When a Man Loves a Woman

by Throstle

CONTEXT: This won't make any sense unless you read Try a Little Tenderness first. TLT assumes some time has passed after Hells Bells and everything else follows on from there, in total denial of any reality that Joss & co create.

COMMENTS: As Morgan warned -- "There is always the danger of becoming maudlin if you continue the story line." I've had a few beers, so I'm gonna risk it. If you're concerned about safety don't get in my metaphorical car. To understand where this is coming from, you should read "Try a Little Tenderness" first (and maybe stop there). I'm hoping to have a trilogy of stories here -- Try a Little Tenderness, When a Man Loves a Woman, and Respect -- because maybe it all comes down to Soul. But who knows if Buffy and Spike can ever make it through to Respect.. Don't count on it.

DISTRIBUTION: If you want to link to this, or put this on your site, it's only fair to me that you let me know...

X RATING?: Not worthy of the NC-17 rating yet, but I'm working on it..

***

Deep in the dusk of her bed, up close to his chest, she inspects his wounds. From the look of him, vampire healing outclasses slayer healing, but still his body's a patchwork of scar tissue. There's a jagged red line that cuts straight across his right nipple. God, that must have hurt. The left one's intact, she observes. Pert and pink and pretty, only inches from her mouth. She stares at it and icy fingers creep into her gut. Here he is, real and present in her bed. This is what she wants isn't it? No. No. No. This is not what she wants. She wants him not to leave her. That doesn't mean she wants him here inside her deceased and sacred mother's house, here in her bed, with Mr Gordo perching on his shoulder. She can't do this. She wants him forever loitering under the tree outside her window, lurking on the other side of the dance floor at the Bronze, loving her eternally from afar. She wants to love him back, smile at him from a safe distance, make moon-eyes at him, blow him kisses maybe. Leave him billet doux. Yes, and he can write her love poems. They'll be kind to one another, She knows how to do this. She's done it with Angel, when letting him in turned out to be too dangerous.

She thinks about yesterday and there's a throb deep inside her that's part thrill, part fear. How did she let him get so close? She's never let anyone get that close before. Now she feels -- Christ, this is beyond ridiculous! She's a slayer, she's a warrior. She is the Chosen One -- and be sure to use upper case on those initials.

She feels shy.

She knows with a certainty that she'll blush and stammer if she has to meet his eyes. Because of Spike? No, not because of Spike. Because of the idea of William. Because of the man inside Spike she calls William. And because Spike will see right through her. He'll wriggle his slim hips and spiky wide shoulders right inside her and somehow take advantage.

And yet -- she glances at his pretty, pretty nipple -- yet she so wants to touch him, kiss him, take him in her mouth.. Maybe if he were asleep. Yes that's it, asleep, or weak, somehow needy or vulnerable. Anything other than fully himself, full of himself, undiluted Spike.

And then she becomes aware of the rise and fall of his chest. He's breathing. He must be awake. He must be aroused in some way. Does he want to make love to her? The question makes her want to run and hide. She shuts her eyes, breathes slow and regular.. Images of sex with Spike dance across her eyelids. They've done it so many times, so many ways, and now. You're the Slayer, she reminds herself. It's not possible that a chipped and impotent vampire with a subconscious yen to be human could make you tremble. Well, yes he does. Yesterday -- Oh God, couldn't they maybe just do that again, him weak as a kitten, making her weak as a kitten, doing their needy kitten thing together? She thinks she can meet him like that, manage him like that. But she knows they're beyond that now. They're going to have to carry this thing forward -- and, well, how many ways can you say it -- she's afraid.

She thinks: "This is the body of a notorious vampire, the body of some sort of European scourge, kind of like the bubonic plague on legs." But it's like sticking a pin into a dead limb. The cue doesn't work anymore. She's knows that, chip or no chip, there's only one person he can hurt now, only one person he can extinguish. No. Don't go there. And this thing they have together that until yesterday she denied has nothing to do with fiends and vampires and everything to do with -- she doesn't know what it's about, but it's not about vampires anymore.

So he'll never get a tan, who cares? Never succumb to cancer or emphysema -- sounds like a plus. Never ever curl up with his child on the sofa, tickling her and laughing and think yes, every painful second of my childhood, every self-conscious and fucked up hour of my adolescence is worth this single moment of joy that I feel now.

Well she cares that he'll never do that, and she's never ever played that particular tape in her head before. What the hell does that mean?

It means that to all her intents and purposes, he's a man. But it also means no more dry humps in the lot behind DMP, no more collapsing buildings, no more handcuffs. No more metaphors. No more games. And for some reason that she doesn't understand herself Buffy's backing off here. She wants to put in a good word for trust games and parking lot sex. These things are safe. But somehow she knows he's going to ask for something else. Something like yesterday, except this time he'll have his full strength and it'll be different. And Buffy wants to rise to the occasion, but she's scared. She doesn't want to show any more than she's shown already.

--------------------------------------------------------

Well he never considered himself as having leadership qualities, but in Buffy's absence he feels he's rising to the fore. Of course Willow and Tara are kind of preoccupied. There's a lot of hand holding going on, and unnecessary adjusting of one another's hair -- and last night they shared a bed for the first time in months, so it's not as if they've even noticed that he's taken the driver's seat. Of course, Dawn would like to be a contender but.. Thank God, thinks Xander. Thank God she's only 15.

He lies on the couch in the clothes he slept in, under the blanket Willow thoughtfully provided, drinking the coffee Tara kindly offered and feels -- well mainly he feels grateful that he's not in a motel, but he also feels worried. "This Carver demon thing's still kind of spooking me," he says. "I think we need to talk to Spike."

Willow smiles at him, "Hey Xand, you're getting as weight-of-the-world and watchy as a Watcher. Let Spike and Buffy have some space.." She perches on the arm of Tara's chair and turns her smile on Tara. "I just think they need some time together." Tara looks at the curve of Willow's lips. No-one has more curly lips than a smiling Willow. She remembers how last night they curled against her like a promise of happiness and offers her face up to be kissed.

"Dawn!" Xander yells. "Hey, Dawnie! Need some help with those waffles?"

------------------------------------------------

She smells different. There's a faint scent of arousal, but something else, something he's never smelt on her before. It's fear and it's freaking him more than the hellgod freaked him when she groped about in his intestines for her key. And what's with the eye closing and the heavy breathing? She surely not pretending to be asleep? And then suddenly it dawns on him. It's him that she's afraid of. Oh Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, I don't know what to do about you -- with you -- to you.. He considers his love and how she intimidates him. Thinks his whole unlife has been a game of cat and mouse with her, until yesterday, when she was kind and let him come out to play.

He wonders why it is that he can smell her arousal and her fear, but her love has no scent. Why is he so reliant on her to show it to him? It's a card she holds tight to her chest. Yesterday she laid it on the table. Today it's back in the pack, tucked away and -- sod it, he's not a mind reader. How the fuck can he be expected to know what to do?

"Gotta take a shower," he says, and projects his pale and blood-stained body out of the bed and onto the floor. She stretches into the space he's left behind, considers the flecks of dried blood on the sheets and thinks about laundry. Wonders if there's a wash cycle that can deep cleanse her fucking yellow, lily-livered soul. Wonders why she just rolled onto her stomach to hide her face from Spike.

------------------------------------------------

"So what's with this Carver demon thing? Do I get to go kill it?"

Buffy's standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She hasn't washed, he notices. Just thrown on some clothes and run downstairs. Still looks beautiful though, even with dried blood on her cheek.

"Hey Buff," he says.

"Want some waffles?" Dawn offers, plate in hand.

"Not just now. I'm waiting for Spike to quit hogging the bathroom so I can clean up."

Xander raises an eyebrow. Separate showering? This is not of the good. Clearly something's gone badly awry in the realm of the OK. Not twenty-four hours into her reign and the queen's suffered a set-back. He wants to wring Spike's neck -- what a wanker. Instead, he walks over to her. She smells of blood and Spike, neither of which feature on his list of acceptable nose- candy, but he hugs her nevertheless, so she'll know he's still a loyal subject.

"So?" she says with false brightness. "Carver demon? What's the story?"

"Well Giles said no-one knows whether they're real or not. Like maybe the term Carver demon was coined to explain -- well, what they call a Carver incident."

"Giles said this? You spoke to Giles?"

"Not me. Willow. He called her in the middle of the night, night before last. Said he'd just come across something that suggested there was going to be a Carver incident on the Hellmouth."

"So you did with the research? Wormed the books, went through them all like a dose of salts?"

Xander thinks he's been waiting forever for this moment, and now here it is. "Listen up children, because this is a one-off announcement." He can barely contain his glee. Steps back, makes big with the Da! Da!

"The Watcher said bugger the books, let's go hands-on!" he beams.

"You sure it was Giles?" snaps Buffy, eyes narrowing.

Dawn shoots him a withering look. "Dead-of-night phone call. Out-of- character advice from a trusty old friend. That's so obviously a set-up."

Buffy spins on her heel. Yells, "Willow!"

-------------------------------------------------

He stands in the shower letting it all wash over him, one hand soaping his chest -- watch the nipple! Jesus Fuck! He presses his forehead against the cold tiles and reminds his other hand to get back to work. Stares at the pinkish water sluicing down the plug hole. Thinks about touching Buffy. Summons forth his game face. Here it comes. Thank fuck for that. He slumps into the wall. When he passes his hand over the ridges on his brow he wonders what he looks like. Remembers he once told her "a Slayer must reach for her weapon. I've already got mine". Is this what she's scared of? I don't think so.

He knows what frightens her. It's the same thing that frightens him. He doesn't want to look at it but he makes himself. Casts his mind back to that day long ago when she was going to marry him. Examines its superficial glamour, the fake fluffed-up lightness of it. The whole day had that dumbed- down, candyfloss quality that you often get with spells. And he wonders if that's how she wants it -- a romantic comedy with something for all the family, easy-on-the-ear-and-eye, lots of smoochies, a few wise-cracks and here's your ration of manufactured emotion before we cut quickly to a commercial break.

Compare and contrast, he thinks, to what they had going a few weeks back. Taking her in the Bronze, outside the DMP, outside her house. Taking her. Taking her. Taking her. As if he could never get enough. He could go back to that. He was comfortable with that. He slams his head into the wall. No he wasn't. It was shit. It was like reaching in, continually reaching further and deeper and your hand always closing around thin air.

He doesn't know how to do this. Dru sure as fuck never taught him.

-------------------------------------------------

Well that's his Buffster. She may have been toppled in OK land, but she's still boss lady here. Xander watches her cross-question Willow and can only conclude that working at DMP has improved her grilling technique.

"Did Giles take off his glasses and clean them?"

"It was a phone call!" wails Willow.

"Did he refer to any ancient and unpronounceable texts?"

"He mentioned the Wychburghen Chronicle, but most of his information came from the Internet."

"The Internet! And you didn't suspect anything? This is Mr Printed-Word-Is- Sacred we're talking about here."

"So he got with the Internet," Xander cuts in. "What's the big? He's made it into the twentieth century. He's still Giles. Still a century behind the rest of us."

"It was Giles," Willow insists. "OK, so he's your father surrogate not mine, but me and him thumbed the pages into the wee small hours lotsa times. I'd know his voice anywhere. And - and, when I said Xander and me would get onto it in the morning, because you'd be at work, he said 'Splendid!'"

"Work," splutters Buffy hand over mouth aghast. " I forgot to go to work!"

"And anyway," Willow hasn't finished. "The reason he said not to bother with research is because the stuff in the books is all about Carver incidents and he's already read that. What's lacking is information about whatever's responsible for the incidents, the so-called Carver demons. So he said given Spike's connections with the demon world, he might have an insight into -- well any sort of insight would be useful since we're totally in the dark here."

"Didn't even phone in sick," Buffy murmurs. "I think we can safely say I've lost my job." She blinks and gazes round at them. Squares her shoulders. "So what exactly is a Carver incident?" she asks.

"Well, um, basically the hallmark of a Carver incident is slash and gouge -- but way above and beyond your lil ole psycho-killer slash and gouge." Willow frowns. "Giles was sketchy with the detail but I kinda got the impression that, say Edward Scissorhands got real mad at you, what'd be left of you afterwards would be called a Carver incident. So maybe Carver demons look like Edward Scissorhands, but who's to say, because no-one's ever survived a Carver incident to dish the dirt."

"Except Spike," says Buffy carefully.

"Yeah that's why we need to speak to him," says Xander. He expects her to spin on her heel and yell "Spike!" up the stairs. But she just murmurs, "Speak to him?" Crosses her arms. Sighs. "Yeah, I guess I should."

------------------------------------------------

She loiters outside the bathroom door until at last he emerges, a towel slung round his hips and tendrils of steam curling up from his ivory skin. She hands him the clothes Willow rescued from his crypt.

"You can change in my room," she offers, as if he hasn't just spent the night in her bed. As if yesterday she didn't just bare her heart to him, along with her neck.

And then at last she brings her hand to his cheek and looks into his eyes -- see, I did it. I made eye contact, I'm being kind. He doesn't need to know that I'm afraid of him.

He turns his face into her hand, so he doesn't have to see her stricken expression. Kisses her palm, whispers "Buffy. We can do this. We can be OK together.. Let me watch you shower."

She thinks about this. Maybe he can sit on the toilet and tell her all about the Carver demon -- calm and businesslike. But she knows what he's like. He's greedy. She'll turn her back and he'll step in behind her, and then he'll touch her and turn her on, and before they know it..

This is what's wrong, she realises, as she lets her head droop forward onto his chest. This feeling I'm feeling right now is precisely what's wrong. Ever since yesterday, after - after yesterday, she's felt all shy and girlish. Not even girlish -- slavish. Yes, that's it: the slayer feels slavish. Like she'll do anything for him -- willingly -- anything. If he asked her, she thinks she would turn herself inside out for him. That can't be right. These can't be healthy feelings. They lead to dangerous places where you lose yourself entirely. And now he's leaning in and pressing soft little kisses against her throat, on the bruised tender place where he took her blood. And oh God they're going to go there now, and she's not ready. Can't he see it matters too much? Doesn't it scare him even a little?

"No," she murmurs, casting about for escape routes. And suddenly one comes to her, a lifeline thrown from woman to woman down the generations. She thrusts the bundle of clothes into his arms, looks up at him. "I'm sorry, honey, I've got a headache," she says.

His eyes widen slightly and he steps back, raising his hands as if to say, "Whoa. Don't want any part of this." Then without looking at her he scoops the dropped clothes off the floor, turns his back and walks away.

------------------------------------------------

Well it's a Scooby meeting just like every other Scooby meeting since dead boy took to sitting in. Everyone working together, pooling ideas, chasing up leads -- and treading ever-so-carefully-on-tip-toe around the short fuses, the dry tinder, the explosive miasma of tension that lies between Buffy and Spike. Love's young dream, he wonders, what became of you? And what became of you and me, Anya? Why did I drive fear in like a wedge? Why did you let me do it?

Still, he thinks, you gotta hand it to Buff. You can exile her entirely from OK land, but she'll still act like the queen. Shrug her shoulders, say, "I'm good," and move swiftly on to a war-footing.

"OK, Spike," she says. "Time to share. Tell us what you know about Carver demons."

"Carver demons?" Spike's supremely indifferent. He picks up a magazine and leafs through it. "That's just a story for fledglings -- you know, to keep the lower orders in their place." He looks round at their clean sun- kissed uncomprehending faces and sighs.

"According to legend the Carver demon is the nemesis of master vampires -- comes and cuts them down when their time's up. See, what you gotta realise is that aside from the occasional slayer having herself a good day, there's only one thing a master has to fear, and that's his fellow vamps. So the Carver demon's just a myth, a bit of smoke and mirrors put about to deter the competition. You know: don't try climbing the career ladder because it's dangerous at the top. Don't get uppity or the big ole Carver demon 'll get you.

'Course it's all complete bollocks."

"How do you know that?"

"Logic. Stands to reason. Why would the Powers that Be need another tool to torment us with?" He glances at Buffy. "They've already got you."

"Yeah," she says, "And I'm good. Nemesis, huh? That's a new word to me, but --. " Xander suddenly finds that it's time to hijack the conversation. "Tell us about that demon that attacked you yesterday," he says.

"It wasn't a demon," says Spike, pausing to peruse an interview with Angeline Jolie.

"What do you mean it wasn't a demon?"

"It wasn't organic."

Xander's not sure what to make of this. "You're saying I should avoid putting it in my shopping trolley?" he asks.

Willow sighs. "He means it wasn't alive, or undead, or whatever."

"More like a machine," mutters Spike. He studies the photograph of Angeline as if her ass holds the solution to all his troubles. "Like a cross between a toaster and -- " He suddenly looks directly at Buffy. "What are those things girls buy their boyfriends when they want to make them feel manly but don't want to go to the bother of shagging them?"

Everyone stares at him, except for Buffy who looks away.

He snaps his fingers, "That's it, a Swiss army knife."

"Hey! I bought my own," objects Xander.

Spike slams the covers closed on Angeline. He feels shit. Back to lobbing grenades into fortress Buffy again. He thought they'd got beyond that. He thought they were home and dry. He feels in his pockets. Bollocks, no fags. And no chance of a crash off these clean-cut kiddies. No chance of a quick dash to the shop, either, unless he wants to put a new spin on the words Smoking Kills. He tips the magazine onto the floor and slouches back into the couch, hands behind his head, legs apart. Listen to my body language, baby. And give it to me good, 'cause I'm not afraid of you.

"Do you think it was a robot?" Willow wonders aloud.

"Didn't look like any of the robots I've ever met," he says.

"You mean it didn't prance around in a pink skirt and offer you a blow job?" inquires Buffy. So easy to fall back into this, she can't stop herself. "Guess it didn't, huh? That's too bad. You'd have liked that wouldn't you, having another bot to be your sex slave, do anything you want, lick your boots, suck your cock?" Now why's everyone looking at her as if they think she's gone too far. What's with the Spike sympathy? Is it because they've banked their blood with him? Do they think they have to protect their investment?

"He started it," she says.

"Think I'll make some more coffee," says Xander rising abruptly to his feet. "Wanna help me, Dawnie?" Willow and Tara drift up from their seats saying something about fresh air and enjoying the sun while it's out. Shit, they're going to leave him alone with her. He doesn't want to be left alone with her. She's gunning for him. He needs protection. "Hey!" he protests, drawing his body in, crossing his legs. "Hey. Call that a meeting? We've only been at it five minutes!"

"Looks like we're taking a commercial break," says Buffy.

She contemplates him from the other side of the room, comes to a decision and stands up. The doorbell rings and she calls, "You get it Dawn," and steps towards him. She comes towards him across the room and he just knows she's going to hurt him. She stops in front of him, leans in. He almost goes into game face to ward her off -- and suddenly she's swinging her ass down hard towards his balls. And just as he's flinching and thinking this is some new slayer move designed to disable his wedding tackle, there she is perched in his lap.

How'd you do that, Buffy? What made you do that? Is this you being kind? Do I get to be kind too? He slips his arms around her, feels the softness of her breast against the heel of his hand, sees how big are her eyes and knows he overwhelms her just as she overwhelms him. Draws her in and goes to claim her lips, or let her claim his, what the fuck does it matter, he thinks, we're both drowning here. Yes drowning, love. Lay back there. No, don't be sorry. Just show me. Show me what you want. But as he dives, forgetting where he is, intent only on where he's going, he's aware in a small corner of his mind, out of the corner of his eye, that Dawn has come dancing back into the room. Excited. Adolescent indifference thrown to the winds. Too full of news to notice he's got his tongue down Buffy's throat, his hand up Buffy's shirt. "Guess who it is! Guess who's here!" she cries. "It's Giles!" And Buffy rips from his arms and across the room, where she stands, white faced, with one hand slapped across the hickey on her neck.

Not easy to wrench himself back from that place. Not easy to look at Buffy and see her shot right back to denial land. Fuck the Watcher. Why here? Why now? Why sodding ever? And Jesus, Houston we have a problem. A hard problem. Have to stand up. No, better off sitting down. Bloody hell..

He can hear Giles in the hall, laying it on thick with the bonhomie -- sharing a manly hug with Xander, kissing the women, all once-more-into-the- breach and is-there-honey- still-for-tea. Fuck the English bastard, prancing round the globe, earning us all a bad name for stiff upper lips and decency. Here he comes now, striding into the room. "Buffy!" he says, "I've missed you." Opens his arms. Stops. Turns. Takes off his glasses. "Good Lord, it's Spike!" and his face takes on that slightly goofy expression it gets when he's really delighted about something.

Spike stares. Has Giles been making too free with the in-flight hospitality? Is this some bizarre form of jet-lag? Has the English climate induced some sort of brain rot in the old git, made him forget, yeah, so they're more uneasy allies than implacable enemies, but they don't do with the flesh pressing. They're not friends.

He stares at the Watcher's outstretched hand. Stares at his own hand gripped in the Watcher's hand, being pumped up and down. Feels a compelling need to say, "Oh by the way, I screwed Buffy in a coupla public places, in a coupla non-textbook ways. You being her stand-in-father figure and all, it's only right and proper I should tell you." Only just stops himself.

And now the Watcher sets himself down on the coffee table right in front of him. Puts his glasses back on, beams round at everyone. Moses come back down off the mountain. The patriarch restored to the bosom of his people.

"I took another look at the information I had about an upcoming Carver incident on the Hellmouth," he says, filling them in on the background like he always does. As if everyone else knows fuck-all. "I studied the available portents, went through the list of known Carver victims, and when I put it all together it became horribly clear that Spike was going to be the next victim. At eleven thirty a.m. your time, yesterday, to be precise - although you'll appreciate it's a bit of a bugger accounting for time differences, so I was prepared to be an hour or two out."

He looks at Spike. "Well, I must say, I'm relieved to be proved entirely wrong."

"Of course," he turns to the others, "I tried to get in touch with you to warn you, but you never bloody answer the phone. So I caught a flight. I assumed I'd be too late for Spike, but there's so little information about these Carver incidents, I wanted to be on hand to record the aftermath."

"Well, thanks for that, mate," says Spike. "Sure appreciate your readiness to jump to it and make a thorough inventory of my remains." He's aware that Buffy has moved to stand directly behind him, one hand resting on the back of the couch.

"Spike was almost killed yesterday morning," she says.

"Well, obviously not by a Carver demon, Buffy," the Watcher points out. "Or he wouldn't be sitting here now. I must have miscalculated."

"He was pretty much dead when I got to him." She takes her hand away from her neck.

The Watcher gazes at her and his lips part slowly as understanding dawns. "Good for you, Buffy," he says at last. "I know you and Spike have had your differences." He clears his throat, quirks a smile at her as if he knows he's being typically English and understated. "It - It can't have been easy overcoming your antipathy. Well done. That was a very selfless act. Completely foolhardy, of course, but the benefits may be enormous. By helping Spike survive the unsurvivable, you may have made it possible to put a stop to these Carver incidents once and for all."

So Giles thinks Spike's her charity case. Well, Buffy can live with that. She props her elbows on the back of the couch, tilts her head, smiles. Daddy's girl. "It was no big.. In fact, everyone contributed. But Giles, there's something you need to see." She reaches down, snatches the hem of Spike's T shirt and yanks it over his head.

"Oy! Bloody hell, woman! Get off!" He tries to bat her away, scrabbles frantically at the waistband of his jeans. Got a problem here. You want to totally humiliate me? "Pll -eese!"

.

"Keep still, Spike. Don't make a fuss." She leans heavily on his shoulders, pinning him into his seat. "Look, Giles. This is what it did to him. Look at this." She bends over him and traces a finger along the scar tissue running across his chest. Glances back at Giles. "Does this not look like writing to you? I mean, it's not our alphabet, and I guess I might recognise pi or something if it was Greek, but the shapes of the scars -- they look like writing to me."

Giles leans in and studies Spike's chest. "Good Lord, I think you're right. Willow, come and look at this. What do you think? Sumerian? This bit here looks rather like some of the Mesopotamian scripts."

And then they're all in on the act, crowding round, gawping at his body. Dawn slips her head in under Giles's arm. "Ew!" Tara looks contemplative. "Don't you think it's more runic, what with the, um, slashiness and jagginess?" Xander whistles softly. "Hey, that's what I call dedication, man. You gotta be putting in at least an hour a day to get a six pack like that."

Only good thing you can say about stark naked fear is that it shocks the blood out of your extremities, he thinks. Not that that'll help him for long, not if Buffy keeps pressing her breasts into his shoulders, keeps leaning over him, letting her hair brush against his cheek, running her fingers all over his pecs. "See this shape down here, Will? it's the same as this one by his shoulder. And see that zig-zag thing with the loop? Lean forward, Spike. He's got exactly the same on his back."

Does she have any idea what she's doing? He thinks he should wrench her arm, jerk her on her back and make her pay for playing with him. Not a possibility with the Watcher watching. But this, here, now, reminds him of Dru. The way she would lure him on, invite him to hunt her down, to corner her. Incite him to be her bad dog, her darling deadly boy. A century-long tortuous tease, they enjoyed, the two them, until he was distracted by something different, something effulgent.. Something he's hunted ever since. Stalking it. Stealing up behind it. Taking what he can get. Taking her from behind like a bad dog. Trying in every way he knows to be her darling deadly boy. Trying to capture the whole of her. Longing for it. And still he's being tortured and still his hands are empty. His eyes sting. He shuts them. Tries to steady his breathing. Hears Dru in his head, telling him he bleeds like beautiful poetry. Thinks, yeah, pet, that's all I've ever done. Must be in love with the pain.

"Hey -- vampire, remember?" Buffy whispers. "Oxygen's not a requirement. Willow wants to make a copy of the writing, but she can't if you keep puffing like a grampus." Her lips brush his ear and for a moment her cheek touches his. And he realises it's not a tease. Not torture. He remembers that she said she loved him.

Watching her, you can see she's marking her territory, thinking -- hey, this is mine. I get to play here. This is where I get to be queen. She knows she's got dead boy at a disadvantage and she's dragging it out. Proving to herself that she's got power over him. Proving to herself that he's a safe place to play. I'm not a woman, thinks Xander, so how come I can read women's minds? What's going on?

What's going on is that he knows what he's looking at. He's seen it before. Anya did this, he remembers. Or something very like it. Of course, Anya didn't have an audience to cramp her style, and off course being Anya she came straight to the point. "We need to progress our relationship," she said. "So I want to touch you without you touching me. I hear handcuffs are customary but I didn't have time to buy any and I want to do this now." Then she did it -- made him sit up and beg. Oh man, did she make him whimper. Afterwards she stretched out, smiled. Said, "Yes, I'm still powerful. I feel strangely powerful that I can do that to you." Then she curled into his arms and whispered. "And I feel safe, because I know that you need me so much you can't ever hurt me." And then she cried and said she loved him.

Yeah, but I did hurt you Anya. Couldn't have hurt you worse if I'd started planning it the day I first met you. And look, now Giles is getting restless, pacing about, glancing at the book shelf, eyeing its contents like they're a personal affront. Taking off his glasses. Any minute now he's going to make us go to the Magic Box to do some research. And then I'll have to face you honey, and I don't have the balls.

"Look," says Giles abruptly. "We're not going to be able translate this Carver message without some decent reference books. And since all Buffy's library has to offer is 'The Bluffer's Guide to Dating' and 'A Lovers Zodiac', I suggest we decamp to the Magic Box."

"I'm not going anywhere," observes Spike without opening his eyes. "Daylight allergy, mate. Doesn't matter how much I pile on the sunscreen, I still burn."

"It's never stopped you before," says Giles. "What's happened to your blanket?"

"I grew out of it. Got tired of hanging around smouldering. Mind you." He snaps open his eyes and fixes the Watcher with a full-on stare. "I still enjoy a good smoke. Tell you what, you go fetch your books and buy me some fags while you're at it. Yeah and I'm feeling a bit peckish, so if you don't want me snacking off the slayer, you'd better sort me out some blood."

"Hey, dead boy!" barks Xander, crossing the room in a stride. "There'll be no more snacking!"

"Absolutely not," snarls the Watcher. "Don't push your luck, Spike."

Spike smiles slowly. "Push my luck, eh? Interesting choice of words. Am I forgetting my rhyming slang?" His tongue glides along his lips. "I think whether or not I get to 'push my luck' is between me and the Slayer, don't you?" He arches back languorously and caresses Buffy's throat. Doesn't flinch when she seizes his wrist in a crushing grip. Affects nonchalance when she forces his arm back down to his side. Just quirks an eyebrow at Giles and Xander: that got your hackles up.

Buffy glares at him -- at Giles -- at Xander. "All of you. Snap out of it. Quit with the alpha male displays."

"Yeah," says Willow. "Stop pumping the testosterone, it doesn't agree with me. Makes me feel -- huh, yeah, makes me feel all uncharacteristically bossy and masterful." She snaps her fingers. "Giles, there's a copy of 'The Semiotics of the Ancients' in the loft at the Magic Box. Go fetch it. Spike, stop being sleazy and -- uh, insufferable. Yeah, and stand up so I can read your back. Buffy, can you find the magnifying glass, in the drawer under the computer? There's something I can't make out here."

Suddenly she flashes a grin at Tara. "Waddya think? Should I order the hormone tablets?" And Tara's shoulders shake in silent laughter. What is this? thinks Xander. Clearly some secret lesbian joke about masculinity, but he can't work it out. He glances at Giles to see what he makes of it, but Giles is already heading out the door.

As for dead boy, he's already abandoned the machismo like it's a coat he's grown bored of. Now he's standing in the centre of the room, head hanging, arms outstretched in a parody of the crucifixion, while Willow walks around him taking notes. Spike as anti-Christ? thinks Xander. More like Spike as side-show freak. And there's something fitting about the idea, as if he always knew that's what dead boy added up to -- a drumroll and some empty swagger. Roll up, roll up, come and eyeball the incredible fangless vampire. Hey, now - and for a few days only - with a cryptic message carved into his flesh. Go ahead, don't be bashful. Take a close look -- and why stop there? Why not examine his manhood while you're at it? Find out if he's got the balls to be with the woman he loves. Find out if he's any better than me..

"Hey, Giles!" yells Xander. "Giles, wait up. I'll come with you. I need to go to the Magic Box anyway. Got some stuff to sort out."

------------------------------------------------

First thing Giles says as their feet hit the pavement is: "So Buffy and Spike are -- what's the current terminology? -- an item. When did that happen?"

Xander's taken aback. "You know?"

"Of course I know. I'm not totally blind."

"Well, colour me completely flummoxed," says Xander. "Why'd you give us the sermon about antipathy and acts of selflessness?"

"Surely it was obvious I was being ironic." The Watcher glances around. "Ah yes," he reminds himself. "Drive on the right. Avoid the subtler forms of humour."

"You mean you were taking the crap?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Giles stops and takes off his glasses. "Actually, I was playing for time. I wasn't quite sure how to respond." He returns his glasses to his nose and starts walking again. "Which is strange because I've seen this coming for years -- ever since Willow's spell in fact. Gave me nightmares for months. Still does sometimes." He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. "But, well, you have to bow to the inevitable."

"If you must know.." Off with the glasses again. Another sigh. Giles is baring his soul now and Xander can only look on aghast. "That's the main reason I left. I just wished Buffy would bloody get it over with. She was quite clearly depending more and more on Spike and there was no way he was ever going to give up. One look at his resume in the Watcher's diaries will tell you persistent is his second name. William the Bloody Persistent sent to plague us. So I thought that the sooner I stepped aside, the sooner Buffy would sort things out with Spike and the sooner we could train him up as a Watcher."

"A Watcher? Spike? You're kidding me?" Xander almost gabbles. "No. No. No. This is my nightmare. Bow to the inevitability of your own nightmares if you have to, but keep your hands off mine."

For some reason Giles seems to find Xander's panic reassuring. He puts his glasses back on and strides ahead. "Yes, I know it's unpleasant," he says over his shoulder. "You'll wake up in a cold sweat for many months, but eventually you'll get used to the idea.

"The important fact to hold on to during the sleepless nights ahead is that Spike has the necessary qualifications: a thorough knowledge of the demon realm, total commitment to the slayer. I suspect he knows a lot more about magic than he lets on -- probably got his fingers burnt at some point, because he seems to treat it with respect. He's good in a fight and, most importantly, he's got an uncanny knack of seeing right through people's pretences."

"That's not good. That's a creepy vampire characteristic," Xander protests. "It's because he can smell our fear." He steps ahead of Giles and blocks his way. "The guy's a killer, a stalker, an undead evil thing. OK, nowadays he mostly acts like a human, but usually it's the sort of human you'd cross the street to avoid. I mean, that comment about snacking on Buffy."

"He lacks the necessary gravitas, I grant you." Giles steps round Xander and continues walking. "But he'll grow into it. Becoming a Watcher is very much like a journey. You develop. You change. I myself didn't always have the authority you see now."

Right now, peering into the crazy world of Rupert Giles, Xander doesn't think authority features at all. He thinks total abdication of responsibility pretty much covers it. "You're saying you left to make way for Spike? So that Buffy would throw herself into his arms?"

"Well, I'd prefer not to put it in such starkly dramatic terms," says Giles. "I just knew that Buffy didn't need a father anymore. I knew she'd still need someone to turn to when things got tough -- someone without any other ties, someone entirely committed to her. I knew that person would be Spike. The one thing I didn't take into consideration." Here Giles shakes his head, almost but doesn't quite take off his glasses. "It's so obvious when I think about it now -- I don't know how I overlooked it. The transition from vampire to Watcher was bound to provoke a Carver incident."

She finishes the washing up, folds some clothes, then stands in the kitchen enjoying the stillness, the being alone. Dawn's at a friend's house. Tara and Willow are upstairs. Lots of space and time for thinking, she thinks. And stops right there. How can she process any of this? There's too much. She doesn't know where to start. She wanders through to the living room. Spike's flat out on the couch, fast asleep.

She kneels on the floor beside him. Looks at his wounds and wonders if they'll ever decipher them. Watches his eyes shifting under his eyelids. Must be dreaming. Do vampires dream? She wonders if he ever dreams of her. She thinks he once said she was all he ever dreamed of. Or did she just invent that? Probably he's prowling right now down some dark alley in his mind, stalking his prey. Plunging his fangs into vulnerable flesh, pausing, then biting down hard for a surer grip, the way predators always do. Savage. Picturing it, she feels -- No, it's not good enough that he doesn't do this anymore. He shouldn't even dream of it. She examines the word bloodlust. Thinks of Spike sating his bloodlust in his dreams. Takes a wary peek at the feelings that arise. Snaps a lid on them quick. And all that shit earlier, about snacking. He's so cocky about it. What did Willow say? Yes he's insufferable. Why does he dream of being the Big Bad? Why does he still pretend that's who he is?

She gazes at his pale face, the sharp cheek bones, the soft lips, the dark slash of his lashes. William. So beautiful. Follows the line of his jaw down to his neck. His hands, one by his cheek, the other at his side, are curled into fists. She notices that his fingers are twitching, almost imperceptibly. He's breathing in sharp little bursts with long inhuman gaps in between. She looks back at his exposed neck. Thinks, Spike's hunting. Then thinks, I'll teach him. And she knows what she's going to do. She knows what she's going to do and she shuts down the executive function of her brain before it can stop her. Lays her left hand gently on the side of his head, her right hand on his upper arm. Leans in, opens wide. Bites.

Gaaaah! Jesus! He convulses beneath her. Hands rip through her hair, trying to pull her off, She presses a warning knee into his groin. Got him pinned down and biting hard. She's broken his skin and she's through to his flesh. He's scrabbling, trying to prise her head away with his shoulder, a hand on her chin pushing up. Jesus Fuck, Jesus! The couch overturns. They're on the floor. She's underneath him but she's still got him and she's drawing blood, feels it stream over her teeth, tastes its rusty tang. He hauls himself onto all fours, morphing in and out of game face, thrashing from side to side, trying to shake her off. Tries to smash her head against the coffee table. Smashes the coffee table. Buffy's locked on to him. Legs clenched round his waist, arms clenched across his back. Now he's on his feet, blindly trying to smash her against the wall, the door, the bookshelf. Anything to get her off him. Both his hands in her hair, trying to rip her off. She needs a better grip, widens her jaws and plunges down again.

"No!" and he's screaming now. "Jesus No Buffy it hurts!" He drops to his knees. There's a rush of blood into her mouth. She swallows. Thinks that if she bites much more she might actually take a chunk out of his neck. Eases back minutely. Feels his blood spurt. He's back on all fours, blowing through his mouth, sharp little exhalations like a runner before a race, trying to regain some control. She reminds him gently that her teeth are inside his flesh and he collapses howling on top of her.

Surprising how after the first few gushes, the blood slows to barely a trickle. She feels his chest heaving against hers, deep sobbing gasps, but his hands don't want to tear her scalp off anymore, they're just holding on. He catches his breath, swallows, and his hands slide over her shoulders and down her rib cage -- and she knows where this is going. She releases him. Legs, arms, teeth, all unclench. She lies beneath him perfectly still and he becomes a corpse, silent as death on top of her.

It seems like forever before she can look at him.

------------------------------------------------

Xander stands in the back shop of the butchers surrounded by dead things slung up on wicked metal hooks. He thinks about dead boy and wonders how it's possible to feel pity and disgust and envy all at the same time. He looks inside himself, finds self-pity, self-disgust, but nothing worth envying. Not anymore. He considers Anya -- beautiful, sexy Anya, sweeter than honey, scarier than hell. He thinks he should go back to Buffy's house, lie on the couch, cook up a stratagem. No way can he face Anya as a man-without-a-plan. But now Giles has done the deal and they're back on the street, heading towards the Magic Box.

"Carver demons," says Xander, to take his mind off other things. "I really don't understand what's the big. If Spike's right and their victims are all masters, surely they're on our side."

"Spike said that Carver demons killed master vampires?"

"Actually he said they were a myth."

"A common misapprehension," says the Watcher. "Though I'm surprised Spike still clings to it having nearly been killed by one." He hefts the container of blood under his arm. "He's probably right about the masters though. Carver demons show no favour. They eliminate unspeakably nasty people -- dead and undead alike."

"And this is why we don't like them?" Xander inquires. And no, don't colour me confused, he thinks. Just erase me. Look at me, trotting back, tail between my legs. Thinking I can squeeze some sweet forgiveness from the woman I abandoned at the altar. Man, am I pathetic.

"Ah, there's the rub," says Giles, blissfully oblivious to the inner turmoil, the fight or flight overload, the sick-to-the-guts lurching at his side. "You see, although

Carver victims may be evil, they are also people who are attempting to mend their ways." Giles sighs. He takes off his glasses the better to cast about for an example that Xander might understand. Rakes through his meagre knowledge of popular culture. Comes up brandishing an icon. "Ah yes, think of Darth Vader stepping back from the dark side."

With a massive effort of will, Xander thinks of Darth Vader. Thinks, maybe if I sounded like every breath was my last, she'd forgive me. "Yeah," he says. "But Vader died because his life support system failed."

"It was a film," says Giles testily. "My point is: had it been real life, he would have been eliminated by a Carver demon."

Five minutes. Within five minutes he'll be facing her. Possibly his life support system might fail. And this stuff about Spike and Buffy, Spike becoming a Watcher, somehow that's making it harder to breathe. Buffy's couch. That would be good. Lying on Buffy's couch making suggestions during a Scooby meeting, with only the threat of serious bodily harm, impending death, to worry about. That would be good.. With a supreme effort, he pulls himself together. "Sorry Giles," he says. "Run that by me again."

Giles sighs. "OK, let's try another example. Have you heard of Attila the Hun?" He looks at Xander quizzically, but without much hope.

"Hey, he wasn't a bad guy. I saw the film."

"Yes and crashed cars invariably explode, villains always speak with English accents and for God's sake Xander I'm talking about real life here."

"You're the one that started with the film buffage."

Giles wonders why he's stuck explaining all this to Xander. Lord, he's making it hard work. "Attila bought his power with witchcraft and human sacrifice," he says wearily. "He was the ultimate sadistic brute in an extremely sadistic and brutal age. However, eventually he met the woman who was to be his salvation, and --"

"Ildico?"

"Oh bloody hell, I don't know. Is that what they called her in the film? Well let's call her that. The point is that when Attila tried to turn his back on evil he died in a Carver incident."

"Not in the film,,,." Xander can't even finish the sentence. All these bad boys failing to make good isn't exactly filling him with confidence. Of course she's not going to forgive him. And she shouldn't either, and he knows why.

"Xander, forget the Warner Brothers version. I'm telling you what really happened, as recorded in cabala and the secret annals of the metaphysicists." Giles fixes his glasses on his nose and his mind on the Magic Box. Got to get there soon and put a stop to this conversation. "Think what a man with Atilla's power could have achieved if he'd become a force for good," he suggests.

Xander tries and fails to bend his mind to the task.

"So there you are," says the Watcher, as if spelling out the obvious. "Carver incidents are not a good thing. They load the dice in favour of evil. On the one hand there's nothing to prevent you sinking into viciousness and corruption. But on the other hand, if you choose to set your feet on the road to redemption, the Carver demon blocks your path."

In that case, why doesn't one spring out of nowhere right now and cut me down in my tracks? We're almost there, thinks Xander. Shit. We're almost there. He decides to slam on the breaks. "Hey, we forgot to buy dead boy his fags."

Giles raises his eyebrows. "For goodness sake. Let's not pander to his every whim." But Xander's set on it. He turns on his heel. "You know what I have a problem with?" he says. "It's Spike. Spike in general. But in particular Spike being in the same league as Attila the Hun."

"For the better part of a century he was a ruthless and brutal killer," says Giles, taking off his glasses and flourishing them, because it's a simple point, but an important one.

"And this is the guy you're recommending for a Watcher's post?"

"Well, obviously he's changed. Buffy's been good for him. But for God's sake this is Spike we're talking about. No moderation. No half-measures. Lots of bloody persistence to bring to bear. If he never quite had the reputation he deserved it's only because he was in the shadow of Angelus."

Well, thinks Xander, I may have been bred in a basement and I may be bowed down with care, but I still got a brain and, hey Watcherman, I spot a gaping great hole in your logic. "Yeah, well, so what about Angel?" he says. "Why didn't Angel get carved?"

Giles takes this in his stride, along with everything else. He's eating up the sidewalk. Sprinting into a shop. What is this? A race?

"It happened too quickly," he says. "One moment there's Angelus and the next, there's Angel, racked with guilt, burdened with a conscience and cursed with a soul. With most people, though, it's a long drawn-out process. I imagine it must take years to relearn the basic human values from scratch." He eyes the display in front of them. "Which brand do you think he smokes?

"As if I could care," says Xander. He grabs a packet at random. "Here, these look tacky enough." And before he knows it, they're back on the street, crossing the road. Shit, they're almost there. And he's the bad guy now. How did he get to this place where he's the bad guy? But here he is at the door and it's either run away now or go in and deal.

------------------------------------------------

His face is so closed. She has never seen his face so closed to her before.

"Call me conventional, but I prefer the standard routine where the sire shags the fledgling straight after turning them. 'Course it's usually full- on rape, but - hey - mutual consent doesn't really figure anywhere in a turning scenario."

He stands up, kicks the couch upright, and she's trying to get her head round this, trying to work out what the hell does he mean when he swings back at her. "So why do you think you did that, Buffy"

She sits up. Mustn't -- mustn't take this lying down. "I wanted to teach you a lesson. Show you what it feels like to be someone's prey."

"Really?" He moves away again. Retrieves his T shirt from the floor and uses it to wipe his face. "Well you're late for the party. Already been there, felt that." He steps back. Gives her the glare. "Dru turned me, remember? And I gotta love her, she was gentle. Used her fangs. Didn't chew me to fuck like you."

The gash on his throat makes her want to cringe. Twin bloody crescents, made by her teeth. She thinks, I did that. Why did I do that? I need to say sorry. Can't say sorry, it won't be enough. And then he's swooping down on her, much too close. "You want to go round hurting people? You want to be like this?" His demon surges up yellow eyed and angry. "Is that what you want? Because if it is, just say the word."

"You wouldn't turn me," she says and knows, of course he wouldn't. That's not what he wants from her. And oh God, she's sinking in a moral quagmire here. No righteous high ground anywhere to be seen. Except incredibly, where Spike's standing right now. He's holding it. He's hogging it. And she knows he's going to fight dirty to keep it to himself.

"Bloody right I wouldn't turn you," he snarls. "You'd go round killing people. And tsk-tsk I don't approve of that because you, Summers, climbed in here with your ideas of right and wrong all tied up in packages and neatly labelled. You're worse than the fucking chip."

Time to stand up, she thinks mechanically. Time to stand up to him. She pulls herself to her feet. "You still dream about it though. You still dream about hunting."

He stares at her. Glances at the splintered coffee table and kicks it across the room. Looks back at her. "Yeah, I dream about hunting."

"Well OK." She squares her shoulders. Tries to sound reasonable. Feels as if she's just been tipped into the mid-Atlantic, she's so out of her depth. "I know it's -- I guess it's impossible to control your dreams, but.." And he cuts across her, harsh and low. "You know who I hunt, and why and what I want."

But she doesn't know. She doesn't know. Is it just sex? She can give him that. Why don't I just give him that? But it's something more. And Buffy really doesn't want to know, because maybe then she'll have to give it. Oh God, and look what she's done to him. That awful gash. Is that kind? She wants to cover it up. Wants to bandage it. She raises her hand and he smacks it away. Throws his T shirt at her.

"Wipe my blood off your face."

"It's my blood," she says. Yay Buffy! Good for you. Remind him of that kind thing you did. "I gave it to you yesterday."

"And I'm still waiting for the opportunity to thank you."

He's really crowding her. He has her by the shoulders. Too angry. Too close. I can hit him, she thinks. I can ratchet this up into a full-scale war. We know how to do that. There's a way out at the end for both of us. But she just stands and lets him drive his fingers into her flesh until he stops. And then, it feels like a miracle, he drops his head to her shoulder. Says, "Fuck that hurt so much."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't know why I did it."

"Sure you do." He raises his head. Lifts his hands. Lets her go. "You wanted to turn me back. Undo all Dru's good work." And he turns away as if her motives are too paltry, too pathetic to deserve his full attention. As if he really doesn't give a fuck.

And it's so hideously obvious. That's what it's really about. Somehow it's so shameful. She has to sit down on the couch.

"Smart plan that, offing Spike so you can have just William." He throws himself down beside her. "Hey, let's try it on Dawn. See if you can cut out the hormone monster without murdering the sweet bit. Oh wait, they're the same person."

And suddenly they're side by side, both searching for a route back to where they were before. But there's no way back, and Spike's no good at waiting. Been waiting bloody long enough. She's weak now, vulnerable. Feeling bad about herself. He's going to take advantage. Going to take his courage in his hands and move this forward.

He hunches over, stares at his hands. Looks so defeated.

"But I love you," she whispers.

He looks away. "I hear what you say, Buffy. I hear what you don't say. I watch the things you do. And me and you, there's something missing. I'm just the evil undead, I can do without it. But not you. Without the idea of it you can't be the slayer, can't make those neat little packages out of good and evil, can't make sense of your life." He turns to her, shows her a face grown suddenly vulnerable. "It's soul," he says. "And I don't have one. Never will have one."

He smiles at her, as if it's all a bit of teasing, when she knows of course it's not. "Unless," he adds, "you decide to give me yours."

The Magic Box is closed. Locked. They take a cab to the apartment. Xander digs out his key. Opens the door. And everything is as it should be. Sunlight streams through the windows, the furniture stands to attention, all of life's everyday objects wait around, ready to be of service. But everything of Anya has been subtracted.

Giles takes charge. Thank God, Giles takes charge. He finds the key to the Magic Box on the hook in the kitchen. Gets them out onto the street, into another cab and back to the shop. Unlocks the door. Loses it when he sees all the stock's gone. Charges up the ladder to the loft. Almost embraces the books.

She's gone. Removed herself entirely. She's no longer here.

Xander stares at the empty till. Imagines it's a shrine to Anya, a shrine that he foolishly left untended. Feels like he's been robbed. Robbed of chance, of hope, of the opportunity to tell her that, yes, he lied to her, but he lied to himself most of all. The truth was locked away out of his sight, out of his workaday mind. How could he possibly know it was there? Might never have seen it, but for payback demon and his mindfuck mojo. Man, that was bad, sitting centre stage with his fears acting out all around him. Recognising the stock images of dysfunction and despair. Thinking, yeah, these are the things that frighten me. This is what I think about every time me and Anya row, or when I run into my Dad. Tell me something new. But then there was the back story. Yeah, that surprised him. Strike that. Horrified him. Shocking to realise that -- of course -- there's a plot point waiting to derail his life. Couldn't ignore it. Couldn't fail to understand that all that he is, all that he can be, all his happiness, all of his hope, hangs on the thin thread of a slayer's life. So what I wanted to say is I do love you, Anya. I want to touch you, be touched by you. Make love and life with you. All those things. Wanna be amazed at you, amused by you. Even want to be embarrassed by you. Most of all I simply want to be with you. Don't ever doubt that. I think that adds up to love. But I need Buffy more. Not going to be the one that gets to touch her. Hey, I'm not that self-deluding. But she made a space for me in the family she built. And that lifts me out of the basement. Helps me shut out the echoes of my Dad's fistfalls. Allows me to believe that I'm a better man, part of something good. Without her I don't know if I can be the man that you love and, shit, that's not a solid foundation to build a marriage on. So I guess I came here to ask whether you can forgive me and carry on loving me. And I guess there's only one answer you can possibly give.

He gazes round the shop. No note, no nothing, just an overwhelming absence of Anya.

------------------------------------------------

It's not easy, particularly when you've only just got back together and you're still shy of one another.. And it's so long since they've done it this way. But Willow wants it. Wants to know all's forgiven, that they're still soulsisters under the skin. She calls it the mindfuck, which sounds so scandalous coming from Willow that Tara has to laugh and blush and hide behind her hair, which makes Willow giggle and say it again, just for the shock value. And then of course it's almost impossible to be serious and do the thing properly. But she tries, because she knows it's important to Willow. Focuses on Willow's eyes, concentrates on being sensuous and rhythmic with her fingers, tries not to let what Willow's hand is doing to her make her lose control. Not yet. She gazes into Willow's eyes, because that's what Willow wants. Can't. can't help glancing at Willow's mouth.

"Kiss me," she whispers. She knows Willow doesn't want to do that, wants them to watch one another instead, but she so wants to be kissed by Willow. She stills her hand for a moment, touches very slow, wills Willow to kiss her -- is that cheating? I'm not using magic so it can't be cheating. And Willow breaks with the gameplan, closes her eyes and kisses her. And yes that's it, that's so beautiful, and she's not doing anything to Willow anymore, Willow's doing it all to her. And she's falling, falling under Willow's spell, calling out to her, when the screaming starts. Something wild has been cornered in the house and it's screaming and slamming its body into the walls. Something unspeakably cruel is happening. Something so violent that it's infected Willow so that she's gripping Tara's arms, squeezing her, hurting her because she's so afraid. And Tara and Willow, they're staring into one another's eyes, just like Willow wanted them to, but the love's flown clean away.

"What's happening?" says Willow. "Tara, Tara, what's happening?"

And they're struggling into their clothes, staring at one another, listening. Both thinking Carver demon. What do we do? What do we do?

They open the bedroom door, and the volume ratchets right up. Spike howling blasphemies and obscenities, screaming for Buffy. Spike slamming into walls, smashing things. Calling Buffy's name in a voice ragged with pain.

Tara is halfway down the stair before Willow grabs her arm. "No," she says. "If it's a Carver incident we won't survive if we go in .. Do a reveal spell so we can see -- we need to know if Buffy's with him. We need to know if Buffy's alright."

"But I don't have any ingredients."

Willows lips go straight and thin, just so Tara knows not to argue. "You don't need anything. Just do it," she says. And Tara knows quite well that this is cheating. That it's going be Willow powering the spell. But it sounds like Spike's dying in there and where's Buffy? Why can't they hear her? Is she hurt? Is she dead?

"OK," she says and raises her hand. "Reveal!" She feels Willow make the wall fall away and there aren't any demons, just Buffy and Spike, and look -- no, don't look -- at what Buffy is doing.

All Tara can think is, which one's the vampire? She remembers Spike's lips on Buffy's throat, Spike's hand on Buffy's breast, caressing it out of her, drawing it out of her. Did he steal her humanity? What has he done? Who's the vampire now?

Willow thrusts her hand out and puts back the wall, swinging round to hide her face in Tara. And then they wait for what seems like forever until there's movement and voices again. Spike's voice harsh and low. Buffy's barely audible, as if she isn't really there.

"We've gotta to tell Giles," says Willow at last, because they can't handle this without a Watcher. They go to sit out on the back porch to wait, and Tara feels suddenly useless and small. She can't believe they're sitting here, like they're waiting for Dad to come home, waiting to tell on Buffy. She can't believe she saw what she just saw.

"I guess that was the mindfuck," she says. And neither of them laugh.

------------------------------------------------

Fuck if he'd thought she'd react like this, he never would have said it. She's watching him like he's a cobra. Fear coming off her in waves, sticky contagious fear that's paralysing them both. He doesn't dare move. Knows if he moves she'll go flying out of reach. Gotta make like a cobra. Strike before she gets away. Who's fastest love, you or me? Don't wanna gamble on it.. Sod it, I'm a gambling man.

And he's got her encircled, pulled back against his chest. Got her sitting between his legs. He can't believe that she's not resisting. Slips his hand under her top, over her rib cage, feels the soft flesh of her breast against his fingers, stops with his palm over her heart. Can't say it's fluttering like a bird. No. This bird knows a cat's snuck into the cage with her and she's beating, beating against the bars, hammering to get out. God she's so afraid. It freaks him that she can be so afraid of him. Excites him too. All that fight-or-flight pumping through her, and she's letting him hold her down, hold her still while he touches her fear. Oh fuck, she's letting him in. He puts his mouth over the pulse on her neck and feels her fear pounding through him, a drumbeat, fast and insistent, between his mouth and his hand. It's like being caught in a flickering strobe light. Almost sends him into game face.

"I don't know what you mean. How can I give you my soul?" she whispers. So scared, oh baby I got you so scared you're almost whimpering. He glances at the door. Well aimed with the coffee table Spike. Get some warning if someone comes in. Shouldn't do this. Shouldn't . but he can't stop himself. With his free hand he unbuttons her pants. Slips his hand down through her curls. Fuck that's freaking her. Of course she knows what he means. He makes himself stop.

The thing about Buffy, the thing he's gotta remember about Buffy is she can know something, recognise it, but still refuse to let her brain understand it. Like her heart accepts absolutely that Dawn's her daughter, can recognise her own blood, knows she has to lay down her life for her child any way that's called for. But try to explain to her that the monks sprang some sort of immaculate conception mojo on her with a fifteen year rewind and a decent cover story to keep social services off her case.. Try to explain that, and well, she'd stake me he thinks. And it's the same with this. She knows that she set him on this road. That he saw something in her. saw it that first night in the Bronze, been hunting it one way or another ever since. Yeah, Buffy knows that it's all about her. All down to her. That she's got to help him out here. But her brain won't do the math. And where does that leave you, love? Trying every way but the right way. Ripping out my jugular. Jesus. And where does it leave me? With a bloody great hole in my neck and at the end of my bleeding tether. So I'm spelling it out for you love -- and I'm watching you, and I know you're hearing me loud and clear.

He plants a row of soothing kisses from her shoulder to her ear. "C'mon Buffy, show me your soul," he coaxes. "I'll show you mine."

"You don't have one. You just said you didn't have one."

"Got plenty of spirit," he whispers. "Got piss n' vinegar in buckets.. Loadsa kickass crap like you said.. All round spunkiness.. Might not be a soul, but it's all that's on offer just at present."

But Buffy's not liking the sales pitch. Not liking it at all. She's trembling against his chest, between his legs, under his hands. You don't want to show me, do you love? Don't want to let me all the way inside. Scared I'll take something or hurt something. And right now he's not entirely sure that he won't. Having her willingly put herself in his power, at his mercy, when she's so afraid. It's too much. His demon likes it too much. Fuck here it comes, and she's poised on the edge of the seat. It'll tip the balance, startle her away. Fuck. Shit. He leans back sharply against the couch. Holds his breath. Why the fuck's he breathing anyway? And of course she senses it. Turns to meet his yellow eyes, says: "I don't know how to give you what you want, Spike. But if you know how to take it, just go ahead."

And that wipes the demon off his face. This isn't Buffy. She's not being Buffy. Look at her. She's not in any state to come out to play. Unless maybe they're playing hide and seek, because it looks like she's hiding. Gone to one of those places she goes to when she's truly freaked.

He lets her go. Stands up. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm a greedy impatient man. You don't have to show me anything you don't want to." Starts picking up books and banging them back on the shelves. Looks back at her sitting on the couch, legs drawn up, hugging herself, and he feels like he's a disease. Must be a disease, because look what he's done to her. Doesn't want to think about it. He carries the coffee table down to the cellar. Goes upstairs, finds his clothes in a pile on Buffy's bed, puts on a shirt to cover what she did to him. And when he comes down, she's still sitting there.

So he squats down in front of her and says, "Buffy, forget what I said. It was just a stupid headgame, love. I was just trying to wangle you into bed. Don't worry about it. I don't want anything more than you've given me already. If you love me, well that's enough for me." And part of him is standing back amazed because he's doing the right thing. Like someone's snapped on a light and he can see it's the right thing to do, and he can see himself applauding. But it's not enough to be doing right by Buffy when Buffy's completely at a standstill. He wants to take her hand but she's gripping herself too tightly. He wants to laugh at her and say, "Hey, baby, relax. I'm not going to steal your soul." But he seen enough of life and unlife to know that sometimes things happen without your full intent. And he's frightened he's already taken something he shouldn't. So that's what he wants, she thinks. He wants my soul. And part of her isn't at all surprised, hasn't she known all along that's what he's after? She thinks she should warn him, hey, you're knockin' at the wrong door. I don't list soul-donation on my resume. Soul extraction, that's my speciality. Kinda like a dentist. I whip it out quick with a moment of pure joy. Anyway, you're too late. I closed down the practice. Too dangerous. The patient survives, but everyone else gets wiped. Specially me. She looks at him crouched on the floor at her feet. His eyes are dark. She thinks he looks like a little boy. Thinks, you might be -- what -- six times my age, but you're not wise. You think sex is about giving it all away, like in the song? Well it's not. Not for me. I would have thought youda fucked me enough times to know that.

And you were right, she thinks. Riley was Captain Cardboard and I loved it. I got to be Mrs Cardboard, worrying about his health, discussing him with my friends, hanging out and smooching. Maybe it wasn't enough for Riley, but it was fine by me. We had fun. And guess what? We had good sex, pleasurable sex, safe sex. But you, you want it dangerous. All those S&M toys not doing it for you Spike? You want to raise the stakes? Well, I'll show you dangerous. Huh, didn't I just show you? You liked it did you? You enjoyed me taking a piece out of your neck? That's dangerous. That's who I am. Is it who I am? Is that what I am? Oh God. Please help me.

And she wants to reach out and shake him by the shoulders and yell at him. Don't hound me. Can't you see you're making me dangerous? How can I think straight when you're closing in on me? Have you any idea how too much it feels? But she can't say the words because if she did she'd be starting down the road towards him, unfastening buttons, pulling off layers, beginning to show it all.

And there he is in front of her, sitting back on his heels. Tilting his head in that way he does when he's come up against something he can't see straight through. Can't you see you've had your ration, Spike? Buffy's closed. You've had enough already. Had my body. Had my blood. You've even got my heart. Or didn't you hear me. I love you. I love you.. Please can we just be happy cardboard people. Because I can't do it any other way. I don't know how to anymore.

I'm looking at you looking at me, and I see your mouth moving. Are you saying my name? What are you doing over there when I'm over here? Why did you stop holding me? You gonna leave me here among the cardboard cutouts and the funfair fakery? You think I want to eat candyfloss and ride on the carousel without you? Why don't you just do it Spike? Take what you want. Bundle me onto the Big One. The one with the Maximum Thrill and Ultimate signs. Bundle me on to that and maybe we'll be up there, high above the crowd and you'll hold me down until the rushing air, the freefall, gut gripping terror melts away and all that's left is Wow. Maybe then I'll show you what you want to see. But you're not going to are you? You're not going to bundle me anywhere. Not going to force me to face anything. You're just going to leave me hiding in the dark, scared of being hunted, scared of being alone.

------------------------------------------------

As the cab turns into Revello Drive, Giles is trying to calculate how much of his money was tied up in the stock at the Magic Box. Vengeance demon, he thinks. I'll show you bloody vengeance. I'll crush you with paperwork -- suits, claims, counter-claims, writs, the lot. A couple of years of litigation, missy, and you'll realise that the ultimate hell dimension is the inside of your lawyer's office.

"Just drop us off here," he tells the driver and digs out his wallet. Can't believe how much all these cabs are costing. But they need to move fast. Only had time for a quick glance through the Wychburghen Chronicle, but he's pretty sure that Spike's not in the clear with the Carver demons. And then to top it all, there's Xander and his dead man walking impression. Which is not to say the Watcher doesn't appreciate a break from the incessant chatter, but -- guiding a grown man in and out of cabs while grappling with a quart of pigs blood and an armful of rare and fragile books? His patience is wearing thin.

And now it's up the steps and into the breach once more, and he's got Willow and Tara on either side saying they need a word with him. And he can tell just by looking at them it won't be one word. It'll be a torrent of words not to mention a logjam of false starts, ums, uhs, and other verbal ticks, and they'll swamp his brain and divert him from the task at hand. And here's Dawn banging through the front door saying she's home and she's famished and can they order pizza? Looking at him as if he's the moneyman. Oh bloody hell, yet more unbridled spending. And of course, there's got to be Spike, prowling in, scowling, with his collar up round his ears. For God's sake, grow up and stop playing the bad boy -- and no, don't try to talk to me. I'm busy. And Xander, don't mention that name. At this precise moment I'm all out of sympathy for Anya. Good Lord. How much can a man take? I'm too old for this. He throws the books and the blood down on the island in the kitchen and shouts, "Shut up! All of you belt up. Where's Buffy? I need to speak to Buffy."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, mate," says Spike. "Buffy's gone off on a headtrip. Not speaking to any of us."

"She -- she.. There's something wrong with her," says Willow.

Oh bloody hell. Giles goes through to the living room. Stands for a minute contemplating the figure on the couch. Shuts the door behind him.

"Buffy?" he says.

She doesn't look at him. "I just want it to go away, Giles. I can't cope with it. Make it go away."

"'It being global warming? 24 hour television? The dumbing down of a once diverse and vibrant culture?

"Spike. General Spikiness. Out of hand Spikiness. In your face Spikiness. All round excess of Spike."

He'd sit down on the coffee table, but oddly it's not there. So he crouches down in front of her. "Buffy, I'm pretty sure the Carver demon's going to want to finish what it started. In which case, we probably should send Spike away, because while he's here he's a danger to us all. On the other hand, I'm fairly certain we have some time to play with, possibly to figure out a way to stop this thing. Now what do you want to do?"

She meets his eyes. Takes a deep breath. "I don't think I can go on without Spike."

OK, so it's time to remove his glasses entirely and tuck them away in his pocket because really he doesn't want to focus too closely on this. He takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves and goes back into the hall. "Dawn," he says. "Order the pizzas. I'll pay. God knows what with. And no don't ask me what topping I want because I don't bloody care.

"Willow, we'll discuss it later. Right now we need to focus on the Carver problem. I'm pretty sure the message is in Qu'tar, Should be enough stuff in the Semiotics for you to make a translation. Xander, snap out of it and do something useful."

But Xander's already found something to do. He's found his way back to Buffy. He's slumped on the couch beside Buffy. He puts his arm around her and she curls against him. And of course, there's Spike again, glowering in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Ah yes," says the Watcher. "And Spike, stay away from Buffy. You've done enough damage for one day."

------------------------------------------------

He opens the fridge. Wipes his eyes on his sleeve so he can see what he's looking for. Bends down to grab the carton of blood on the bottom shelf. Dawn is on the telephone. "Do you eat pizza?" she asks. He thinks pepperoni wedges would be nice, as dippers. Make the pig's blood more palatable. But right now he can't handle the comments about how disgusting he is. "No," he says. "I'm fine."

He wonders how long before it's dark. Maybe he can slip off to his crypt. Not exactly leaving, he promised not to leave. Just putting some distance. That's what she wants. That's what she needs. He's no good for her, he can see that now. That thing she keeps inside her, it's too precious to share with him. Not meant for the likes of him. He'd only destroy it. He leans into the fridge, shielded by the fridge door, trying to control his breathing. Tries to stop breathing entirely but he can't. Needs gulps of air. Dawn's still on the phone. The Watcher's making a pot of tea. Someone -- not Buffy - is calling his name. Oh fuck off and leave me alone. Didn't hurt her. Didn't take anything. Just scared her is all. It's gonna be alright. Gets a grip, swings the blood out of the fridge, closes the door. Realises Tara's calling him from upstairs. He dumps the blood, goes to answer her.

"Yeah?"

"Um, Spike. There's a gap in the transcript. Mind if we look at the original?"

"Fine." He follows her upstairs and into Red's room. Red's sitting at the computer.

"They're pretty much faded," he says, wearily unbuttoning his shirt. "Reckon they'll be gone in coupla days." Stops at the top button. Doesn't want them to see. Doesn't want them to see what Buffy did.

"Take your shirt off Spike," says Red, and he thinks why isn't there some easy innuendo on the tip of his tongue about lesbians, even lesbians, being unable to resist his sexual allure. Can't be bothered. Just does what he's told and sits down on the edge of the bed, hunching over, flexing his hands.

"Did Buffy do that to you?" asks Tara quietly.

"She's gotta be possessed," breathes Willow.

Not by me she isn't. Never by me. And there's a quivering in the pit of his gut. A shudder that rises right through him until his shoulders are shaking and Fuck he's choking. Gotta breathe and Shit. Fuck.

It's been such a long fucking journey and he's never going to get there. And he's sorry he even tried, because he's hurting Buffy. Never wanted to hurt Buffy. You gotta believe I never.. Wanted to kill her but that was.. Wanted to devour her. Still want to. Want all of her. Isn't that natural? But it's no good. I'm no good. I'm no good for her.

Yeah, the witch is being kind and all, saying, "It'll be alright. We'll work it out." But what he really wants to do is wreck the fucking room. Put his fists through the walls, rip out the wiring, smash his fucking face through the window. Is it still light out there? Yeah that would be good. Smash through the window and fry in the sun. Go out in a blaze. That's the only way this is going to stop. And he hates himself that he doesn't do it. But he promised not to leave. And he's just left impotent and sobbing on the edge of a bed, with two lesbian Wiccas staring at him like he's an alien species they've never encountered before.

She sits on the couch, a book in her lap, and sips her tea dutifully, because Giles insists it has restorative properties and will do her good. She rests her head on Xander's shoulder. Feels him stroke her hair and appreciates the gesture. Tries to feel soothed. Of course she knows they're all handling her with kid gloves. Yeah, all suited up in velvet to stroke broken iron fist Buffy. And of course she knows she's got to pull herself together, patch herself up, make do and mend, like Willow did with the Buffybot when it was broken. And now she thinks of it, maybe she is the Buffybot -- a not so pleasant version, running through preset programs, save the world, avert the apocalypse, give your life. All these things are doable, but don't give your self, because you're just a robot going through the motions. You don't have a self to give. Who knows, maybe the original model had a wider repertoire, but the current suite of programs don't support self-giving, soul-giving or any other dangerous over-intimate crap. And why is it impossible to string a thought together without it leading towards him or away from him? And shouldn't she be kind to Xander? Isn't that what Buffy would do?

"Did you see Anya?" she asks.

"No. She was gone. Just got gutted all over again."

"Poor twice filleted Xander." Buffy turns and looks at him. "I'm sorry."

And that's it. That's all she can say to comfort her friend.

"I'm cool," says Xander. "Sitting here aren't I? With you and Watcherman. Making with the research, getting ready for the pocket knife monster that's gonna burst through the door and fillet the lot of us. All's homey on the Hellmouth."

"Yeah, we're good." She picks up her book and glances at Giles. "What are we looking for?"

Giles sits back on his heels. "Anything about the Qu'tar language. Who spoke it and when," he says. He's spread several charts out on the floor and now he's taking his watch off and laying it down as if it's a compass he can orient himself with. She listens to him grumbling about where the hell is the coffee table when he needs it, and has anyone seen his glasses. Listens to him telling her about Carver demons and fails to feel surprise. Yes, they kill people on the rebound from evil. Yes, she understands how it relates to Spike. But doesn't Giles see, doesn't anyone see, that it's not redemption Spike's after, it's her? Like she's his guiding star in some lame song. No, he's a ballistic missile, a heat-seeking missile on a collision course.. No. No. She was his guiding light and she's been snuffed out.

And she's not going to think about it. All her attention's on the book she's reading. She's doing the research because she wants to help Spike -- really wants to help him. That means focusing on the task at hand. Doing her job. Being detached, being professional. And suddenly Angel's there, sticking the boot in, saying you were great -- really -- I thought you were a pro. Kicking her where it hurts, kicking the stuffing out of her. And the girl, the school girl, can't take it in. You're everything to me. Did you not like what I gave you? Was I not good? And she's feels an ocean of pity, like it's Dawn who was hurt. Has to wrap her arms round the child one more time, tell her, it's OK, we're good. We won't make an issue out of it. We won't ever talk about it. We don't ever think about it. It's not a big deal.

And shit, she's broken the book, snapped its spine. See how strong I am? The ex-librarian sees alright, glasses or no glasses. His senses are super- attuned to precisely this sort of wanton vandalism. He stares at her hands, stares at the fragile and irreplaceable volume, now in two parts.

She glances down guiltily at the fluttering pages, and there beside her left thumb is something useful. "Qu'tar," she says. "The language of the Drafl, a small sect in the upper Euphrates region persecuted for their infernal machinations."

"Hey, didn't Spike say the Carver demon looked like a machine?" says Xander.

"Machination, a plot or scheme," sighs the Watcher. "Thank you, Buffy." He leans forward and gently tugs the book out of her hands. "Perhaps your energies would be better directed elsewhere. My glasses, for example?" He blinks owlishly at her. "Just remember when you find them that you need only exert a very little pressure to pick them up."

OK, find Giles' glasses. She can do that. She stands up and looks around the room. Remembers he put them in his jacket and goes to fetch it from the hall. Stands and listens to Dawn talking to Janice on the phone. Laughing like life's some joyous joke. She wants to go and wrap her arms around her, wrap her away somewhere safe, somewhere faraway, where laughter remains a life-long possibility. But then the laughter quietens, becomes a jostle of whispered confidences, and she can hear a man crying. She glances through the open door of the living room. Xander, Giles. Both OK. Stands in the hall and doesn't know what to do. Goes halfway up the stair. Doesn't know what to do. Crouches. Hugs herself. Rocks. Tries to rock it away. But she can't stop the quiver that rises right through her, that makes her whisper out loud, muffling her lips against her own skin, "Don't cry. No, don't cry. Help me. Please help me. I can't help you."

=============================================

As soon as Willow sits beside him on the bed she's transported back to other times she's sat by him on beds. Listening to him crying over Drusilla. Watching his incomprehension the first time the chip blocked him. Spike upset and thwarted on the edge of a bed seems to loom large in her memory. Always unpredictable, always creepy, but for an instant somehow human enough, broken enough to tug at your heart strings. Beautiful dresses with beautiful girls in them, she thinks. That's what he gave Drusilla. Whatever caught his eye, he just took it. He was terrifying. Not anymore though. He's changed. They fought Glory together. Went out patrolling. Had the telepathy thing going for a while, he was better at it than the others. Yeah, for a while he was almost one of them. And now here he is, back again, hunched on the edge of a bed, more human, more broken than ever before. He's clenching and unclenching his fists. Still unpredictable, she thinks. He lifts his head and turns a pair of penetrating eyes on her.

"Enjoying the trip down memory lane, Red? Thought you had work to do." Yeah, still a bit creepy.

"OK," she pats his shoulder. "I'm just gonna take a peek at your back, there's a weirdo scrawl there I never got down properly." She glances at Tara: over to you. You're the wise woman, I'm just the powerful has-been.

Tara catches the ball, gives it an experimental bounce. "Do you think there could be some sort of, um. mystical transference going on between you and Buffy?" she asks. "I can't see why else she would bite you."

He draws his arm across his eyes. Looks at her blankly.

OK, so Tara's blown her serve. Willow scans Spike's back, notes something down, then retrieves the ball. "Can't help thinkin' something big 'n' bad's going down between you and Buffy," she says. "What we're trying to work out is whether it's psychological or magical."

Spike twists round, stares at her like she's brain dead. "You think they're different things? Fucking right you should lay off the magic. Whydja think spells are so dangerous? It's nothing to do with the mumbo jumbo. It's your mind reaching out and touching the world and -- whoops -- letting loose some of the nasties that lurk in your head."

He turns back to Tara. "Hung around Vienna for a while, ate a few Freudians. Cream-fed Austrians, a bugger to digest. Gave me nightmares -- but hey at least I could analyse them."

Tara knows he's trying to shock her -- of course, he's probably telling the truth, but only because he thinks it will shut her up. Well she's not going to back off. Ball's in her court. She thwacks it one. "So why do you think Buffy bit you?"

He sighs. "That's Buffy's business. You want to know, you ask her. Anyway, it's just a scratch. It doesn't matter."

Red's done with her examination so he reaches for his shirt, puts it back on. Hopes they'll get off his case now. Knows they're not going to. Tara in particular isn't going to let it rest. Look at her, ducking her head, making out she's all shy and awkward. She doesn't fool him. He knows she's just masking her power so she doesn't frighten anyone, doesn't frighten herself.

"Um Spike," she says. "What exactly do you want from Buffy?"

Bloody hell. Is nothing sacred? Isn't it enough he's just made a complete arse, an utter poof of himself, crying in front of them? And then he thinks, sod it, might as well go the whole fucking hog. So sick and tired. He just wants it to be over. "I wanted her to give me her soul," he says. "Well, show me it -- kinda amounts to the same thing." And Tara suddenly relaxes, like she's relieved, like this is something that she understands.

"She didn't want to?"

"Course not." And since now they're talking, they may as well talk about the thing that really eats him up. "She disappeared," he says. Can't think how to else to explain that Buffy stopped being Buffy.

The witch gets it. She nods. "That's why you think you hurt her?"

Didn't just hurt her. Damaged her really badly. Fucking really stuck my finger in something I shouldn't have. Shocked her so much that when I backed off she wouldn't come out again. "Yeah I hurt her," he says. "That's what matters. See I don't give a sod that she bit me. It's over and done with. It's not important. I don't care what she does to me. I just care about Buffy."

And Tara stares at him, awkwardness gone. Suddenly totally focused. "Well you should care Spike," she says. "How can you care about Buffy if you don't care about what she does, how she treats you?" She looks over his shoulder and her eyes meet Willow's. "There's a right path here, and it's not the one with the big Buffy signs down the central reservation. You've got to do what you think is right, not what Buffy wants."

Of course he knows she's right. Came to the same conclusion coupla nights ago. Just got thrown off track by the near-death experience because there she was, pulling him out it, offering her throat, offering her love, crying out in his arms like she was offering him everything.

He studies his hands. Wonders what happened to his n ail varnish. God he's been letting himself go. "I'd leave, you know. But I promised her I wouldn't."

But now Dawn's shouting that the pizza has arrived and Red's gathering up her notes and suddenly it's back to business, pep talk over. And does he feel better? No, he feels totally shit, but he knows what he has to do. So when he almost falls over Buffy on the stairs, he stands back to let the witches sort it out -- put their arms round her, gather her up, bundle her off to the living room to eat bloody pizza as if that's going to solve anything. He sees her face turned up to him for a moment. Slows his breathing. Stops breathing entirely. That's better. No more breathing. No more bleeding, love. Gotta be realistic here. You and me baby, we're no good for one another. Just a little bit longer. Gonna look at you a little bit longer. And then we'll put an end to it, yeah?

---------------------------------------------

It's a Scooby meeting unlike any other Scooby meeting since dead boy took to sitting in. Everyone working together, pooling ideas, eating pizza -- and treading ever-so-carefully-on-tip-toe round Giles' charts which litter the floor. But Buffy and Spike? Xander looks from one to the other and can't work out what's going on.

Dead boy's leaning against the doorframe, like he doesn't want to come into the room, which is probably just as well since he's indulging his icky blood-drinking habit. And Buffy, well she's not been herself ever since he got back from the Magic Box. Not catatonic like she was when Glory took Dawn, but somehow weak, needy, not all there. And man, weird to sense there's nothing between the two of them but space. Dead boy's watching Buffy, yeah, like he thinks he's her Watcher, but also like someone who's standing in a doorway, not in the room. And Buffy isn't watching anyone. She's curled in on herself. He'd say wrapped up in herself, but that would be disloyal. She'll snap out of it soon. And of course, Xander freely admits it, he's doing the big cheer because whatever sick thing they had between them has sickened and died. Man, that's a relief. And maybe he's also shedding a tear for the hopelessness of love on the Hellmouth. Mostly though, he's perched on the edge of the couch, ready for action, because Giles says there might be another Carver visitation, and shouldn't they be cracking open the weapons chest and manning the barricades?

First things first. They're meant to be gathering information, and Willow's about to impart some. She stands centre stage where the coffee table used to be. Clears her throat. "OK, here's the message that was written on Spike," she says. Starts off well. "Where do you wander. " And dries up. Not good at public speaking our Willow. "No, uh, it needs to be more like a beardy old man laying down the law." She pauses, examines her notes then directs a declamatory finger towards Spike.

"Whither strayest thou oh child of evil?

Thinkst thou can come into the light?

Thou shalt not pass out of the dark.

Trespasser and traitor. Behold thy Watcher's wrath.

"Not sure about the verb endings," she adds, but she's lost their attention. All eyes are on Spike. He raises his mug to them, drains it. "Don't look at me," he says. "I don't have a Watcher. Slayer's perks don't extend to vampire scum."

"Must be a mistranslation," says Giles. "Willow?"

"No, it's quite clear in the Semiotics. Drafl, one who watches."

"Hey," yells Xander. "The Drafl were Anti-Watchers!" He snatches up the two parts of Buffy's torn book and begins thumbing through the loose sheets.

.

"Well I suppose it's feasible, a Watchers Council for the wicked," murmurs Giles, looking up from his charts.

"Oh give me a break," scoffs Spike. "Let me take some credit for my own abominations. I don't follow orders. I'm not answerable to anyone. Wouldn't make any sense to have a Watcher to keep me on the straight and narrow. Definition of evil, mate -- no straight, no narrow, no boundaries whatsoever. We do what we want. Take what we want." He catches Buffy's eye and breaks off.

"Hmm, very illuminating," says Giles. "Nevertheless, it's possible to imagine that there might be some sort of satanic Watcher taking an interest in your progress along the highroad to hell." And although his glasses have only recently been restored to him, he risks lifting them from his nose. Turns to Willow. "Can you go to the portents site and print out the latest updates?" And then the glasses are back on his face and he's on topic again.

"But you, Spike, came off that road long ago. You turned your back on evil, started making your way upstream against the traffic. Isn't that so?" Not interested in an answer, he's engrossed in his sodding charts again. Spike sighs. Glances across at Buffy. And hey, she's beginning to unfurl, looking round at Xander, gazing at the torn page he's holding in his hand, as if it's just occurred to her that the real world might be more fascinating than what's inside her.

"The Drefl died out in 200 AD," Xander reads. "Partly as a result of persecution, but mostly because they indulged in the short sighted practice of eating their own babies." He looks round at his audience, savouring the punchline. "But hey, why worry about extinction, because they'd built a machine to carry on their good work. It's here in the book: 'According to legend, the Drefl built a diabolical machine, the purpose of which was never recorded.' I think we can guess what it was -- an automatic anti- watcher."

"We need to know what triggers it," says Buffy suddenly. She turns to Giles. "Where's the Carver Line? You know, the point on the road that if you cross it you set off a Carver incident?"

Giles looks up from his chart, takes off his glasses. "I really don't know Buffy."

"But it's easy," crows Xander. He feels like he's on a roll here, pulling answers out of a hat. "Spike can tell us," he points out. "What happened before you got carved Spike? Whatcha do? Did you help a granny across the street?"

Spike considers the bottom of his empty mug. Considers an infinity of untruths. Not sure which one best serves his purpose but he's gonna have to pick one quick because no way is he gonna admit that he got jumped by two punks night before last. Hit them about a bit. Gave them a good kicking. Went home. Choked on his pigs blood when he realised the chip wasn't working. First thought -- Buffy. How there'd be no way to hide it. Either she'd sniff it out of him, her being so bloody suspicious and unforgiving. Or he'd tell her, just so she'd know her toy still had teeth. Thought about how it could only make things even more unworkable, even more painful for both of them. Thought about taking off for LA. Rejected the idea for obvious reasons. Considered going back to England. Maybe hooking up with the Watcher, playing on old enmities, weaselling himself in with the old git, making himself indispensable. Point about Giles is he's always going to have a direct line to Buffy. Sure, it would be a fragile second-hand link, but he'd hear about her from time to time. Might make it easier to bear. Even started thinking about how to get across the Atlantic, boats and blood supplies, calculating how many pints would he need to see him through. And that's when he realised he didn't plan on tapping any veins. What would be the point? She's taken all the pleasure out of it.

No, not going to tell them any of that, but they're waiting for an answer. "Yup," he says. "Whelp got it in one. I helped an old dear over the road. To tell the truth, it was a blind geezer, with a little black dog."

But, hey, wouldn't you know it -- Buffy's looking suspicious and unforgiving, looking more like herself again. "Your chip stopped working," she says. Produces a stake out of nowhere. And suddenly they've got an eyelock going. He wants to laugh. So wanted to see you like this again, Buffy, just for old times sake. She grins, tosses the stake to Xander. "Hold this if it makes you feel better, but he's not going to hurt you. Not going to hurt anyone, are you Spike?"

"Well I don't know.. Think I still got a few barbed comments tucked away somewhere," he says. And she smiles. Coming to life again, brain ticking away, getting to work on the business at hand.

She turns to Giles with another barrage of questions he can't answer. "Alright, we know Spike entered the danger zone and triggered an incident. But how good does he have to be to get safely across the line? What does he have to do to get out of danger quickly? Like -- like you said Angel was quick."

"I honestly don't know, Buffy." Right now Giles is more interested in his watch and the print out Willow's just handed him.

"Um, I-I've got an idea." says Tara. She half-raises her hand as if she thinks she still hasn't earned speaker's rights at Scooby meetings. "Spike probably doesn't want to kill anyone because of someone else's opinion. Um, your opinion Buffy. That's good, but not really good enough. Maybe he has to find his own moral compass to be safe."

"Well he'd better find it bloody quickly," says Giles, running his hand through his hair so it stands on end. "As far as I can tell." he glances at his watch, the charts, back at Willow's print out. "There's going to be another Carver incident on the Hellmouth at 10.47 tonight."

"Fine," says Spike evenly. "I got time for a Johnny Oates?" Giles gets it of course. Must be a Britboy thing. Stiff with the upper lip. Don't make a fuss. Do the right thing and for godsake spare everyone's feelings.

"Yes, you've got plenty of time," he says. Looks at his watch. "Uh, about an hour and ten minutes."

"Who's Johnny Oates?" Xander wants to know.

"Just English for going for a piss.. Back in a tick." He pushes away from the doorframe, smiles at Buffy, "Hey gorgeous," and leaves the room.

There's something niggling at the back of Xander's mind, something out of a film that he's sure he'd remember if he wasn't being distracted by a mental image of Spike pissing.

"Do vampires do that?" he wonders aloud. "Not to gross out on undead body functions, but I thought.."

Buffy quells him with a look. "OK, here's the plan. Dawn, I want you out of the house now. No arguments. Phone Janice and ask if you can stay the night. The rest of you stay here and work on finding a way to stop this machine. Spike and I will get tooled up. What do you think, Giles? Axes and swords? Where's the troll hammer? Do we still have the troll hammer?"

"I very much doubt it," mutters Giles. "It was stored at the Magic Box." Xander watches him rolling up the charts, piling the books away. Not quite sure why he's doing that. Aren't they still meant to be working on this?

And suddenly he remembers. "Hey wasn't Oates the I-may-be-some-time guy, in the Antarctic? You know, the one that went out in the blizzard so the others could survive?"

"He's doing a good thing," says Giles. "Don't stop him."

"What?" says Buffy. "What are you talking about? Giles? Giles! What's going on?" She stands up, goes out to the hall, heads upstairs to check the bathroom. And one by one everybody follows until they're all in the hall watching Buffy come downstairs again.

"Buffy, he's doing a good thing," says Giles. "You may not like it, but it's the right thing to do." She doesn't answer. Pushes past them, arms folded across her chest. Goes out the front door, down the drive to the sidewalk.

Xander follows her with his eyes. Watches her standing in the dark, looking up and down the street. After a while he goes and stands beside her. She must be holding her breath, she's so still, and in the streetlight he can see that her face is wet, tears dripping silently off her chin.

"He promised he wouldn't leave," she says at last. "I trusted him."

"Yeah, but if he'd stayed he would have taken us all down with him," says Xander. "Giles is right, he's done the right thing." After a while he adds: "I know he meant something to you Buffy, forbidden fruit and -- I dunno, whatever. But you need to let him go now."

She's still got her arms crossed, hands gripping her upper arms like she wants to hurt herself. "But I loved him," she says.

"It wasn't love," he reminds her gently. "He wasn't human. Sure, you felt something for him, but you didn't love him. Not like you loved Riley. You went running after Riley. I don't see you running now."

"How can I run? I don't know where he is."

Then quite out of the blue she turns to him and says: "I'm through." She shrugs like she's trying to shake off a burden. "That's it. Gonna pack up and take Dawn to my Dad's in LA. Gonna go away somewhere. I've had enough."

He stares at her. Can't believe he's hearing this. Don't break up the family! How can you break up the family? If Dead boy's the problem, fetch him back, let him play stepdaddy if he wants to. I don't care. Oh man, Oh Buffy, don't say that. Don't say you're gonna smash the whole house just cause your toy fell out the playpen.

"You don't mean that," is all he can think of to say.

"Yes I do," she says. And "What do you think I'm made of?" she wants to know. "Iron? Steel? I'm not those things. I'm flesh and blood. And I'm so fucked up. Can't you see? Can't any of you see?" And she just stands there, hugging herself, digging her nails into her arms, saying, "Too fucked up. Too fucked up," over and over again.

Man this is pitiful. Never seen Buffy like this before. Even catatonic she wasn't as out of it as this. She's invented a whole new category of out of it -- out of proportion, out of character, out of her head, out of the fucking stadium and off the planet altogether. "Too fucked up. Too fucked up." She won't stop saying it. He thinks he should run back to the house for help, but what can any of them say? What can any of them do? They're just the family she built that she wants to destroy.

He grabs her, shakes her hard. "Buffy! Stop it! Look, if it matters so much, just go find him."

"How can I? He won't go to the crypt. Where else can I look? I can't search the whole of Sunnydale in an hour. How can I guess where he'd go to die?" She takes a breath and opens her mouth like she's about to start on her fucked up refrain again.

Xander thinks fast. Where would he want to die? Probably on Buffy's couch -- providing she doesn't ditch it in the yardsale when she sells the house. "He'll go somewhere with good memories," he says quickly. "Somewhere he was happy. Probably somewhere where he was with you."

And Buffy stands there mouth open, eyes wide. He just knows she's running through all the places she's screwed Dead boy. Doesn't want to look at her but he forces himself to. Tries to make encouraging c'mon Buffy noises. Don't give up, Buffy. Don't give up on us all.

"The derelict house, down the alley near the Magic Box," she says at last. And man, that is the pits. Didn't exactly expect the Valentine suite at the Plaza, not with Dead boy in the equation. But he knows the building she's talking about. From the outside. And what can you say, but hell, it ranks about level with the gutter, maybe one up from the sewer. He grimaces. Takes her arm, leads her along the road. Might pick up a cab at the corner. And yeah, there's one. He flags it down. Digs in his back pocket. Presses a wad of notes in her hand.

"Get in the cab," he says. "Go do whatever it is you have to do." And as he's bundling her through the open door, his arm knocks against the cell phone at his belt. He grabs it, shoves it at her. "Here, take this. I'll call you if we get any leads on how to stop this thing."

Doesn't know why he just did that. Yes he does. Because Buffy fighting a killing machine for Dead boy's life is better, just marginally better, than Buffy chanting, "Too fucked up," while she smashes up the happy home like a demented Stepford Wife.

She looks so pale and fragile as she leans forward to speak to the driver, and for a moment he's worried that she's telling the cabby how fucked up she is. But no, she must have said something sensible because the car's pulling away. So he waves her off with a big thumbs up and a fake smile, then heads back to the house to tell the rest of the family. Finds them gathered in the kitchen, making conversation and yet another pot of tea. Yeah, they're subdued, but not unduly upset. Didn't realise everyone was quite so keen to lose Spike. Thought Dawn at least was fond of him, but she's looking fairly perky, digging out the mugs and the milk, while Giles fills the pot.

"OK fellow Scoobies," he claps his hands. "Time to crack open the books and pluck out a miracle. Buffy's gone to find Spike."

"Oh bloody hell," Giles drops the tea pot into the sink and turns on him. "I thought you were out there talking sense to her. Not egging her on."

"You let her go after him? What are you totally mad?" says Dawn.

"Maybe she won't find him," says Tara.

"But she needs to find him," says Xander. "Man, if you'd only seen her you'd understand. And if that's what she needs, shouldn't we help her?"

"No we should bloody well hinder her," says the Watcher. "As far as I can judge Spike just did something completely unselfish, and something Buffy was bound to deplore. If Tara's right, it should be enough to get him across the Carver line. Except now you've set Buffy hot on his heels to bugger up his resolve and get them both bloody killed."

--------------------------------------------

He runs for one block and then slows to a walk. Knows he's got plenty of time before she realises he's gone. Knows she trusts him because he gave her his word and, yeah it's harsh, but it's so much easier this way. To leave with a good reason for not saying good bye. Could hardly believe it when Giles handed it to him on a plate. Been worrying how he was going to finish it. What if she cried? Couldn't bear that. He wonders if she's crying now. Knows she will be. Listens to the pad of his boots on the sidewalk, the flapping of his coat against his legs. Focuses on walking away.

He wishes he'd paid more attention to all the stuff about machines and anti- watchers and Carver demons. Not that it would make any difference. If the thing that attacked him yesterday comes after him again he knows he doesn't stand a chance. No point fighting it. Gotta go with the flow. Ten forty- seven, he thinks, and why don't I wear a watch? Because time doesn't matter when you've got eternity ahead of you. Matters now though. He wonders where he's going to die.

He'd go to the crypt, but really that's not an option. First place she'd look. He needs somewhere anonymous, nondescript, empty, somewhere he can think over his unlife. Yeah, well, he knows what he's gonna think about. And he already knows where he's heading. His mind's already picturing the mattress, how he'll lie there, how he'll pass the time.

And he knows, of course she'll come after him. Knows she'll try the crypt, maybe knock a few heads together at Willy's and fail to get any leads. Then she'll be all out of time. Oh Buffy you don't know how sick I am with loving you. You'll be giving up, wiping your tears, heading home, and I'll be lying there between your legs, taking it gentle and slow. Heading home. Gonna close my eyes, keep my back to the door, and with any luck the last thing I see will be your face.

-------------------------------------------------

She sits in the cab, cheek resting against the window, and thinks of the school girl who had to kill her lover to save the world The girl who tried to live a normal life and was murdered by a master vampire. Whose father left, whose lover abandoned her. She thinks of the virgin who learnt that rapture can be a cruel joke in the morning. Of the daughter whose mother died at home alone on the couch, and the Slayer whose Watcher almost let her die in a bricked up house, and later left her. She thinks of the woman who screwed a cardboard lover for months, and still got dumped. Who clawed her way out of her own coffin, who became a single parent in a deadend job, a single parent on the breadline. She thinks of the sister who desperately, hopelessly fought a Hellgod and the college student who had to drop out. She thinks of the soul who was wrenched from heaven.

All those scars hidden away, layer upon layer within her, so that sometimes she wonders if there's an inch of her flesh that doesn't store a secret anguish. She's a walking bundle of scar tissue. She is the walking wounded. How could anyone want to touch her? What would happen if she let someone really touch her?

And there he is, silver in the moonlight, striding along the sidewalk, coat flapping. Walking to his death with his hands in his pockets, as if he's going to the shop for a packet of smokes.

Looks like they're both heading for the same place. She leans back from the window, checks her money so she can

get out quickly when the cab stops. Glances out the back and he's already out of sight.

She tells the cabby where to pull over, and pushes the cash at him. And then she's out and darting down the alley, racing towards the building, scanning its smashed facade, trying to work out the quickest way in. She climbs through a window on the ground floor. Picks her way through the rubble. Clambers over beams. This is the place. There's the mattress. She makes her way to the far wall, finds a space to wait in. The empty window frame lets in a little moonlight, but mainly its dark. She's hiding in the dark. And she realises she doesn't have a plan. Is she here to talk to him, or is she here to lurk until it's time to save him? She doesn't know. She hasn't thought that far. All she knows is she's hiding in the dark like the coward she is, and here come his footsteps. And of course she knows he'll find her.

He comes through the window, coat flying wide like a giant bat. Hits the ground running, kicking up a shower of debris. Ducks under a toppled beam. Throws himself down on the mattress. And he's silent and still for maybe three. four seconds..

"I had plans." His voice cuts through the darkness. "You're fucking up my plans, Buffy."

Possibly, just possibly, he's talking to some imaginary -friend Buffy in his head. She swallows and lets the silence flow back in around her. Feels time pass. Thinks, he doesn't know I'm here, and then he's shouting: "Fucking get out of here, Buffy. I'm not telling you again."

As she steps away from the wall, she's bracing herself for battle. Doesn't matter that she's spineless, she's got a metal suit to hold her upright. She's iron Buffy. Iron will Buffy. She's got her mental armour. "Don't fight me, Spike," she warns him. "I mean it. We're going to do this together. It's just a machine. It can't be that strong. We can beat it."

He gapes at her. Didn't she see what it did to him? Doesn't she realise it brought him down in less than a minute, finished him off in less than two? "You can't fight it," he rasps. Gets to his feet. Circling. Careful to stay well out of reach. "I don't care how bleeding strong you are. There's nothing you can hold on to. There isn't any part of it that isn't a weapon. Every part of it hurts."

"I can fight it," she insists, because all she has to hold on to is her obstinacy.

.

"Just go. Hurry up and go," he says. "What time is it?"

"It's --" She doesn't have a watch. "It's about five past ten," she says. "Yeah, that's what it is. I have a spider sense for time. Let's talk. Let's have a conversation."

"Let's not." And suddenly he's swinging towards the window, saying, "Fine, if you won't go, I will."

"No." And shit, isn't she just cobra girl? She snatches him by the back of his coat, tosses him against the fallen beam. Pins him there. She's fast and she's Buffy. She's stronger than him. And she's thinking, oh God. Can't bear to fight. Can't let him go. Gotta try another tack. Gotta do it. She's got an iron will and she can make herself do anything. "There's something I want to give you," she says. "I want to give you my soul."

It's a lie of course and he knows it's a lie. But it's got to be true on some level, he thinks, otherwise why would she say it?

"Maybe.." She loosens her grip, since now she's got his attention. Looks at the floor. "Maybe it will bring you across to our side, across the Carver line." So that's why. How very Buffyesque. And Spike really can't believe it. It's just too ironic. He asks for her soul and she offers him a selfless act of kindness, when selfless is precisely what he didn't ask for. Offers him a mercy fuck because she thinks it will save his life. What a martyr she is. What an innocent baby. "Hello," he says. "Hellmouth here. You think we're in the fucking Beast's fucking palace where love conquers all? Who do you think you are? Sodding Beauty?"

That's so cruel. How can he be so cruel? She thought she was his Beauty. She knows she is his Beauty and she's going to kiss him in the rose garden. She's steeling herself to do it. "It worked with Angel," she says. "I- I know it was kinda the opposite effect. But maybe it would work." She makes herself look at him. "You know what it is you want. I want to try and give it to you."

And he's all out of patience. He had plans. He was going to do it his way, on his terms. Was gonna be with his fantasy Buffy, not the delusional flesh and blood version who's going to get herself killed if she doesn't get out of the firing line quick.

And she's going to die. Going to die horribly if he doesn't act now. Gotta scare her off. Gotta send her packing. He slows himself right down. Reaches out and hooks two fingers over the waistband of her pants, draws her to him.

"So," he says. "At last. The slayer offers to part her dimpled legs for real. Gonna let me poke my undead prick in where it matters." He cocks an eyebrow. Treats her to the smirk. "Let me poke it in deep until it gets personal? Gonna let me spray my cum all over your pretty pink privates, Buffy? Is that what you want?"

"Yes," she says. And isn't she just the little liar, because she doesn't want it at all. Violently doesn't want it. Bloody hell. Talk about mistress of the mixed message. How can he possibly fathom her? How can he talk to her? How can he be with her? She just makes him sad.

"Well, I'm not in the mood," he says and lets her go. And then, because it's really worrying him: "What's the time?"

"Less than a minute since you last asked." She shifts from foot to foot, shifts her eyes from his face to his crotch and back. Not sure if she can go through with this. Of course she can. She's fucked him lots of times. It'll be easy. She just has to let him do what he wants. Let him experience whatever it is he needs to experience.

"You can't throw me out, Spike," she points out. "I'm stronger than you. You can't run. I'm faster than you." She breaks off because he's giving her the pointed stare. And how did that happen? She's got her fists up. What's she doing? She doesn't want to hurt him. She wants to help him.

She crosses her arms and he can't work out what to do. Can't do the calculations in his head. It's too complicated. All he knows is he's got to get rid of her fast before the killing starts.

"Don't make me beg," she says, and there's a hint of fists again. And he can't think -- shit -- what the fuck to do with her, except do what she wants and get it over with quick. Do her a favour, let her think she's doing him a favour and then get her out of here. But martyrdom's her speciality, not his. And so what if he loves her? Right now he doesn't want her anywhere near him. And it's going to have to be a hand job because he really can't work up the ardour for anything else.

------------------------------------------------

No time for recriminations, no time for anything but saving Buffy. They've abandoned the tea pot to spill its guts in the sink and they're back in the living room, frantically tearing through the books. Tara and Willow have split the Ancient Mysteries of Mesopotamia between them, one piece each. Giles is leafing through the Wychenbergen Chronicles. Dawn's skimming the Semiotics, hopelessly looking for something -- anything -- she can understand. As for Xander, he's gone back to basics. He's brought the toaster through from the kitchen, set it in front of him on the floor by the couch and laid his Swiss Army knife on top. He sits there staring at it, trying to remember Spike's precise words.

"Like a machine," he said. "Like a cross between a toaster and a Swiss Army knife." Yeah and there was something snide about girlfriends trying to avoid shagging their boyfriends which knowing Dead boy was just put in to fuck with their heads. To fuck with my head, thinks Xander, seeing I'm the one with the ex-girlfriend and the Swiss Army knife.

He tries to brush his irritation to one side, but every time he thinks of Dead boy he feels enraged. I ask you -- a cross between a toaster and a Swiss Army knife? What sort of description is that? Go tell that to the police. Take a look at the photofit they put together. Here it is. I'm looking at it, and it's not helping at all.

He can understand the Swiss Army knife, because obviously it's packed with blades and skewers and other pointy stuff. But "Why did he say it looked like a toaster?" he asks. "Was it the size of a toaster? Was it hot like a toaster? Did slices of toast fly out of it? Why did he mention the toaster? Was he winding us up?"

"And what powers it?" he wants to know. "Electricity? Could we steal its batteries? Could we throw water at it and blow its circuits?"

"It's powered by magic," murmurs Willow, spreading pages across the floor. "Its masters created it to do their will. Probably used strong enough magicks to keep it bumpin off reformed baddies till the end of the world."

So those old world craftsmen built things to last, thinks Xander. And don't we just wish they'd heard of inbuilt obsolescence. "But how did they control it?" he wonders aloud. "Does it have an off switch?"

The Watcher sighs, looks up from his book. "I think that's the question that's exercising all our minds," he points out. "And if you would join us, Xander, in focusing on the task at hand, we might conceivably find a way to stop the bloody thing, or at least to disable it." He drops his head back into his book, drops his voice. "Alternatively, you could just shut up."

Oh yeah, he thinks bitterly. Forgot I was the Zeppo for a moment there. You want me to be Harpo? I can do that. He zips his lips. Stares at the toaster. Thinks, but I'm on to something here. There's something about the toaster that's really bugging him. The way it sits there with its two empty slots ready to throw out endless supplies of toast. It's trying to tell him something and he can't for the life of him work out what it is.

--------------------------------------------------

"Right, let's get it over with." He shrugs off his coat. "You give me your soul," he says. "Then you go. Promise?" Completely forgets that she owes him a broken promise. Believes her when she says yes.

He unbuttons his shirt. Not planning to take off his jeans. Look at her, all wide eyed and wooden. Does she know anything at all about men? Does she think they're just mindless automata that can whip it out and stick it in under any circumstances? Jesus.

"Take your clothes off," he tells her. Hopes that'll be enough to scare her off. But she takes her clothes off, folds them, puts them in a neat pile on the mattress like she's the Buffybot staying over at a motel. And all he can think about is time. She's wasting time. He doesn't have time to waste. He backs her quickly against the wall, runs his hands up and down her thighs.

"Really not in the mood," he reminds her. Then he drops his head on her shoulder and says, "Oh Buffy, I just want you to get out here. Please go."

"No," she says. Safest to stick to just the one syllable, or she might start shouting at him to get off her. Fucking get his filthy hands off her. Oh god, she's not going to be able to do this.

"OK, soul mojo," he sighs. "You're going to show me your soul. I'm going to take it in." He takes her face in his hands. "This is how it goes," he says hopelessly. "In my dreams."

"When you come, Buffy, come to me."

Then he sets to work. Mouth, neck, breasts, pussy, clitoris. One finger, two fingers. She's been here before, she knows the routine. Not that he's isn't good. He always gets the job done. But pinned against the wall, she's forced to be passive, which gives her too much time to think, I can't bear this. I'm not going to be able to bear this. And he's nervous and in a hurry, rough with her breasts, over-zealous with his fingers. And already she's thinking of the damage she could do to him. How dare he pry into who she is? She could throw him across the room. She could smash him to a pulp. Images of what she could do to Spike, what's she's done to Spike, flash across her mind. So so unloving.

It doesn't matter, she tells herself. It doesn't matter. I love him. Just got to relax into it.. He knows what he's doing. Just play along with what he's doing. Feels the tension up her legs and through her hips. It's torture to be still and let him touch her. Makes her ache. Makes her sob.

And Spike's really hacked off. Half-expected to get turned on in spite of the circumstances, but it's not happening. All he can think is: this isn't working. Not even going to make her come. Bloody hell. What time is it? And he's racking his brain for kind ways to let her down gently. Forget kind, any way to stop this now. Could do a runner. She's not going to chase him down the street stark naked. She'd stop to put on her clothes. And he's turning the idea over in his mind when she starts to sob. But he's not doing anything yet. Just fooling about. It's not like he can concentrate. Not like he's even interested. Why's she sobbing like that?

He studies her face. And, yeah, she turns it away like she always does. Hiding from him. Holding out on him. Keeping him at a distance just like she always does. And fuck it. You want to hijack the last hour of my unlife, Buffy? You're gonna pay for the privilege. I'm gonna make you pay. Don't know what your trouble is, but I'm gonna drag you right through it. Drag you out where I can see you. Drag you out by the scruff of the neck. Drag you out by your tits and your cunt. And suddenly it's on him. Making him shake. Making him hard because he knows he's going to strip her naked. Doesn't matter what she wants. She offered her soul. He's going to take it. Oh fuck. Has to gulp back his demon, quell the shaking in his arms, press his face into the wall so she doesn't see what she does to him. Gonna show you real soon baby. Gonna show you soon, but first I'm gonna make you show me.

He's driving her along in spite of herself. Pushing her to the point where she needs to let out some of that slayer strength, release some of the tension, make it hurt. She can feel it rising through her, a kind of blind, animal passion with the promise of a hot burst of pleasure at the end. Yes this what she likes. She grips his shoulders, digs in her nails. And he won't have it. Pins both her hands against the wall with just one of his. So hard to hold back from smashing his face. It makes her arms tremble. She has to remind herself that she's meant to be giving him something. She's meant to be playing along. But she wants to play rough. Not like this. This isn't playing. It's real and she can't bear it. To be pressed against a wall, hands up like a cornered criminal, letting him search her. Oh God he's searching for a way to touch her. Totally engrossed. Watching her, focusing his intelligence on her. His face utterly absorbed. His eyes never leaving hers, except when he swoops in to use his mouth. He's making it too personal. Making it too intimate. Turning it into a story about what he makes her feel. And he's still holding her wrists when his hand plunges into her. Too much. Such an invasion. She can't help struggling. He lets go of her arms and grasps the back of her neck. Studying her face, watching to see what his hand does to her. Do what you want, she thinks. Do anything you want. Just don't look at me. But he's fascinated. And suddenly she realises he's getting too close, he might actually touch her. She tries to withdraw into the wall but his hand's at the small of her back, pushing her onto his other hand, the one that she needs to block out. Her legs are trembling. She wants to block it out. She wants to give in. And she realises she can come. Yes, she's ready for her private moment. She turns her face away. He turns her face back.

"Come to me, Buffy" he whispers. His face is so serious, so intent on her. It tugs like a hook. It hurts. Pulls tears out of her eyes. And his fingers are pushing her hard and insistent, as if this is his body and he'll do what he wants with it. Pushing into places where fingers don't belong. Driving into her flesh, ploughing through her nerve endings. Snagging in all her secret wounds. Tearing at them. Making her gasp. Making her lose her grip on herself. Too much. Too many fingers. And his eyes are so dark. Closing in on her. Too close. There's nowhere to hide. "Give it to me, baby," he whispers. No. No. She's not going to. But it wells up anyway. A flood of self pity. Oh God so painful and sore. And so shameful to be there naked before him, howling over spilt milk and schoolgirl dreams with his hand half inside her. Showing him that that's all she is. See I'm such a sad person, how could you possibly want me?

He stops. She feels him still his hands, getting ready to take them away. Hears the hiss of his breath. Feels his body tense, ready to swing away, turn his back and walk away. Because she's not strong, like he thought. Not golden, like she pretended. Not the thing that caught his eye. That he turned back on the road for. That he's journeyed all this way to hold in his hands and look at and somehow possess. He made a mistake. He's been deceived. And as if she didn't have sorrow enough, now her heart's breaking because he's seen her. He knows.

"Look at me, love," he says.

She stares into his face. How can you look at me? How can you be so cruel? What else can I possibly show you but this? And slowly, firmly, he pushes aside the intervening atoms and places his finger directly on her. All that's left is him touching her. Him stroking her. Him loving her. The glitter in his eyes. God he's everything. And when the spasms tear through her, she lets them rip her wide open. Because it's ecstasy to let him touch her. To let him right in where he can touch her. To see how his face is stripped naked now he can touch her. To feel him quivering with joy just like she's quivering with joy because he's touching her at last. She can hear herself screaming. And if only she had breath left over, she would tell him: This is what you want, and here it is. Here I am. Can you see me? I can see you. You're all I see. You're everything.

He holds her with his eyes, holds her in his hand, holds her there, while his other hand unzips his fly. Unleashes his straining cock. Can hardly bear to disturb her when she's so entirely his, but he's got to. Gotta move my hand now Buffy. Gotta let you go for a moment. Yeah, put your leg up there. I've gotta get deep inside you. I've gotta -- and then he's inside her and out of control. Can't stop the demon, can't stop the shaking, can't stop himself from slamming hard into her. It's all that matters. Give me your other leg. Yeah, put it right up. Fuck that's deep. Fuck that's deep. Wait for me, baby. Yeah, I see you. Jesus. You're so beautiful. See what you do, Buffy? See what you do to me. And yes his balls are sucked out his cock and he's hurling himself, hurling himself into her. Yes he's roaring. But also he's here with Buffy, alone with Buffy, watching her come out for him like the sun.

Yeah, that's all I ever wanted, love. I just wanted you.

As she touches him he feels different, as if all the parts of him have come together. At last he makes perfect sense to her. Crowding her with his body. Running his smile all over her face. She knows who he is, Spike and William, broken and beautiful, iron and velvet all at once. Hers. But she's trusting him with every last inch of her and she needs reassurance. Needs to know for certain she's safe.

"Did you see me?"

"Couldn't miss you," he whispers against her throat. Presses a word into her skin. "Effulgent."

She smiles into his chest because she knows it must mean something good.

"Like the sun." he says. "It means you were like the sun."

And now she's got this exhibitionist streak. "I want to show you again. I want to show you lots of times." She can't take her eyes off him. And he's whispering that his soul mojo's not permanent and he's gotta have regular top-ups when suddenly there's a high pitched buzzing sound, like a machine. Oh god, Oh god, it's coming. And she's trying to push him behind her where he'll be safe, trying to pull on her clothes, scattering Xander's money everywhere, scanning the shadows for anything that might serve as a weapon.

And Spike's being stupid. Trying to grab hold of her, trying to get in the way like he's got a death wish. Pulling her back against him, wrapping his arm round her. Handing her the cell phone.

------------------------------------------------

It seems to take her forever to answer and when she does she's gasping like she's just run a race.

"Xander. Xander is that you?"

"Yeah," he says and wishes he could add, "No worries. We've got it sorted. We've found the solution to that little ol' Carver problem." But all that's on offer is a question.

"Is Spike there?" he asks. "I need to speak to Spike."

And then Dead boy's on the phone. "Yeah, uh, what is it?" Sounds like his brain can't focus, like he's totally spaced out. Must be fear. Man, Xander can sympathise: he can barely keep his mind on topic himself and he's not the one under a death sentence.

"The toaster," he says. "Why did you say the Carver machine was like a toaster?"

There's a long silence and then Spike says, "Did I say that? Uh, can't think why I said that. Uh, yeah. I guess it was because it had that kinda brushed metal finish. Kinda silvery like Buffy's toaster, like the one in Buffy's kitchen. Yeah, it was silvery like Buffy's toaster."

Xander stares at the receiver. There's nothing he can say that will adequately convey his feelings. Except, well fuck you, man. Death by carving's too good for you. You want redemption, fucking redeem your brain from the loan office because you're totally messing up without it. Talk about red herrings, talk about introducing worthless and misleading data into the case. I should book you for wasting police time.

Then Buffy's back on the line. "What time is it?" she wants to know.

"Ten thirty-three," he tells her. And have you any idea what sort of an irresponsible moron you're hooking up with he wants to ask. Think about your children. Well, OK he can't give you children and consider it a mercy. But just think about all those hours you're gonna have to endure with him cluttering your mind with trifling, trivial, insignificant details that have no bearing whatsoever on matters of life and death and the things we're all concerned with .

"I need to speak to Giles," says Buffy. "No. Not Giles. Tara. Put Tara on the phone."

He hands the phone to Tara, turns and there's Dawn, pent up on the couch, gangly teenage limbs held stiffly still. She's looking at him, too frightened to speak in case she wastes time when time is so important. Her young face drawn. Haggard. She doesn't know where to put herself. She doesn't know what to do with herself. She's about to lose Buffy again and there's nothing she can do.

And the room is full of the sound of rustling paper, the sound of breathing people, the just-beyond-range screaming of nerves. It's stifling. It's closing in on them. Less than fifteen minutes to go and it's just like in an exam except nobody dies when you fail an exam.

And Tara's stammering down the phone, telling Buffy, "Um, I don't think so. I -- um -- I don't think the Drafl were concerned with - um - souls and I can't imagine it was a self -- a selfless act on Spike's part. He was just doing something you both wanted. That's not what.." And suddenly, all in a rush: "Buffy, you've either got to run now or get ready to fight. We don't know how to help."

They don't know how to help. Xander glares at the toaster. It's all your fault, filling my head with images of domestic appliances running amok, everyday objects doing their job, running out of control. Distracting me. Leading me up the garden path. Sending me on a wild goose chase. You and Dead boy. Wasting my time. He kicks it across the room. Buffy's not going to need it anymore. Buffy's as good as dead.

------------------------------------------------

He watches her bending over the phone, hiding behind her hair, whispering to Tara as if he can't already hear her heart beat. As if he doesn't already know she showed him her love, gave him her soul. And he's so cocksure he doesn't need to swagger anymore. To have had the slayer in his hands like that. To see her so enraptured. All he can think is that he wants to do it again.

She snaps off the phone. Reaches down, takes hold of his cock and he thinks, yeah baby, you're reading my mind.. But she's trying to straighten him up, or rather the opposite. Trying to fasten his fly. He has to take over before she does him an injury. And now she's looking up at him, talking to him, but all he can take in is how dusty and dishevelled she is. How totally fucking beautiful. With tears still on her lashes, tear tracks on her cheeks..

Didn't realise she was broken like that. Didn't realise she hurt so much. All that grief inside her. Never knew it was there. Guessed some of it, of course, with her mum dying and losing heaven and all. But to suddenly burst through into such an underground ocean of sorrow. It shocked him. Horrified him. Bloody hell. He wanted to weep. How could she have this locked away inside her and him not know about it? Who did this to her? Probably most of it's the bloody poof's fault. Not Captain Cardboard. The guy was too one- dimensional to leave a scar. And of course, he's guilty too. William the Bloody cruel bastard. He's responsible for some of it, persecuting her, never letting up, telling her she came back wrong when she's been wrong almost since the day he met her and him too blind to see it. Wrong because she hurts, because it's been too long since she's known anything but pain. She's come to expect it. Learnt how to bury it in her body, turned her body into a cemetery for all her grief. And now he's gonna have to dig the whole lot up. That's his mission and he's accepted it. He's gonna drive out her demons, search out the places where she hides them and stretch her and push her until she gives up every last one. He sees an endless vista of sexual healing ahead of him. Thinks of ways of getting deeper. Of hooking her legs over his shoulders. Thinks of oiling her back, deep soothing strokes until she can't help herself, she'll stick her sweet Californian ass in the air, and he'll take it in his hands, part it and oil it and slide his cock, the whole length of it, all the way inside. Gently. He wants to be gentle. Uh yeah. Or, no, what if he could coax open her cervix and gently ease his cock home into her womb? What would it be like in there? It defies his imagination. He stares at her, mesmerised. Hazel eyes gazing at him. So earnest. Wanting something.

"The troll hammer," her voice breaks through. "Spike. Please! Pay attention. We need the troll hammer."

But for the first time in his life or his unlife he's sparing a thought for his spunk, the thick glistening essence of himself that he wants to pump into her. For some reason it's important. The thought of filling her up with it, making her ripe with it. Jesus it's too much. He thinks of his tongue plunging in her mouth, of his cock plundering her cunt, raw flesh against raw flesh, his cells being swept away, flooding through her, past all her defences, into her bloodstream, overwhelming her immune system by sheer force of numbers, making it bow down in recognition, so that every cell of her body accepts him, just as his body accepts every last particle of her.

"The troll hammer. Spike!"

"Uh? Oh yeah. Must be at the shop. We dumped it there Took four of us. After. uh, after Glory."

He thinks of lying in her bed, limbs tangled together in a cosy twilight world. Whispering under the covers like children, pressing his face into her breasts, telling her stuff about his life and his unlife, stuff that he still can't think about without his demon snarling up like a whipped dog. Thinks how he'll spill out his secrets and spill himself into her. How the secrets will melt to nothing as he slips from one safe haven to another.

"Maybe Anya took it." She wants to know what he thinks. "Giles said she took lots of stuff from the shop." She stares at him. All business. You be all business baby. I'll just lean against this wall and you take charge. You want to see the power you've got? Do it to me. Do what I just did. C'mon Buffy. Please..

"Spike! Anya. Troll hammer. Do you think she took it?"

So hard to stop thinking with his dick but she's not letting up. He tries to summon his brain back into play. "Uh? No. No way," he says. "There's no way that stick insect could pick it up and run with it."

"Good," says Buffy and gives him a shove, and now they're outside and running. And he knows he's meant to be thinking about whatever she's -- bloody hell what is she thinking about? But he's got his own concerns. Like how they fit together. Like the head of his cock pressing hard against her, deep in a place that makes them both gasp. Her cervix nudging against his shaft like a reminder of something important. He's thinking about how at the base of his cock and under his hand, she answers to every shift of his weight, every brief withdrawal, every returning thrust. Thinks how she pulses and throbs. Remembers glancing down at her breasts. His now. And back at her face. So open and vulnerable, telling him what he means to her, how he makes her feel. Her eyes promising that any moment now she's going come to him. And then she's coming and coming into his hand, onto his cock, full on naked soul girl in front of his eyes.

She smashes the door in with a single kick, tears headlong through the shop, snapping on lights as she goes. Piles down the stairs to the cellar.

"Oh thank fuck it's here!" And he's momentarily disconcerted because it's not like her to swear. She picks up the hammer, runs back up the stair to him, swinging it like a toy, It never fails to amaze him how strong she is.

But I can break you right open. Gonna do it gently baby, again and again. Never gonna hurt you. Just want to lay you completely open baby, because words aren't enough.

"Spike!" she yells and flings the hammer down at his feet. "Please! Spike!" And shit she's got tears in her eyes. Something's wrong. He snaps to attention just as she smacks him across the face.

"Hey! Hey! We don't do that any more," he yells.

"There's not going to be a 'we' or an 'any more' unless you come back from Lala land right now Spike. You've got to pay attention. We're going to have to fight. We can't lose. I can't lose you."

"Hey," he says, suddenly remembering something important from long ago. "You've gotta go."

"And then what?" she demands. "You jack off down the short, unwindey road to death?"

Well something like that, he thinks. But Buffy's not interested in his fantasies. "We're going to fight this together," she says. "If we have to, we'll go down together."

"You can't, love," he reminds her. "What about Dawn? You can't leave her."

And suddenly her face is a mask of grief. All that pain welling up to the surface again, all that sorrow he's wants to soothe out of her, shag out of her, latch his mouth on to and suck out of her. "I have to," she sobs. "Don't you see I have to? You're everything to me. I can't lose you."

How many blows does it take to bring down a slayer? he thinks. Just one more. He can see that now. One more loss, that's all it's gonna take and that'll be her death wish rattling in the mailbox. She'll pick it up, glance at it and stroll out to the cemetery. Give some fledgling with the soil still damp on him a real good day. Can't let her die like that, alone, without love. Better she's with him. Better he takes her face in his hands, kisses her, shows her how precious she is. Better they bleed to death together. And wherefore art thou Romeo you poncey prick, he tells himself. You think you're in some overblown Shakespearean tragedy? This is the Hellmouth. You'll probably die at opposite ends of the room choking on your own vomit. Even so, it's better.

"OK, how'dja want to do it? he asks. "Back to back?"

"Yes," she says. "But you need a weapon."

He glances round. The vengeance demon's done a thorough job of ripping the Watcher off lock, stock and barrel. Or rather, stock, features and fittings. Good of her to leave the light bulbs. He sighs, bends down, rips up a floor board. Snaps it in half. It'll have to do.

"How about a last kiss?" he suggests.

"No," she says. "This isn't goodbye."

That's it then. He sends her a silent goodbye anyway: his love, his lust, his needs, his hopes -- everything important. It all belongs to her. Steps behind her. Stands back to back with her in the middle of the shop. Feels her muscles, trip-wire taut against his. The square of her shoulders. The soft tease of her hair against the back of his neck. Gotta concentrate. "Time?" he asks.

"I dunno," she says. "But it's coming. I can feel it."

And it crashes through Giles' plate glass windows right on cue. Small, sharp, silvery. All blades and evil edges, buzzing like an insect and making a bee-line for Spike.

It's 10.45 and he's panicking. Time and hope slipping through his fingers. He feels desperate. They're all desperate. They're up against the wall.

"Magic!" says Tara suddenly. "We're going to have to use magic." And she and Willow throw down the books and start making a circle on the ground. The house is so entirely stripped of herbs and charms, they have to press anything -- everything -- into service. Plants, jewellery, food, ornaments, something of Buffy's, something of Spike's. Do we have anything of Spike's? His clothes. Willow dashes to fetch them from upstairs. And Giles is cursing and rifling through the books like he wants to follow Buffy's example and rip them in two. And Xander's staring at his Swiss Army knife thinking how could you fight this? What would you do? And Dawn's running between them like a games show host, checking how each team's doing. And shit it's ten forty-seven and out of their hands.

Fucking toaster distracting him. He might have come up with something useful if it wasn't for the toaster. He steps across the room, picks it up, thinks about hurling it through the window. Useless lump of trash, filling his head with images of endless piles of toast. Everyday objects running amok. Porridge pots endlessly spewing porridge. Mops and buckets that just won't stop. Things that won't stop. Oh for God's sake, he tells his brain. Stop. This is the Hellmouth, not Fantasia.

"Stop!" he yells. "Tell it to stop! Like the magic porridge pot in the story. Like the Sorcerer's Apprentice."

And Giles throws down his glasses, jumps to his feet. "Of course," he says. "Tell it to stop in Qu'tar, the language of its masters."

And Willow's yelping and diving for the Semiotics. "Get on the phone!" she shouts. And Xander's dialling, all fingers and thumbs. Gotta calm down. Gotta calm down. Shit, misdial. Start again. And he's got a connection. The phone's ringing.

"Willow. Hurry!"

"She's got to trace it back from the symbol to the underlying phonemes," says Tara, as if he understands, as if he cares. Pick up. Pick up.

"Nafra!" shouts Willow. "Tell them to tell it Nafra."

Pick up. Pick up. But no-one's answering.

-------------------------------------------------

The thing that frightens her most is its speed. A split second -- and she realises it's going to be too fast for her. And Spike's going to make it too complicated. She's not going to be able to do this if she's got to worry about him. He'll slow her down. So the first thing she has to do is knock him out of the equation. She spins round, grabs him by the hair and hurls him into a corner. That's him out the way for a couple of minutes and she's praying a couple of minutes will be all it takes as she swings back with the hammer. Got you. The machine hurtles across the room, smack through the other plate glass window.

Yay for Buffy. Squash she thinks. I've gotta play squash with it. But it's coming back. It's angry and it's after her.

On the second entry it knows its proper course of action. One target. One secondary. Objective: Disable secondary, terminate target using approved procedures. Execute secondary. Withdraw.

It moves like lightening, at the speed of light. Makes slayer speed look like a snails pace. She swings the hammer, misses by a millimetre and it slices her shoulder. Looping round, on it's way back. And her right arm's gone. Dangling useless, completely not there for her. She can't believe it. Must have severed a tendon or something. You bastard. Still got my left hand though. Don't need two. She throws herself sideways, swings again. And it ducks, diving almost to the ground, skimming her right ankle and she's lost her foot. Can't use her foot, it won't work, won't help her balance. God no. And now she's really angry. Hits it a couple of glancing blows in succession. What she needs is a direct hit, full force. She needs to slam it into the ground. She throws herself at the counter, waits for it. waits for it. sweeps the till full force down the counter as it comes. Bullseye. Grabs the hammer, swings down. Shit too slow. And now she's just trying to avoid it. And she's trapped in a game that she can't win. Tig not squash. Flipping out of its way, landing off balance with her useless foot at an impossibly painful angle. Buying time. For what? There isn't a cavalry. And Spike's distracting her. Taking up too much of her processing time, slowing her down. She's thinking why hasn't he come round yet? What if he comes round and I'm dead? I won't be able to explain that I wanted to protect him. He won't understand. He'll die all wrong. I shouldn't have hurt him. It wasn't loving. He won't understand.

She spins round. Snatches a look. He's slumped against the wall. Calls all her muscles into play. I won't fail you. Swings the hammer wrong-handed but strong. And just as she's entering the flow, feeling the force, the cell phone goes off. She pulls back fractionally. And it slices her right shoulder. She's weaponless. Can't wield the hammer. Can't pick up the phone. And she realises it's playing with her. Picking her off limb by limb. The phone's ringing. She opens her mouth to call to Spike and it cuts across her throat. Cuts her off entirely.

Terminate target using approved procedures.

------------------------------------------

He comes round with a ringing sensation in his ears. Raises his head just in time to see her going down, turning towards him to show him the gash across her throat, the sorry in her eyes. Legs buckling as the machine slices the tendons behind her knees. Slow motion Buffy taking the last step of her dance. Stumbling, falling. Reaching out to him. Broken, useless arms flung out towards him by the momentum of her fall. She hits the floor face first. And he hears it. Hears the thump of her body, the rattling in her throat. Hears her death rattle.

And he's got to be quick. Gotta get to Buffy, gotta be holding her when he goes. But he can't move fast enough. It's diving in, ripping his chest. A whirr of blood and flesh. Fucking practising its calligraphy on his body. Agony. He screams and it flicks away, diving into a turn, coming back to carve him some more. And still there's a ringing in his ears. Cell phone. Fucking cell phone. On the floor beside Buffy. He lunges for it. Pulls it to his face. And suddenly he's so nineteenth century, he doesn't know how to work this. But it's got idiotgrams for idiots and old folk. Telephone receiver, that's the one. He jabs the button and the Whelp's yelping at him, high pitched and tinny. "Nafra! Tell it Nafra." And he says the word.

It stops in mid air, drops like a brick to the floor, bounces once and is still. He hauls himself on to his hands and knees, watches his blood pooling on the floor. Looks at the floor. Doesn't dare look anywhere else.

"Buffy," he rasps. "Tell me you're not dead." No reply. Not so much as a whimper.

So that's it then.

But she keeps a stake on her. Tucked in her waistband. He knows it's there, waiting for him. Calling to him -- Spike! Spike! You got it, love? You kept it for me? Yes. His hand closes round it, caresses her skin. Still warm, she's still warm. He rolls her onto her back. Stretches out on top of her, supporting himself on his arms. Just enough weight to cover her. Doesn't want to crush her. Just wants the last of her warmth. Can't bear to look at her dead, immobile face. Lays the stake beside her head. Rests on his elbows and stares at it. Knows he's howling like a lost dog, bellowing like a fucking bull with its dick in a vice. But part of his brain is doing sums. Gotta do this properly. Gotta end it just right. Has to be on top of her when he dusts. So when they bury her, he'll still be covering her. Inside her clothes, against her skin. Do you love me? Always. Gotta stop making a noise. Someone'll come. He'll have kill anyone that intrudes on him now. He hitches his breath. Forces it down. Focuses on the stake. And then he hears it. Far off, a tiny voice crying, "Spike! Spike!" And for a moment he thinks she's calling to him. Jerks back. Stares at her. Still green eyes, still big with tears. "Spike!" And shit it's just the sodding cell phone trying to get his attention. He backhands it across the floor. Looks into her eyes. Twin lakes, bottomless pools of tears.

That's what he wanted. That's what he was planning to do. Was going to wipe away all her tears. Soothe away her sorrow. Kiss it better. Too late now. But he thinks he'll kiss her eyes shut anyway. Because it's late and they need to go to sleep. Good night Buffy. He's closing his eyes as he leans in and she blinks. Buffy?

He stills himself to a corpse and listens. A heart beat. Sluggish, barely perceptible, like she's slowed her circulation almost to a stand still. Stopping herself from bleeding away. And her breathing's so shallow it's on the edge of hearing, on the edge of existence. She's conserving herself, holding herself just this side of the edge. Waiting for the healing to kick in. And he's ripping off his shirt. Ripping it up. Got the cell phone wedged under his chin. Shouting down the phone as he makes with the bandages.

"She's alive. Put the fucking Watcher on.. Got her tendons. Fucking sliced all her tendons. Hamstrung all over. She can't move. No she can't fucking speak to you. It sliced her vocal chords. Yes. Yes. I'm gonna take her to hospital."

"Where are you?" Giles wants to know, but Spike's already dropped the phone. Buffy's trying to say something.

She rolls her eyes at him. Rolls them backwards and sideways, towards the machine. Yeah, love, I get it. He stands up, lugs the troll hammer over. Just about knackers his back trying to lift it. Drops it on the machine, crushes the shards under his boot. Kicks them around the room.

He scoops her up. Has to gather all her wayward limbs together. She's like a unstrung puppet. Heart's getting stronger though. When he puts his face close to her mouth he can feel the faintest breath. Healing's started. She can move her face.

"Hospital?" She forms a small silent no with her lips.

"Home?" Yes.

And as he stumbles home, bearing his ragdoll redemption in his arms, it suddenly occurs to him that this is a one off opportunity. Never have her like this again, unable to move, unable to speak, totally in his power. He gathers her into him, buries his face in her hair, lips to her ear. Whispers his poetry. Always has to battle with the William tendency, souse it with beer and bourbon, silence it with sarcasm. But he gives in to it now. And when he's through, they're still only halfway home. So he thinks he'll sing to her. Mentally runs through his repertoire. Ramones, Stones, Sex Pistols, Rage against the Machine? Nah. None of them seem appropriate. How about the Buzzcocks, Orgasm Addict? She'd be annoyed. Then he remembers a song from before she was born.

Must have been a big hit some time when Dru and he were on the move. He remembers darkness and driving rain. Windscreen wipers and damp leatherette. Fags on the dashboard. And that song constantly playing on the radio. They were driving through the night, him and Dru, a moment of quiet between one brutal episode and the next. Except for the fucking song on the radio, nothing quiet about that. It irritated the hell out of him. But Dru, love her, always unpredictable, liked it. Fuck knows why. It wasn't exactly her style. Said it gave Miss Edith convulsions, which was somehow a good thing. Kept asking him, was she his heart of gold?

"No princess, you're my heart of darkness. Pass me the map willya?"

And later when Dru slept, a cold corpse across his lap, he snapped off the radio. Thought if he heard that song one more time he'd throw. And then he was driving through the night still fucking humming it, because let's face it the more you hate a song the more it imprints itself on your memory. Neil Young you fucking wanker. You want it? Sod off and search for it then. Quit inflicting your bloody annoying repetitive jingle on the rest of us. But part of him wondered, what was a heart of gold? What would it look like? And even then he knew. Knew the word that best described it. Knew he'd recognise it if he ever saw it. And now he remembers how the thought of it confused him, made him angry. Made him shove Dru back into her seat. Hurl Miss Edith into the back. Snatch up his smokes, light up. Slam his foot down hard on the gas. Impatient to be somewhere, anywhere than where he was.

So long ago.

And now here he is with Buffy in his arms, carrying her home. "I want to live," he tells her. "I want to give. I've been a miner for a heart of gold." Sings her the whole song, because he needs her to know how far he's journeyed and all for her. And her eyes roll up to meet and hold his. Her lips twitch.

"Better not be laughing at me, Buffy," he whispers.

She bats her eyelids at him. As if she would.

Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

When a Man Loves a Woman