Curled up in an armchair, hugging a pillow against her chest, a vampire lounging a few steps away, Buffy watched a very boring television show with an eerie sense of déjà vu.

Just like the day before, she had come back from patrol in the small hours of the morning. This time the lateness had been due to repeated interruptions from Spike, who had apparently decided that every vampire turning to dust deserved to be celebrated with a nice kissing session. It had certainly helped Buffy’s motivation, but not her effectiveness.

He had tried to follow her into her room when they had returned to his apartment, stopping only when she had reminded him of the stake beneath her pillow. She could tell he had been frustrated when she had closed the door on him, but whatever he thought, he had kept quiet about it. Even after she had walked out of her room in the early afternoon for a shower and a late lunch before joining him in front of the television he had not said a word. His continued silence was becoming jarring, especially when the show in front of them defied all measures of lameness.

She threw a glance at him, annoyed by his quietness, and discovering with some surprise he was watching her rather than the television. Flustered, she frowned, her body growing tense.

“What?” she snapped.

Her tone didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. “Do you plan to go back to school?”

The question was so completely unexpected that she gaped at him for a few instants before managing an answer.

“I…No. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged as though he did not care, but that did not fool her. If he asked, he had to have a reason.

“Was wondering about those books you took with you. That’s a lot of useless weight to carry around if you were planning to leave town in the first place.”

Buffy’s first instinct was to say that she hadn’t thought when packing her bag, and that she had thrown in everything she could lay her hands on. But if she was honest with herself, she knew it had run deeper than that. Before she had become a Slayer, the only redeeming aspect of school in her eyes had been the social interactions it provided her with. After two years of not attending, it had become something different. Returning there thanks to Giles’ help had brought to her the much-needed feeling that she wasn’t completely out of the world, that she still had a place amongst young people her own age, even if she hadn’t really made friends. It had also given her something to think about other than vampires

“I hoped,” she started, and then realized whom she was talking to. She doubted a vampire would understand her desire to be more normal. “It doesn’t matter. I thought I might go back, but I can’t.”

Spike’s eyes felt heavy on her. If she hadn’t known any better she would have believed he could read her thoughts when he said, not unkindly:

“You can’t because your mother knew to look for you there and she might come back. Is that it?”

Reluctantly, Buffy nodded.

“I still don’t get why you don’t want to see her,” Spike continued as he sat up from reclining on the sofa. “Even if she’s a bitch, you shouldn’t be afraid of her. You’re the Slayer.”

Buffy snorted. He said that word as though it gave her powers that mere mortals did not possess – which was true, she supposed, but it did not help in the slightest when dealing with her all too human parents.

“I’m not afraid of her,” she said. “I just have nothing to tell her, so what’s the point of meeting her?”

Her fists were closed tight when she stood and walked back to her room. If she opened them, Spike might see her hands were shaking. The looks he gave her were too piercing already, and she didn’t want to give him more to notice and think about.

Walking into the bedroom, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it. The first thing she saw was the pile of books and notebooks on the dresser. It sent a pang of longing through her for that almost normal life she had pretended was hers, even for a few precious weeks. Anger rose in her at the injustice of it all. Buffy hadn’t asked for any of it, for her calling and the dreams and the strength and the sheer knowledge that she was responsible for fighting demons. From the first day she had been chosen, she’d been punished. As hard as she’d tried to run from them, to escape, the punishments had kept coming. First the asylum, then her Watcher’s death, those dreary months spent in Cleveland, her stolen chance of normalcy in Sunnydale. Even her first relationship – if she could even call what she had with Spike a relationship – wouldn’t last. She knew it wouldn’t. It couldn’t, not when she still had marks on her throat from his fangs, a reminder of the almost successful attempt at taking her life.

She banged her fists against the door on each side of her before stepping forward with a wordless cry. A swipe of her arm sent the books and notebooks to the floor. A few raging kicks scattered them throughout the room and sent loose sheets of paper flying around her. The click of the latch caught her attention and she turned to the door, furious to see Spike standing on the threshold. She glared at him and came close to baring her teeth. If he even said a word, it was his dust she would send flying through the room.

At the first banging noise, Spike leapt from the sofa and rushed to the Slayer’s room. He had thought she would hide until night fell, seeing how his attempt at prying into her mind had upset her so much. By the time he opened the door, the noise had ceased and she was standing amongst ruined notebooks and pieces of papers, looking at him as though daring him to step in.

“Maybe I should have said that sooner,” he commented with a raised eyebrow, “but me cleaning up your room? That’s not going to happen again. I’m not the bloody maid.”

She practically growled at him. “I didn’t ask you for anything, did I? And you might want to learn the meaning of a closed door. You said it’s my room, so a little privacy would be nice.”

The smile he gave her was his nastiest. “It’s still my place, and closed door or not, I’ll do what I damn well please. If you don’t want me barging in, don’t make enough noise to make me wonder if there’s a chaos demon in here. What the bloody hell got into you anyway? I’ve had my share of insanity with Dru, thanks ever so. I don’t need a repeat every time I mention your bloody mother.”

Spike didn’t know which upset her most of hearing him talk of Drusilla or of her mother. But she was upset, very obviously so as she rushed to him and unexpectedly pushed him out of the room. He grabbed her wrist as he stumbled backwards and she fell with him, landing on top of him. She jumped back up right away and stood poised on her toes as Spike stood more slowly.

“Slayer,” he tried to warn her, but it was useless.

Her closed fist flew toward his face. He evaded by ducking low, and struck back with a swipe of his bare foot toward her leg. She moved back just in time to avoid it.

“Last time we played that game, you lost,” he reminded her. “You’re sure you want a repeat of that?”

Still silent, she spread her feet a little more, securing her footing. Both her hands were raised in front of her, ready to strike. Her eyes burned with a fire he hadn’t seen there since they had last fought in Cleveland – no, even before that. Spike grinned and rolled his shoulders, waiting for the next strike. He didn’t have to wait long.

It wasn’t really a fight, he realized as she sent a volley of punches and kicks in his direction, forcing him to retreat toward the kitchen. If it had been, she would have made contact a lot more, and it might actually have hurt. No, not a fight; a game, maybe, as he had said, or even sparring. Either was fine with him.

He stopped retreating in front of her without warning, and caught her arm as she swung at him. Pulling hard, he twisted her body so that her back was pressed to her front, and dove for her neck. Before he could touch his lips there, she bent forward, pressing her lovely ass up against his growing erection. Distracted, Spike suddenly found himself flying over her and crashing into the sofa’s side.

He threw her a glare and started standing with a growl.

“If you didn’t like the furniture—”

She was on him again before he could finish, hands fisting his shirt and hauling him up and over the sofa. He crashed down half on, half off it. His head banged hard against the leg of the cast iron coffee table and sent that tumbling backwards. When he picked himself up again, the scent of blood was in the air and he didn’t need to touch the back of his head to know he was bleeding.

“Is that the best you can do?” she said angrily, her first words since the scuffle had started. “Are you even trying?”

A flash of heat ran through him and he shifted to his game face without a second thought. She was taunting him, looking at what could be her death straight on and not giving a damn, but wasn’t giving off the same vibes as the night he had almost killed her. She was the one who hadn’t been trying all that hard then, and she was definitely trying now. The question was, what was she trying to do? If she thought Spike would let her trick him into hurting her, she had something else coming her way. If he did that now, she’d never let him hear the end of it. That didn’t mean he would continue playing the role of her punching bag

“Be careful what you ask for,” he said with a flash of fangs. “You just might get it.”

A feint to the right, a jump to the left over the sofa’s back and she was his. She was breathing hard as he held her down to the floor, her wrists pinned over her head and her body trapped beneath his. She struggled, and tried to push him away, but even so he still had the advantage.

Until she kissed him.

Except for the night he had taken her to his flat,  he had always been the one to initiate the first contact, while she merely reacted to it, either by deepening it or pushing him off. Not only that, but he had never kissed her while in game face, certain as he was that she wouldn’t let him. The shock of her mouth caressing his threw him off enough that, with a push of her hip, she rolled him over so that their positions were reversed. Her face over his, she looked at him for a few long seconds, and Spike wondered what was going on through her mind. Cautiously, she let go of his left arm, and brought her hand to hover against his still demonic features. She wasn’t touching him but he could feel the heat of her skin, so close and still much too far. The ghostly caress was as sensual as any he had ever received. Spike remained completely still all the while, unwilling to put a premature end to whatever this was. After the pretend fight they had just had, it was, if nothing else, a surprise.

Her hand finally returned to his, and this time she clasped it, linking their fingers together rather than holding him down. When she leaned down to press her mouth to his again, he was ready and parted his lips to welcome her in. The touch of her tongue was hesitant against his own, even more so when she drifted to carefully explore his fangs. Spike let her do as she pleased, content, for once, to let her take the lead.

She pulled back after mere seconds, much too soon to Spike’s liking. Just as he was about to protest, she rested her cheek against his chest. The next second, dry sobs were shaking her body.

Taken aback, Spike didn’t know how to react and stayed immobile. When the bitter scent of tears permeated the air however, he had to do something. Freeing his arms as gently as he could, he closed them around her and sat up to lean against the back of the sofa. He kept her against him the entire time, shifting her body until she was sitting on his lap, her head tucked beneath his chin.

He didn’t say a word – he wouldn’t have known what to say – and simply held her tighter when she started crying harder.