A/N: Okay, guys, last chapter. Thanks to all the readers who've come this far with me. And for those who might be compelled to come after me with pitchforks and flaming torches, the next story in the series is in the works right now, so never fear. :) Much thanks to Unbridled_Brunette for stepping up and betaing the last several chapters, and for keeping me on track, even when the reviews tempted me to write happy, fluffy things. There shall be no fluffy things here! *resolve face*

Oh... one final thing. The title of this chapter comes from the Del Amitri song of the same name. It's a great song, and somewhat appropriate, and I highly recommend you listen to it here (it's not the best recording, but you get the idea) or at least check out the lyrics.

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Chapter 18: This Side of the Morning

Buffy moaned softly into Spike’s mouth. He was on top of her, his strong arms propping him up as he thrust his hard, muscled body against hers. He felt cool against her burning skin, and he filled her up as his length slid in and out of her. She ran her hands up his biceps and gripped his back as he pulled her toward a climax.

“I love you, Buffy,” Spike whispered in her ear, as her muscles tightened around his cock.

For a brief moment, everything stopped, hanging suspended in anticipation. Then, softly, came her reply, “I love you, too.”

The look on Spike’s face was pure joy.

She smiled at him, reaching up with one hand to caress the side of his face, pulling him down for a kiss, even as she slipped her other hand under her pillow and drew something out.

Buffy jammed the stake upwards into Spike’s chest, feeling him seize up suddenly within her as the wood punctured his heart. It seemed to take an eternity, his grip tightening on her body, as though he could fight death by holding on, before his touch dissipated into nothing. She watched the expression on his face turn to shock and dismay, and finally betrayal, as he turned to dust above her.

Buffy shot up out of bed, her heart racing. She glanced around, reassuring herself that she was alone in her bed – and had been all night. Spike was safe, asleep in the other bedroom. She replayed it again in her head, running her hands over her face and through her hair. She pulled her legs up to her chest, noting with alarm the stickiness of her thighs and the warm glow between them, and rested her forehead on her knees, willing her breathing and heartbeat to return to normal.

Spike stared at the ceiling, one arm pillowed behind his head, still feeling the ghost of her warm hands on his body even after he woke up. Even though he didn’t need to breathe, the dream had left him panting hard. And that wasn’t the only thing left hard. Straining with need, he took himself in hand, finishing the job with long, quick strokes. He closed his eyes and called up the dream images of her in the throes of passion, writhing against him. Again, he heard her whisper those perfect words. He came with a groan, hips thrusting off the mattress to meet her invisible form, his spunk sullying the clean sheets.

Once he’d recovered his composure somewhat, he swung his legs out from under the tangled sheet and slipped on his jeans to hide his nakedness.

Buffy shuffled out into the hallway, coming face to face with Spike as he emerged from her mother’s bedroom. “Hi,” she said, wrapping her arms around her to cover herself. Suddenly, the tank top and boxer shorts she was wearing didn’t feel like enough clothing. She felt like Spike could see straight through her. God, could he tell? Could he tell she’d had a sex dream, in which he played a starring role? He could probably smell the evidence of her arousal, and his mind would fill in the details. The being all over him the night before might also give him a clue.

Her cheeks colored with shame at getting off on a dream in which she’d staked him. That wasn’t what she wanted at all, and she felt the odd sensation of being betrayed by her subconscious.

Spike scratched his head and looked at the floor to avoid her gaze. “Morning,” he replied, his voice hoarse. When he finally looked at her, he tried to keep his expression blank, but he could read the guilt and embarrassment on her face. He took a deep, deliberate breath to confirm his suspicion, and his eyes narrowed with realization. “Sleep well?” He tried to make it sound like an innocuous question.

“Yeah.” Her breath caught in her throat. She looked at him, and his eyes were so intense, she could swear they’d turned a darker shade of blue. “You?”

“Had a dream.” He watched the emotions flicker across her face. “Think you were there, love.”

Buffy’s breathing became heavy again. “How did you…? Oh, God,” she muttered, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, she was staring at his bare, muscled chest. She forced her gaze up to his face. “I’m sorry.”

Spike furrowed his brow. What was she apologizing for? If anything, he should be the one apologizing, for even considering – even in a dream… She’d never let it happen.

“I – I would never…” she stammered, and Spike got the feeling she wasn’t talking about the sex. “I couldn’t… stake you.”

“What?” For a moment, he thought she was referring to their conversation the night before. He’d felt guilty afterwards, for throwing that in her face. He didn’t really think she’d do it after all this time, but she’d still be pissed as hell at him if they went too fast. Either way, he hadn’t wanted to ruin things by doing what she wasn’t ready for.

“The dream,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I – I staked you.”

Spike’s mouth dropped open. Bloody hell. “No… Not in my…” He trailed off, and it suddenly hit Buffy.

“What happened, Spike? How did it end?” He was looking at her now with a mixture of fascination and horror that frightened her.

Spike reached out and caressed her cheek. “I turned you,” he said softly, with more than a trace of remorse.

Buffy backed away from him, her thoughts reeling. “I – I…” She turned and stumbled into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. She leaned against the door, her head tilted back and her hands splayed out on the wood, trying desperately to catch her breath.

Spike stood in the hallway, staring at the closed bathroom door, until Dawn peeked out of her room.

“Spike!”

His head jerked toward the sound of her voice. He self-consciously rubbed his hand over his chest as he realized it probably wasn’t proper for Dawn to see him shirtless.

Oblivious to his startled state, Dawn grinned. “Did you spend the night again?” I knew it! the voice in her head cried. I knew if they just talked it over, they’d –

“Yeah, Bit,” he replied absently. “Sis is in the loo.” In some kind of daze, he turned and went back in his room as Dawn squealed with joy.

When Spike had showered and dressed, he made his way down to the kitchen. Buffy was already there, making enough pancakes to feed an army. He smiled at her nervous cooking and knew she was doing it to keep her mind off the dream.

“You open a chain, Slayer? You the International House of something?”

“Just… felt like… making pancakes, is all,” Buffy stammered, trying to shrug it off as ordinary.

“Buffy,” Spike said, turning serious. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, boy, is that an understatement.” Buffy turned off the stove and joined him at the breakfast bar with a mountain of pancakes on a plate.

Spike took her in his arms and drew her close. He bent his head to press his lips against hers, but she pulled away from him.

“That’s not talking.”

“’S what you want, isn’t it? ’S what we both want.” He knew that now. He’d been inside her head, had felt her feelings as clear as his own while they made love in their dream world. He pressed himself against her so that she was pinned between his body and the island.

She put her hands on his chest, but didn’t push him away. “What happened to taking it slow?” she asked. “What happened to Mr. Self-Control?”

Went out the window as soon as you said you loved me, Spike thought. It didn’t matter that it was only in a dream. “I felt it, Buffy, and I know you did, too,” he said, his lips practically brushing her ear as he spoke in low tones.

Just then, Dawn walked into the kitchen and startled them with a “Whoa!” Buffy and Spike immediately broke apart as the younger Summers headed to the refrigerator.

“Hey, don’t let me stop you,” Dawn insisted from behind the refrigerator door.

“Dawn,” Buffy started.

“Just looking for a snack.”

Spike cleared his throat. “There’s, um, pancakes, if you want.” He gestured to the plate on the counter.

Dawn smiled. “You kids just keep doing what you’re doing,” she teased, going back out to the living room. As soon as she was out of sight, she pumped her fist in the air and said, “Yes!” under her breath.

Back in the kitchen, Spike and Buffy were eyeing each other, now on opposite sides of the island.

“Shouldn’t she be at school?” he asked, grasping for something, anything to break the tension. He picked anxiously at the bandage on his hand, worrying the fibers apart between his fingers. He’d tried to rewrap it himself after his shower, but it was sloppier than Buffy had done the night before.

“In-service day. She has off. Between that and Thanksgiving, she barely goes to school in November.” She was babbling, filling the silence with meaningless words because she didn’t know how to restart the conversation they’d been having.

With a shake of his head, Spike took the plunge. “Look, you can’t –” he started loudly, but then, remembering that Dawn was nearby, he lowered his voice. Best if the Niblet didn’t hear. “You can’t deny it, Buffy.”

Buffy folded her arms protectively across her chest and avoided looking at him. “No, I can’t. But what about the rest of it, Spike?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Come on, pet.”

“I killed you. And you made me a vampire.”

Spike started towards Buffy, but she backed away. “You know I could never do that, love. And you wouldn’t, either.”

Buffy just looked at him, as if to tell him that she wasn’t so confident. Spike’s face fell. “Buffy…” He shook his head bitterly. “Guess now would be the time to say I told you so.”

“What?”

“Didn’t I tell you, last night? You’d think on it, and you’d be sorry you ever…” His jaw suddenly tightened – holding back rage or tears, she wasn’t sure.

“That’s not fair, Spike,” she said softly. “I’m the Slayer. My dreams aren’t just… They mean something.”

“Not always.” His tone was that of a petulant child.

“What if this is a warning? What if it’s trying to tell us that if we’re together, we’ll destroy each other?”

“Or maybe it’s just our fears. It feels wrong, Slayer and a vampire. But God, Buffy, it felt so right…” He rested his forehead on hers and closed his eyes, his hands on her shoulders.

“I know. But I can’t do this, Spike. Not again.” She reached up and kissed his cheek, her lips lingering regretfully against his skin. Running her hand through his messy, unstyled hair in a gesture that seemed equal parts “goodbye” and “I’m sorry,” she pulled away from him and moved to the sink to clean up the dirty dishes.

“Again,” Spike repeated darkly.

Buffy closed her eyes briefly to calm herself. “Before, with Angel…” She waited for the inevitable snort of disgust. Spike didn’t disappoint.

“It’s just so similar,” she tried to explain, without making him angry about the comparison. “We were having the same dreams. Memories of people he… And then we dreamed that we…” Spike snorted again. Was he doomed to live in the shadow of Angelus his entire existence?

“He killed me,” Buffy finished, finally turning to face him again. “At the end of the dream.”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “Was this before or after you gave him a happy?”

“After,” she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. “After he came back.” Her expression darkened. “Spike, it was the First.”

“The first what?”

“The First Evil. The source of all evil. It was trying to convince Angel to lose his soul again and kill me. When he refused, it tried to get him to kill himself.”

“And you think this First Evil business is trying to get us to kill each other or something?” asked Spike, with a large measure of skepticism.

“I don’t know.” Buffy turned back to the sink. “I just know we can’t… we can’t let this…” We can’t let this go any further, she wanted to say, but the words didn’t seem to want to come out.

It didn’t matter. He understood.

Spike knew there was no use arguing with her – she was just as stubborn as he was. Buffy had made up her mind, and nothing would change it. “So that’s it, then?” he asked, willing his voice not to crack. He blinked back tears, determined not to let her see him cry. Absently, he returned to pulling at his bandaged wrist, where the edges of the gauze were now frayed from his nervous tic. “Just like that… you’re not even gonna try?”

“I’ve tried, Spike!”

“Not with me.”

He lost it then, the broken sob escaping him before he could swallow it down. He spun around quickly, putting his back to her until he got himself back under control, his hands yanking at his unruly curls. Then, he turned back, ready to cut her with the harshest words he could muster, to make her feel as much like utter shit as she had done to him. But when he caught her gaze, her eyes shone, and her lower lip quivered, and everything broke inside of him all over again.

“Christ, Buffy…”

“I’m sorry.” She wouldn’t look at him.

“Guess I’ll be going then,” he said, setting his jaw. He turned and opened the kitchen door, slamming it quickly shut when he realized it was daytime.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, cursing his stupidity. The fucking bint had him so turned around he’d nearly walked out in the sunshine. “Right. Not leaving just now.”

Buffy realized the problem, and dried her hands on a dishtowel. “I – I’ll go. I have to go to work anyway,” and with that, she hurried out of the kitchen. In the living room, Dawn looked up as Buffy gathered her things and rushed out the front door. Puzzled, the younger girl peered at Spike, who stood watching her sister go. Her curiosity only grew when he marched up the stairs and locked himself in his room without saying a word.

He’d known he was taking a risk, possibly giving up everything he’d ever wanted. There was Buffy, offering herself to him – and he knew it might be a one-chance-only deal. The hardest thing he’d ever done was walk away. But he knew, even through the shattered remains of his heart, that he’d done the right thing. It would have been even worse if he’d given in, let himself have one night with her, only to have it snatched away in the morning. That he wouldn't be able to bear.

In the end, he'd been right to hold her back. Her morning-after skittishness proved as much. So, why did he feel so bloody wrong?

Pacing around the bedroom like a caged animal, Spike remembered what he said to Buffy the night she died. I know you’ll never love me… and he’d meant it at the time. But then – when she came back, and things were so different – and she was different – he’d begun to hope. But he should have known better. She’d never allow herself to love him – even if she wanted to. Because he was a vampire, and because of Angel, and being the Slayer, and whatever this First Evil nonsense was – there were a million reasons why she shouldn’t love him.

And really, what reason could he find why she should? Because he loved her? Inexplicably, paradoxically, utterly and unreservedly loved her – and a love like that didn’t deserve to go unrequited? No – it seemed the more intensely he loved, the more the object of his affection shied away from him. Cecily, who had been frightfully embarrassed by William’s lavish attention. Dru, whom he’d been devoted to for a century, despite her frequent dalliances and betrayals. She said she loved him, of course, but the Chaos demon in South America was hardly her first transgression. Just the things she'd done with Angelus alone made his stomach turn. But he’d never hesitated to welcome her into his arms again when she came back to him, no matter how badly she’d hurt him. Yet, she hypocritically tossed him aside the first time he showed any kind of attraction to another woman.

Not just any woman, though. The Slayer. The one person in the world chosen to kill him. Become a vampire, you’ve got nothing to fear, ’cept for one girl. And that was the girl he’d fallen in love with. His obsession – how had he gone from wanting her dead to just wanting her? Was it the chip? The time he was forced to spend making nice with her and the Scoobies just to survive?

He remembered telling her, Every Slayer has a death wish, and that was what would get her in the end. Part of you is desperate to know: what’s it like? Maybe this was his death wish. Flirting with death, pursuing a girl whose hand was always on her stake – that was what made it fun, right? Dancing around each other, never stopping, waiting for one of them to have their one good day.

But there was more to it than that. It wasn’t about him. It was about her. He’d learned that well enough the day she died. She was everything to him – everything he was and everything he’d become was wrapped up in her. She was the reason he stayed in Sunnydale – a town which had witnessed some truly spectacular kickings of his ass, and which he’d be more than happy to leave behind if it weren’t for a certain resident who compelled his every bloody move. She was the reason he tried so hard to be good – and who ever thought of that? A vampire trying to be a better man. Well, he knew of one pouf who had tried it, but Spike was no Angel. No big epic story of redemption. He just loved a girl, and if that made him a fool, so be it.

It didn’t matter if she never loved him back. He was a fool for love, and always would be.

At least he was man enough to admit it.

*****

the end