and she dashed the tears away from them as she scrubbed her face with the towel to dry off. No crying over the stupid vampire, she told herself.

As she left the bathroom and found the sun setting like it always did, she looked into her closet for some appropriate clothes to patrol in. She could choose the ‘I’m hot and I know it’ outfit, the ‘stay away from me’ look, or the ‘come and get me, bloodsucker’ ensemble that always seemed to have them bursting out of their jeans—no, not jeans, graves. Graves.

Impatiently, she grabbed a random shirt and pair of pants out of the closet and threw them on her bed before turning to her dresser for underclothes. It was only when she turned back to the bed with bra and panties in her hand that she realized she had inadvertently chosen Spike's favorite colors, black and red. Black panties and bra, black semi-see-through shirt, red leather pants. Oh my God, now he’s got me dressing for him, she thought, but she put the clothes on anyway and turned to look at herself in the mirror. But I do look hot in this. Yeah, pretty hot. Pretty throw-your-clothes-in-the-corner-and-screw-me-senseless.

She looked inside the closet and considered changing her clothes, but was stopped cold by a tap on her door. “Buffy? Can I come in?” Dawn's voice made her turn to look at the closed door. Her sister, the Key. Well, at least the monks instilled some manners in her. Either that or the continued fights to keep her out of her room were working. Or the lock on the door.

Buffy grabbed a pair of boots out of the closet and stomped over to the door, twisting the lock. “What do you want, Dawn?”

“Actually, I thought that you might want this,” Dawn said triumphantly, the telltale red shirt dangling from her extended hand. “And can I ask how you got Spike's favorite shirt off his back?”

“No.” Buffy snatched the shirt out of her sister’s hand and tucked it under her pillow. Turning to face the bane of her existence, or one of them, she gave her a frowny face. “How did you know it was Spike's shirt? It might be Riley's.”

Hand raised, Dawn ticked off reasons on her fingers. “One, Riley is bigger than that. Two, I’ve spent enough time with Spike that I know his shirt when I see it. Three, you just admitted that it was Spike's shirt, so four, how did you get it?”

Buffy turned to walk over and sit down on her bed, cursing Dawn's powers of observation again. “He loaned it to me, okay? Now, go on and find something else to do besides pester me.”

Instead of leaving, Dawn strolled over and flopped belly-down on the bed. “But pestering you is so much fun. Not to mention, sort of in the sister’s job description. Where are you going?”

“Slaying. You should know that by now.” Buffy pulled on one black boot, then the other, finally turning to look at her sister. “And you are…?”

“Well, I tried to get Mom to let me go to Janice's house for a while, but she said no, so I’m just loafing and looking for something to do. And it seemed like pestering you was a good idea, so….” Dawn paused, and Buffy took the leap into the void.

“Well, I’m going out, so you’ll have to find somewhere else to hang and someone else to pester. Go away now, I’m leaving.” She headed toward her bedroom door as Dawn rolled off the bed and to her feet fluidly. She followed her sister with a pout and went into the hall, watching Buffy close her door firmly behind her.

Buffy headed down the stairs and to the front door where her mother intercepted her exit. “Where are you off to, sweetheart?” Joyce asked.

Buffy turned to face her mother. “Off to slay, Mom. That’s what I do.”

“Buffy, you haven’t eaten anything all day. At least eat some dinner.” Joyce turned to the kitchen and Buffy stopped her.

“Really, Mom, I’m all right. I’ll grab something at the Bronze. Now, aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy or something?” She steered her mom toward the couch and helped her sit down, arranging pillows behind her back. “I expect you to stay there, okay? No arguments.”

Joyce looked up at her eldest gratefully. “Thank you, sweetheart. You really don’t have to pamper me, though. The doctor….”

“The doctor isn’t here right now, and I am. You sit. Dawn, wait on her—if she needs something, then you get it for her. I’ll be home early, I promise.” With that, Buffy skidded out the door and onto the sidewalk. There was a certain vampire that she needed to find.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Spike was sitting in his comfortable chair nursing a blood and burba when the Slayer crashed through the door of the crypt, seemingly in high temper. He turned at the sound, not knowing what to expect from the dozy bint—she could be highly brassed-off about what he did last night, or she could be here to give him her utmost appreciation. He didn’t expect her to haul him out of his chair, but that was exactly what she did, pressing him face-first into the pillar support of the crypt.

“I’ve got some questions for you, Spike,” Buffy gritted between clenched teeth, and he turned his head to the side to glance over his shoulder. She didn’t look pissed—point in fact, she looked more confused than anything.

“Easier to answer them if you let me go, Slayer,” he replied, and was even more surprised when she did just that, the sudden release startling him as he dropped to his feet, cat-like. Turning to face her, he noticed her outfit first, then her perfume, both the scent that she’d applied and the underlying scent of her arousal. He grinned, curling his tongue behind his teeth, then flinched at the threatening move she made toward him. He waved her to sit in his chair, then took a seat on the lid of the sarcophagus and waved his hand. “Ask away then.”

She seemed unnerved by his willingness to talk. “Why did you…. What…. Where did you get the money to buy me?” she finally stammered, and he chuckled.

“So that’s the question burning a hole in your brain? Easy enough to answer, pet.” He stood and walked over to a box on the windowsill dangerously close to her and she shrank back against the chair. Her action didn’t go unnoticed, but he let her reaction go and instead tossed a bankbook in her leather-clad lap.

“If you’ll open that up, love, you’ll see that I’m not the penniless vampire you thought. My mum and da were people of means, you see, and a demon lawyer can do wonderful things. When Mum passed on, it all fell to me.”

He watched her mouth fall open at the sight of the many zeroes there in the book, then continued. “A vampire, love, does not pay for what he needs. A vampire takes. Want, take, have. The vampire creed. Never needed to use it, so it built up some interest. Add to that the dosh I collected for old what’s-his-name’s treasure trove, and there you have it. The rest is history.”

She looked up at him, clearly astounded by the amount of money listed in the book. “So…you’re rich?”

He snagged the book deftly from her senseless fingertips and hid it back in the little box. “In a matter of speaking, yes.”

Her mouth opened and closed rapidly, giving her the appearance of a fish out of water, then she finally gasped out, “Then why are you always stealing things? And bumming money off of Xander? And…all the other stuff you do?”

He regained his seat on the sarcophagus and looked down at her appraisingly. “Well, pet, how do you think that I stay that rich? Money doesn’t make itself, you know—unless you’re a counterfeiter.”

Buffy looked up at him, nonplussed, and decided to continue. “Why did you buy me, anyway?”

He looked down from his seat above her and decided to tell her the truth. At least, as much of the truth he could without sounding like a complete ponce. “Because most of the ones that would have bid on you would have killed you. You don’t deserve to go out that way. You—it wasn’t time for someone’s one good day,” he finished lamely.

She flinched at the repeated phrase. “So you what—kept me from being dinner?”

This dozy bint just doesn’t get it, does she? He gave her a glare and continued coldly, “Pretty much, Slayer. The Gren’oth—he was real keen on wearing your guts for garters, I must say. There were a few vamps there, too. Slayer blood has mystical properties, love, as you well know—you’ve been told often enough. What should I have done, just let them auction you off for pennies and watch something slaughter you?” Spike leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and eager to hear her reply.

“No…no, I…er…appreciate your help, I guess. I really didn’t want to be on the menu last night.” She looked at her hands, twisting like snakes in her lap. She didn’t want to even ask about what happened in the tryout room, but there were some things that she needed to know—important things.

Spike could tell that there was more on her mind, but waited for her to actually voice them instead of leaping mindlessly into the breach. He was still feeling a little hurt after her continued rejection and this was the only way he could punish her for her refusal to see him as more than a monster. At least, that’s what he told himself repeatedly, ever since he returned to the crypt last night. She has to say it—there is no way that I am, he thought.

She started to speak several times, opening her mouth silently and staring morosely at her hands. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her and flinched at what she would have to say to him. The silence grew taut between them as the tension rose until it became too much and her words snapped the tenuous thread of ease that had somehow been growing between them.

“How did you bite me? Did you do something to your chip?” she finally blurted out.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” he replied in a voice that held a hint of something dangerous. He climbed down off his perch above her and paced restlessly across the crypt behind her. She was spared his searing blue eyes on her, but her instincts were on edge, waiting for the impending outburst from the vampire at her back.

It finally exploded violently from his mouth. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you, woman? You’re always looking for the hidden agenda, the nefarious plot, the evil plan! There was none—you were in trouble, and I saved you! Saved you, Slayer! Take it however you want it—you will anyway. You could be grateful for my help, but no, you have to look for the bad in everything.”

He stopped pacing and she turned to look at him, noticing the pained expression on his face for the first time. He took a deep, unneeded breath and exhaled violently, then raised his eyes to look directly into hers. “Think whatever you like, Buffy—I’m tired of your accusations and insinuations. You know your way out.”

Turning away from her, he went over to the entrance to the crypt’s basement and dropped down silently, leaving her sitting and staring after him.

She sat there for a moment, stunned by his outburst, then angrily stood and dropped down the hole where he’d disappeared. She wasn’t done with him yet, and there was no way that he would get out of answering some of her questions if she had anything to say about it.

The basement was pitch black, without even the cherry from his cigarette to guide her. She stood there uncertainly, unable to distinguish even an outline to guess her location. “Spike?” she called, her voice tremulous in the darkness.

There was no answer to her call. She stood there in the dim light filtering from the upstairs, feeling lost and alone, the anger draining from her suddenly and leaving her feeling slightly nauseated. She turned and put her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to begin the climb upstairs when a scratching sound made her turn. She saw the flame first, then a halo of light that illuminated his hand as he began lighting candles around the room, giving it a romantic atmosphere.

Spike lit the candles, rationalizing that he would have lit them anyway. He may have vampire eyes, but even he couldn’t see in complete darkness in his basement. He waited for her to speak but she just stood there, looking around his sanctuary instead of spitting more venom in his face.

He couldn’t take much more of this from her. “What did you want, Slayer? It’s about my bedtime.” He dragged his shirt over his head to emphasize his point and she stared, mouth slightly parted and eyes glazing over at the sight of his rippling abs and muscled chest. His pale skin gleamed in the candlelight and Buffy suddenly found herself unable to speak or even think of much beyond the way those muscles felt against her body.

She licked her dry lips with her even dryer tongue as he wandered around the room, preparing for bed. “You don’t sleep at night,” she heard herself rasp, and he turned to look at her.

“I grab a bit of kip when I’m tired, and right now I’m very tired, Slayer. Now, say whatever you came down here to say or you’ll have a whole new view of me to remember.” He sat down on the edge of a huge king-size bed with red satin sheets and lit a cigarette, the smoke making lazy patterns in the air above his head.

“I think you took care of that last night,” Buffy shot back, then cursed her mouth for engaging before her brain.

He drew hard on the cigarette before answering. “Yeah, I wondered when we were going to get to that,” he finally said, and she drew in a deep breath.

“Yeah, well…um…yeah. Um….” She couldn’t think of how to word her thoughts. Her brain felt mushy at the sight of him and the memory of what they had done. What he had done to her was what she wanted to know about, more than anything.

“So say it, Slayer. ‘You bad, evil vampire, taking advantage of me when I was so horribly outnumbered’. Come on, its right there on the tip of your tongue, so go ahead already so I can get some sleep.” He stabbed the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray next to the bed and drew his leg up to face her head-on. Might as well get this over with, he thought with a sigh.

She dropped her eyes, knowing she couldn’t speak directly to him. “I—Spike, I might have thought that at first, but you…we…I….” She looked around, searching for the right words, then finally looked directly into his eyes. “I know that you did what you had to do to save me. Thank you.”

He was surprised at the simple words—they touched him deeply, more than a declaration of love would have. “You’re welcome, Slayer.”

When she remained frozen in her spot by the ladder, he frowned. “Is there something else, pet?”

Again she looked everywhere but directly at him. “Um…I forgot your shirt. It’s at my house.” He smiled softly at her and she felt like her knees turned to jelly.

“That’s okay. I know where it is. If I need it, I’ll pop by and get it.” He waited for her to turn, but still she stood there, frozen like a statue until he finally stood and walked over to her. “Buffy, are you all right?”

Her nerves shot, her stomach rebelled and she pushed him away from her as she turned to vomit by the foot of the ladder. Embarrassment flooded her entire body as she retched uncontrollably, then she felt him by her side again, a cool cloth pressing against her overheated forehead. He took her arm and led her to the bed, helping her to lie down and placing a waste can nearby. He mopped her face, concern in every line of his face. She closed her eyes and tried to relax.

Relaxation was the furthest thing from her mind right now, though. His nearness set off an unmistakable throb in her groin that she recognized for what it was—desire. Her hand flopped away from her eyes and grazed the cool skin of his side and she drew a sharp breath at the sensation of his flesh on hers. The previous night came rushing back to her and she threw herself over the edge of the bed once again, dry heaving over the trash can as he steadied her, his free hand massaging circles on her back. Her whole body spasmed with each wracking heave until tears flowed freely from her eyes and mucus dripped from her nose.

When it seemed she was finished, she held her hand out and the cloth was placed gently in her palm. She cleaned her face up, then sat up to look at him, distress making her stiff and uncoordinated. “I’m sorry. I’ve never—” she started, and he waved his hand.

“No problem, Slayer. Not the first time I’ve seen someone throw up. Probably not the last either.” He took the now warm cloth from her hand and went to a hidden niche to rewet it and bring it back to her. Her fingers trembled when she touched his hand while retrieving it and he looked closely at her reddened cheeks. “Slayer, are you all right? Not coming down sick, are you?”

Her lip trembled and her mouth tasted foul. “Just nerves, I think.”

He reached out and pushed her hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Nerves? Why?”

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to throw herself into his lap and beg him to make her feel like he had last night. She wanted to touch his skin and feel his muscles rippling under her hands. Instead she said, “Do you have a toothbrush I can use?”

Wordlessly, he went to the niche and brought her a toothbrush and toothpaste. She looked up at him and quirked her eyebrow and he took her by the hand and led her to the tiny alcove he had fetched the supplies from.

True, there was no sink, but a natural spring ran from a crevasse in the rock wall into a natural basin where it trickled into an underground stream. She bent over the basin gratefully as he left her, splashing her face and brushing her teeth vigorously, then drank a bit of the fresh water to moisten her dry mouth. It was only after she replaced the toothbrush that she wondered whom it belonged to, a question she asked as soon as she returned to the other room.

“I always keep a spare, don’t worry. It was new.” He let her sit down on the edge of the bed, then swung her feet up so she was reclining indolently once again, pillows behind her back. Her stomach was cramping, so she let him care for her. He sat down next to her on the side of the bed.

He gave her a look of concern before he spoke. “Now, pet, why were you nervous?”

Buffy shrugged. “I don’t know.” Please, God, don’t let him figure it out. Don’t let him….

“Because of what we did last night?”

His question caught her by surprise and she nodded before she could stop herself. He quirked his scarred brow at her admission and she looked up at him defiantly. “Weren’t you nervous? I mean, about what I would do?” she asked.

“Didn’t think that it would make you sick, Slayer. Piss you off, yeah, but not sick.” He shrugged and looked off into the distance, clearly disturbed by her reaction.

She laid her hand on his leg, unable to let him think that he sickened her. “It didn’t make me sick, Spike. I made myself sick, worrying about it. About how it would change things. I mean, it already has changed things, hasn’t it?”

He looked down at her hand on his leg, then back up into her sparkling, fever-bright eyes. “Things changed a long time before that, Slayer, but last night…yeah, it changed things quite a bit. See, to the demon world? Well…now I own you, and that changes everything.”