Spike strode quickly down the sidewalk, away from the Slayer’s house, away from the surreal clashing of his past and present heartaches, with no thought for where he was actually headed – he just needed to get *away*…away from the swirling, tumultuous confusion that filled his mind and made his heart ache with a bitter loneliness that had followed him for well over a hundred years.

Finally – only when his legs began to ache with the pace he was keeping and a sense of weakness stole over him that was more emotional than physical – he stopped, simply unable to go any farther at the moment. His mind was spinning, his heart attacked by an ache that was changing from purely emotional to become physical as well, and he could feel the tears welling in his eyes, the hard knot building in his throat.

Without thought for where he was, how careless what he was doing could prove to be, he simply sank to the ground on his knees, in the cemetery he had somehow found his way to, and allowed the deep wrenching sobs rising within him to overwhelm him, shaking his body with the depths of sorrow and confusion and loss that he was feeling, some for recent hurts – and some for injuries his heart had sustained a century ago, that had never been allowed to heal.

After a few moments he realized vaguely that he was only a few feet away from the haven of his own crypt – but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. After turning tail and running away like a bleedin’ coward at the Slayer’s house, he had finally realized the truth of the matter. He could walk away, refuse to face it, try his best to put it off – but it was all to no avail.

It was impossible to flee what was inside him.

Buffy and her uncertainties and need for control that had led to his devastation of a few months back – Cecily or Halfrek or whoever she was, and her cruel rejection that had driven him into the clutches of another, darker, more exotic beauty – that very beauty, who had claimed his life, his soul, and his devotion for over a century, only to throw it away like so much used up garbage the moment the notion took her to look elsewhere for the comfort and affection he had offered her so freely…

It was suddenly, overwhelmingly, all just too bloody much.

He was crying too hard, hurting too deeply, to be aware as the strange demon crept up behind him, intent on taking advantage of this strange stroke of luck, Spike’s unusual state of discomfiture, to take out the traitor, the Slayer’s pet vampire, and earn himself some bragging rights at the demon bars in the next few weeks.

Spike was not aware as the creature advanced on him slowly, not even bothering to take any care to conceal his approach – not aware, as the wooden spear in the creature’s hand was drawn back for the killing blow…

…not aware, as it was silently wrenched from the monster’s hand and run through his own chest by the Slayer’s powerful hand.

Only once the strong smell of the creature’s blood, mingled with the unmistakable scent of Buffy, reached his nostrils, did Spike realize that he was no longer alone with his tears, as he had thought. He looked up, turning slightly to see the Slayer moving slowly toward him, a look of sorrow and compassion in her shining green eyes.

As she neared him, she tossed the bloodied spear to the ground, and his eyes followed it, glancing then behind her at the fallen form of his would-be attacker. His eyes widened as he realized just how near his emotional breakdown had come to bringing about his death – and he could not help but flash back to another such emotional breakdown, a hundred years before, that *had* resulted in his death.

*Just goes to show,* he thought bitterly, as he raised wary, defensive eyes to Buffy’s face. *William’s not dead at all. Bloody ponce is still alive and well and mucking up my unlife!*

“You know,” Buffy said softly, kneeling beside him and meeting his eyes with a gently reproving, smile, “I’ve found you get a lot more mileage out of these big dramatic emotional displays when there’s actually someone around to see them – someone who’s *not* creeping up behind you trying to kill you,” she amended, glancing past him grimly at the still form on the ground behind him.

“It’s a lot safer, too,” she added, her eyes becoming serious as they met his again, and she raised a gentle hand to touch his cheek.

As he studied her expression, keeping his own carefully neutral – not willing yet to give anything more away than he already had -- he found that he was *not* surprised to see the concern, the underlying protective anger in her eyes at his recklessness and the fate that had almost befallen him.

As her thumb stroked a slow, soothing circle on his cheek, without meaning to or even realizing that he was doing it, he found that he was leaning into the touch of her hand, his eyes falling closed as he swallowed back a fresh sob that rose unexpectedly in his throat, his emotions further heightened by the tender sympathy she was showing him.

Buffy took his reaction as permission, and slid in closer to him, wrapping her free arm firmly around his waist and drawing him in closer to her, as her hand at his cheek rose to run slowly through his tousled blonde curls.

She knew what the rules were – knew that she was breaking them – but somehow, she knew that in this moment, that was what she *had* to do.

“I thought I told you to let me go,” Spike said in a hoarse, weary voice without anger or accusation, a part of him still intent on not giving in to her – not yet.

However, he reminded himself with a certain level of self-derision, the fact that he was utterly unresisting, leaning into her embrace, resting his head on her shoulder, even as he protested her very presence with his words, probably served to make those words a bit less convincing.

“You did,” she acknowledged calmly with a nod, before adding firmly, “But I saw how upset you were – and I was afraid something like this might happen.” She paused, before declaring softly, “I’m *glad* I didn’t listen to you.”

She gently shifted away from him a bit, forcing him to raise his head and reluctantly look at her. “Don’t ever do anything like that again – okay?”

He stared at her for a moment, trying – really trying – to muster up some genuine defiance and some of his trademark snarky wit, to remind her that he was not yet agreeing to anything.

He couldn’t even come close to managing it – not tonight.

“Okay,” he agreed softly, lowering his head again to her shoulder.

His mind kept warning him away from allowing this to happen – kept reminding him that this was how he had gotten into this mess in the first place…but deep down, his heart knew that there was no risk here. His acceptance of her comfort was every bit as instinctive and natural, in this moment, as her offering it, in spite of the rules he had set, had been.

They sat there together in silence for a few moments, Buffy simply holding him close to her, running a soothing pattern through his hair with her fingertips, his arms gently returning her embrace, without the restraint or caution that had marked all of their communication lately, as he allowed himself to draw strength from her, and gradually regained control of his emotions.

Buffy didn’t dare make a sound, or even move too much, for fear of somehow startling him back to his senses, and shattering this perfect moment. Her heart soared with hope as she simply relished the closeness that Spike was allowing – that he had not allowed in so long.

God, it felt like forever!

“I love you, Buffy.”

She felt her heart do a funny little flip that was a combination of joy at his softly whispered admission – and regret at the desolate acceptance she heard in his voice – as if loving her was a dreadful sentence that he was forever doomed to carry out.

Perhaps, in some part of his mind -- it was.

“I try to stop,” he went on softly, his treacherous eyes buried against her shoulder, where he knew that they could not betray the depth of his emotion. “I know I should – know it’s gonna bloody kill me one day – but I can’t stop loving you, Buffy, no matter how hard I try!”

“Please,” she whispered earnestly, tears streaking her face as she pulled him desperately closer to her, rocking slightly without really meaning to in a comforting motion, though she really wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to comfort. The icy tendrils of fear slowly wound their way around her heart at his words – fear of losing him, again.

“Please *don’t* try!” she pleaded, her whisper breaking over the poignant words.

He did not reply, simply clung to her, holding her to him desperately, as if she was his lifeline – but they both knew that she was not.

She was the water in which he was drowning.

After a moment, she pulled away slightly, turning toward him and earnestly seeking his downcast, tearful gaze. “Spike,” she whispered, gently tipping his head up in an attempt to get him to meet her eyes. “You don’t have to stop loving me to stop hurting. I promise you, Spike – if you’ll just give me the chance…”

He shook his head slowly, pulling away, albeit reluctantly, from her gentle hands. “Love hurts, Buffy,” he whispered with a dark finality of resignation to his soft, quiet voice. “I know it now; there’s no getting around that for me. When it comes to me and my bloody miserable existence – love is pain.”

“Well of course it is,” she replied without hesitation, her hand rising to touch his face, her intense, piercing gaze drawing his eyes back up to hers, “if you just give and give and give all you’ve got and never get it back!”

He had no answer for those unexpectedly insightful words, so he simply looked down at the ground between them, thinking through what she had just said, allowing it to sink in.

“Spike,” she whispered in a tender voice full of compassion and affection, one hand on his arm drawing him in nearer, the other coming to rest under his chin, tipping his head up slightly so that her wide, upturned eyes could search his with a deep, honest look of regret and tenderness.

Once he finally, reluctantly, met her gaze, she went on softly, in a voice of sorrow and compassion.

“She rejected you – didn’t she? You loved her – and she rejected you,” Buffy guessed at the nature of his connection to Anya’s friend, now the *other* ex-vengeance demon.

There was a stunned sort of disbelief in her voice, as if her mind could barely comprehend the concept that the gorgeous, flawless creature with such a loving, generous heart could have been nothing but passed over time and again by all those he had sought to love.

The fact that she herself had passed over him for so long was a bitter irony that they both tried not to think about at the moment.

The silent sob that left his lips, as he lowered his head, caught off guard by the simple, painful truth of her words, was all the response that she needed to know that her assumption had been correct. No one had ever cherished this incredible creature, ever loved him and made him feel worthy, *deserving* of the love that he longed for, and gave so freely.

If he would only let her – she wanted to change that forever.

“Spike – you are *so incredible*,” she spoke in a soft, slightly awed voice, as she edged nearer to him, her arm resting gently around his waist, though not insisting on drawing him nearer, not attempting to push him to meet her eyes again. His emotions were too raw, too deep and painful, to allow him to make himself that vulnerable at the moment – and she would not attempt to force him.

“She must have been out of her mind -- *I* must have been…” Buffy’s voice trailed off, and she shook her head slowly. “You’re the most amazing, strong, beautiful *man* I have ever known, Spike,” she told him in a soft, certain voice, speaking clearly and emphatically, wanting to leave no room for doubt in his mind.

“The way you love – so completely – with everything you have to give – Spike, it’s amazing. *You’re* amazing. And the fact that in your whole life, no one has ever made you feel that way – that way that only you have *ever* made me feel…”

Her words broke off again – but he did not fill the silence with an objection, did not in any way indicate that she was wrong.

Because, as much as both of them would have liked to believe that she was -- she wasn’t.

Tenderly, Buffy tipped his chin up again, his lips nearly brushing hers as she did, they were sitting so near to each other. His clear blue eyes, vulnerable and uncertain, searched hers for the security he needed, as she tried to tell him without words how deeply she meant what she was saying.

“It’s a crime, Spike. An unspeakable shame – that no one’s ever appreciated the – the wonderful person that you are,” she whispered, holding his gaze firmly, the intensity in her eyes not allowing him to look away. She was quiet for a moment, staring into his eyes intently, before adding in an earnest, emphatic voice of yearning that took his breath away,

“I *want* to. I want to show you, Spike – the way that you *should* be loved – what you deserve. The fact that love doesn’t have to hurt. If you’ll only let me – please – let me show you, Spike…”

His fearful blue eyes focused on hers in uncertainty and wonder, desperately longing to believe her – scared to death of what might happen if he did.

“I – I want that, Buffy – I want you to,” he whispered, an aching need in his hushed, trembling voice. “I want *you* -- so much – but…”

He broke her gaze, his breath catching in his throat, as he shook his head, unable to both continue, and keep control of his emotions, at the same time.

“You’re scared,” she finished for him, nodding in solemn understanding, her hand gently caressing his cheek as she tried to coax his gaze back up to hers. “I know – and it’s my fault…”

“Not – just yours,” he admitted in a soft, lost sort of voice, not raising his eyes to hers. “Every – every bloody time…”

Again he found that he could not finish, shaking his head as he swallowed back a sob of hurt and confusion, loss and rejection. Deep in his wounded, broken heart, he wondered desperately why no one he had loved and sought after over the past century and a half had *ever* seen fit to love him in return.

What was so ugly and wrong about him, that he was so thoroughly unlovable?

“Spike,” she urged him gently, her hands moving to his waist to draw him nearer to her, “let me be the *last* time. Let me love you, Spike. You’ve shown me what it means to love someone – to really love them…” She paused, waiting, until he drew hesitant, tearful eyes up to hers again, shining with a light of barely birthed hope as she finished in a voice of quiet intensity.

“Let me show *you* -- what it is to be *loved*, Spike. Please – please let me…”

It sounded like a beautiful dream – an impossibility. At this point in his life, he could hardly imagine that it could be. But she was looking at him with such simple honesty, such tenderness and compassion in her soft, emerald eyes.

God, how he wanted it to be true!

“Buffy,” he interrupted her, his eyes wide and stricken with fear and hope mingled together. “If you – if I let you in – if you – hurt me again…” He shook his head, unable to bring himself to finish. “It would – I couldn’t…”

“I won’t,” she assured him gently, a promise in her eyes. “Spike, I *won’t*. I’m not just – setting you up to fall again. I *love* you – and I’m *not* gonna let you down again. I promise, Spike. Please – please just give me a chance…”

As the words fell from her lips, slowly and clearly, emphasizing each one to be sure that he understood how completely she meant them, Spike found his attention gradually becoming torn between the beautiful, hope-inspiring words she was speaking – and the flawless lips that were speaking them.

It had been so bloody long since he had kissed those lips.

The words slowly trailed off as she realized where he was looking – leaving his attention suddenly undivided.

He could feel it – his need for her, the connection they shared – drawing him in, consuming him, leaving him with little choice but to give in to the beauty of surrender to those soft, warm, inviting lips, inches from his own. The enticement of her tender, heart-felt words – the desperate desire to accept them – the tantalizing temptation of her nearness – it was all swiftly becoming too much to resist.

Even as he felt himself edging nearer to her, his body moving almost of its own accord, he felt a sense of panic creeping into him. Once he did this – took this step – he knew there would be no turning back. He had been without her for so long, longing and alone – once he had allowed himself to taste her kiss again, he knew that he would have placed his heart at her mercy once more, would be incapable of escaping again.

“Buffy,” he whispered in a tremulous, pleading voice, his hands finding her arms, shaking as he tried – failed – to make himself push her back. “Buffy – please…”

He could hear her heartbeat quicken, racing in time with her rising desire, as her gentle hands pulled him in closer. If he had actually been trying to escape, he could not have broken her grip.

But if he had actually been trying to escape – she would have let him go.

“Spike,” she whispered, his name coming out in a desperate, broken gasp, “Please -- *trust me*…”

He wanted to – oh, how he wanted to!

“I love you,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her lips parted and pleading. “I love you, Spike…*please*…”

In that instant, time seemed to freeze for the blonde vampire, poised on the edge between trust and doubt, wanting so desperately to accept that what she was offering him was real and genuine – terrified that he would do so, only to find that it was not.

He had a choice.

He could surrender to the familiar, long-missed heat of her embrace, the siren’s call that would lead him to either the bliss she promised, *real* love like he had never before experienced – or to the doom of the eventual rejection that seemed to be his fate, no matter how desperately he tried to hold onto the one that he loved.

Or, he could refuse her pleas, stay away from her, where he knew it was safe, away from the fire – but cold and empty and lonely – and never know the heat of her passion again. If he made that choice, she could never again break his heart – but he would never know if she had ever intended to – ever would have.

“Let me give you this, Spike,” Buffy whispered imploringly, breathless with her longing for him, her eyes closed as she leaned forward and rested her head against his. “Please – I want to give you -- *everything* -- *myself*, Spike. Please let me love you…let me…”

The heat of her love, her passion, so real and sincere and intense, called to him – and he could not deny her, regardless of the danger to his often-wounded heart. The creature of love and passion that he was could not resign himself to an existence without the one his heart burned for – and the man who loved her so deeply could not reject her – not when she was here before him, begging him simply to accept her love.

When the Slayer reacted to his subtle, barely visible cues, and leaned forward, unable to resist any longer, boldly moving in to claim his mouth with her own, the allure of what she had promised, something that had never been his before – real, genuine love – drew him to accept the advance, and then return her kiss – tentatively at first – and then, fervently.

Whether to the bliss she had promised, or to his own destruction, only time would tell for sure – as Spike surrendered to the flames.