A/N: thanks to my wonderful beta, Immortal_Beloved :P



Buffy stood rooted to her spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene before them.

Melinda’s hand moved gently through Spike’s hair as she tenderly kissed him, leaning in closer to him as her hand slipped unconsciously further up his leg…and for his part, Spike did not seem to be putting up much resistance.

Buffy felt a sick sensation of mingled anger and shock and hurt wash over her, and suddenly, she knew that she could not stay and watch any longer, not without reacting with just the sort of violence she had resolved in which not to engage only moments earlier.

Not against Spike. Never again.

And with that resolve in mind, there was nothing for her to do but to walk away.

**************************************

The vampire and Slayer across the clearing were as oblivious to Buffy’s leaving as they had been to her entrance, lost in the moment that had overtaken them.

Spike was stunned by the girl’s cautious advances and froze momentarily…before his mouth softened against hers. Warning alarms in the back of his mind told him that this was a bad idea; and yet, it was the first tenderness and compassion he had experienced in as long as he could remember. He couldn’t find the strength to reject it…until he felt Melinda’s hand slide slowly up his thigh, and her mouth searching his, deepening the kiss.

*Buffy…*

It was more of a struggle than he wanted to admit to show any protest to the young Slayer’s advances. After all, Spike had spent the last several months in a situation where saying “no” was not an option. He knew that Melinda posed no real threat to him, had no desire to harm him in any way, but still, a quiet, fearful part of him panicked at the thought of her reaction to his rejection.

Reluctantly, he pulled back just slightly, turning his head away from her just enough to break the kiss, his cool breath shallow and shaking against her skin as he struggled to regain control of the mingled fear and longing that filled him to overflowing.

Melinda froze, all too aware of the trauma through which Spike had been recently. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him feel uncomfortable with her. She cleared her throat awkwardly, lowering her head as she leaned back, withdrawing her hands from his body as an apologetic smile crossed her lips.

“I…I’m sorry,” Spike whispered, swallowing hard, his eyes focused on the ground. “I didn’t…”

“No,” Melinda gently cut him off. “No, Spike…*I’m* sorry. I shouldn’t have…I mean…I totally understand if you don’t—*that* you don’t…” Her voice trailed off as she found that the right words would not come to her, and an awkward silence descended between them for a few moments.

Finally, she broke it again, her voice soft and sympathetic as she explained, “I do care about you, Spike. Admire you. I mean…you saved my life. Can’t blame a girl for being a little bit sweet on her hero, can you?” When the weak attempt at humor fell flat, Melinda went on in a more serious tone, “I know that you…you still have feelings for Buffy. And…she still has feelings for you.”

Spike looked up at her sharply, a dubious question in his eyes; but Melinda held his gaze firmly, refusing to back down from her statement. After a moment, she reached out to close her hand over his again in a brief gesture of support before rising to her feet.

“I’ll just…see you later, okay?” she said quietly. “Again…I’m really sorry.”

Spike watched her walk away for a few moments, then looked down again, thinking over what had just happened and the things Melinda had said. Buffy’s hurry to get away from him had made it clear: whatever feelings she might have once held for him, they were gone now. Melinda was wrong about that. In fact, Spike found it amazing that Melinda herself even held any feelings for him. At this point, it was hard for him to see himself as she saw him – a hero.

He glanced idly around the clearing, his gaze rising to take in the swiftly darkening skies, and he felt a sense of alarm as he realized how late in the day it was. He felt sick at the thought of returning to the compound, to the emotional and mental anguish – not to mention the physical degradation – that Rayne no doubt had planned for him.

But…did he really want to bring Rayne and his men down upon the Slayers simply because he didn’t have the courage to bear the lot that had been cast to him? He knew that, if he were gone much longer, the sorcerer and his staff would be searching for him; and once they began to search the woods surrounding the compound, it was only a matter of time before they found Buffy and her group.

He waited impatiently for the sun to sink below the horizon enough to make it safe for him to move about again. After what felt like an impossibly long time had passed, the shadows grew long as the afternoon faded into twilight, and Spike rose to his feet on shaking legs, scanning the campsite for any sign of the one Slayer in particular who still held his interest.

Nervous under the scrutiny of the younger Slayers, he made his way out of the shelter and across the camp, searching for Buffy. It didn’t take him long to find her; all he had to do was follow the steady thumping sound.

He found her standing in front of a makeshift punching bag made of various bedrolls and such packed into a large knapsack that she had strung up from a nearby tree,. She was pounding the thing with brutal force, her eyes narrowed and occasional grunts of effort passing her lips as she delivered blow after blow, shaking the unfortunate punching bag until Spike was quite sure that, any moment now, it would burst.

Something had his Slayer on the warpath.

*Not your Slayer,* he reminded himself grimly. *Never yours…never again.*

His every instinct warned him to just walk away. Buffy’s mood was one of the more volatile in which he had seen her, but Spike knew that he could not just disappear back into the compound without telling her what he was doing. That could only serve to cause more problems for the Slayers than they already had if Buffy decided to launch some kind of a rescue not knowing that he had left willingly of his own accord.

He cleared his throat quietly, hoping to gain her attention, but Buffy remained oblivious to his presence behind her.

He tried again, hesitantly, “Slayer?”

Buffy stopped for a moment, her movements frozen, her eyes closed, her jaw set in a terse line, and Spike watched her visibly struggle with her temper. For one panicked moment, he was certain that, if she turned around, it would be to light into *him* instead of the punching bag.

Thankfully, she did not turn around, just resumed her attack on the helpless equipment; but she did not respond, either.

Spike frowned, wondering what he might have done in so short a time to merit her rejection—her completely ignoring him like this—but he could think of nothing…nothing recent, anyway. He swallowed back his rising apprehension, drawing slowly nearer to where she stood. She did not respond or acknowledge his presence in any way, so he moved around until he was standing beside her, almost in front of her, so that she could no longer pretend that she did not know he was there.

He tried one last time, his voice hushed and uncertain, “Buffy?”

Her lips pressed into a firm, irritated line for a moment before she huffed out the words between her continued blows to the punching bag, “Whatever it is…it’s not…my business.”

Spike flinched slightly, hurt and unsettled by the barely bridled fury in her voice. He fought the desire he suddenly felt to just walk away, to leave her to her anger; after all, it didn’t seem that she really wanted him around at the moment, anyway. Still, he cared too much for her to simply walk away without letting her know what he was doing.

“I just…just wanted to tell you,” he persisted softly. “It’s time…time for me to go back. To the compound.”

The blow Buffy had been throwing flew to the right of the punching bag, missing it entirely. She stopped her pummeling immediately, whirling around to face him fully, so suddenly that Spike took a step back in irrational, instinctive alarm.

Buffy did not seem to notice his reaction, too stunned by his words. “Huh? *What*?”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Spike looked away.

“Are you insane?” Buffy demanded, taking a step forward into his personal space in a subconscious attempt to force an answer.

Spike kept his gaze averted, painfully aware of the scorn and disapproval he felt in her voice and her gaze. His age-old defense mechanism of sarcasm came back momentarily as he retorted quietly, “Thought it was none of your business?” When Buffy seemed taken aback, he swallowed hard, immediately regretting his defiant words and tone. “’S just…can’t let you all be put in danger ‘cause of me,” he explained in a softer voice. “If ‘m gone much longer they’ll start searching. Wouldn’t want you lot to lose your advantage.”

Buffy’s voice was furious, but held a slight edge of panic as she cut him off, demanding, “Who told you to play the martyr, Spike? Your new groupie?”

Spike’s eyes widened in surprise at her words, and his mind raced as he began to put the pieces together. He studied her face, the flash of possessive anger in her narrowed eyes, the taut, defensive stance of her body, and realized, all at once, that she must have walked in on the brief moment he had shared with Melinda…must have walked in and walked away with the wrong impression.

Months of conditioning to believe that he was low and unworthy made his heart flood with shame at the accusation in Buffy’s eyes. Guilt overcame him at the near betrayal he had committed against the love he had held for her for so long – and strangely, with it, a near hysterical feeling of amusement.

For so long, he had desperately sought her affections, and she had rebuffed him at every turn. Had he shagged Melinda in front of her a couple of years ago, she likely would have done no more than call him disgusting and walk away – or perhaps stake him for his lewd conduct in public.

And now, now when he had all but given up on the idea of ever experiencing anything with her again…

“You’re jealous,” he murmured, amazement in his eyes, which were twinkling with a subdued mirth in spite of his fear and confusion. “You’re *jealous* of…”

“*Not* my business!” Buffy snapped, cutting him off again as she turned away from him, resuming her attack on the punching bag. She added under her breath, “Not anymore.”

Spike winced slightly at the finality he heard in her voice, though he still felt the wild impulse to laugh at the sad, stressful irony of the whole situation. He stepped closer to Buffy again, feeling the need to reach out to her.

“Girl has a crush, love. Can’t see why…why she’d want me at all, really. Can’t even see why you’re doin’ all this. But…but she knows where I stand…where I’ll always…” His voice faltered over those words, and he suddenly looked away, swallowing hard as he struggled with his own tears.

He heard her frenetic blows stop abruptly and sensed rather than saw when she turned toward him again, but he could not bring himself to look up at her again. His tears made him feel ashamed under the scrutiny of her gaze, and he tensed as he felt her move toward him.

But then, her small, warm hand had closed gently around his, and she was pulling him closer to her, though he was still not facing her, his eyes averted as he tried to avoid her knowing gaze. Buffy shifted in closer to him, his side bare inches away from her as she reached out a hand to brush his cheek softly.

“Always, huh?” she whispered, and the tenderness in her voice broke something within him.

Relief and fear and uncertainty mingled in Spike’s heart in a tumult of confused emotions as he yielded to her encouraging hand and rested his forehead wearily, gratefully against her shoulder.

“Always,” he whispered, his voice nearly a sob of anguished devotion. “Always.”

*************************************

Giles hardly dared to move any nearer to the edge of the rooftop from which the boy had just fallen, fearful of what he would see on the unyielding concrete five stories below. Hesitantly, he took a couple of steps forward, staring down in shock at the crumpled form, legs and neck bent in unnatural directions that spoke of the finality of his actions, however unintentional they might have been.

Giles’ eyes widened in alarm as he heard soft footsteps and saw a familiar figure slowly approaching to crouch down beside Andrew’s still form. As he watched in trapped horror, the figure raised her head to stare up at him through dark, accusing eyes. Her piercing gaze held his, even at a distance, as she slowly straightened until she was standing.

As bold and confident and powerful as ever she had been, Willow stared up at him in unyielding accusation, and her words stated the irrefutable fact of what he had done.

“He’s dead. You killed him.”