All of Buffy’s frustration, all of her anger and confusion were channeled into a single blow, as accurate as it was fatal. Ashes spread out around her and she absently brushed them off her clothes. She gazed down and saw the specks settle on her boots, gray appearing white on the black leather. She wished her life could still be as easy; black and white had an elegant simplicity to them. She had once known what to do, when confronted with Spike, when only chance had kept her from killing him – or him from killing her.

Now, she didn’t know anymore what to think, feel, or do, and when she looked up to find the glowing tip of his cigarette only a few yards away by the side of a crypt, where his body was no more than a silhouette, she had half a mind to turn her back to him and walk away again. When he had refused to yield to her – she had been so sure he would consent, so sure he would have done just about anything to have her – she had left the apartment, telling him she had to patrol. In truth, it had been no more than a pretext to put some distance between them. She had wanted time to think about what would come next. She still was no closer to an answer than she had been earlier. Maybe it was time to stop running and end it now.

The shift in her body was minute, the barest roll of her shoulders to loosen the knot of tension there, a slide of her left foot to widen her stance, the play of her fingers on the stake in her hand. She knew Spike understood, however, when the red pinpoint flared brightly before drawing an arc in the darkness, the cigarette discarded when he stepped forward. The sight of his long strides, of his coat flaring behind him, of the intensity of his eyes brought Buffy back to their first fights, back to Cleveland. Without realizing what she was doing, she raised her left hand to her mouth and ran the tip of a finger against the scar that marred her lips. The memories of the pain as the tip of the blade had met her flesh, of the blood filling her mouth resurfaced in an instant, and white-hot anger coursed through her.

Spike was close enough that she could see the slow smile pulling at his features, the same smile she had received a few times in the past, usually before he made some kind of boasting comment as to how easily he would kill her. This time again, he didn’t disappoint.

“You’re sure you want to play this game again, Slayer?” He stopped barely two yards in front of her, his posture blatantly casual. She knew he was poised, as ready for this as she was. “I don’t have to remind you how it ended the last times we had a go, do I?”

She shook her head slowly, both as an answer to his question and to push away the memories. Their last fight had ended with her breaking down in tears. The one before that, with his fangs in her neck. This time would be different. This time, she intended to win.

She launched her first attack without further warning.


In the stillness of the night, beneath the cold half-lidded stare of the moon, they were the only creatures still moving. Back and forth amongst the graves, their footing remained steady despite the pearls of dew blossoming beneath their feet. They had done this before, of course, and the steps of this dance were familiar to both of them.

The Slayer’s heartbeat pulsed like a beacon, thrumming through Spike’s body and drawing him closer again and again. Her breathing was becoming slightly jagged; they had been playing for a little while already. Still, her attacks continued to come, unrelenting, and as deadly as ever, should Spike slip up. His own blows, in return, were just as unforgiving. A trickle of blood was sliding from a scrape on her cheek, and only by being at the best of her game had she avoided being more marked so far. Spike knew he would sport a few colorful bruises before the night was over.

They had been silent until now, except for a couple of pointed jabs on each side, but as the Slayer took a few steps back to catch her breath, Spike couldn’t help himself.

“So, this is it, then? We end it with a fight?”

“Why not? It’s how it all started.”

He could hear the edge of determination in her words, but he had learned to read her well enough to realize she was forcing herself to project this determination, and it wasn’t an easy façade to keep up.

“I’m the Slayer,” she continued, falling back on an often-walked path but sounding like she was trying to convince herself rather than Spike. “I kill vampires, I don’t get close to them. Especially not if it’s one who killed Slayers before, and who said he’d kill me.”

She seemed to have rested enough, and she settled into a defensive position once more, waiting for Spike to attack first. Instead of lunging at her, he sat on the cold marble of a headstone. It took him a few seconds to quiet down the flare of guilt her words had brought forth. He had always prided himself on following through with his promises. One day, when he joined his princess in hell, he would pay a hefty price for breaking this one, he was sure of it.

“What about getting close to a vamp who helps you do your job?” He snorted at her blank look. “I haven’t kept a tally of how many demons I killed for you in the past few weeks. Maybe I should have.”

The flimsiest smile ghosted over her lips. “Maybe.”

It wasn’t much. Just a word, not even a full smile. But it gave back to Spike the bit of hope he needed to keep pushing.


Buffy wasn’t fooling herself. It was a step in the right direction that Spike had been helping her with her Slayer duties, but it wasn’t enough. In the grand scheme of things, she knew that whether he killed fifteen demons or fifty or even ten times that to please her, it was nowhere near the number of humans he had killed, not in the last year let alone during his entire life as a vampire.

Still, if he was willing to kill his own kind for her, it gave her hope that he might be willing to do even more. He didn’t give her time to ask again, however.

“We had a fine arrangement until now, I thought. What you didn’t see didn’t hurt me. Why does it have to be different?”

A pang of guilt chimed through Buffy, and she couldn’t help wondering how much she hadn’t seen – and whether she had turned a blind eye on it all, or whether Spike had been discreet while feeding. In the end, the result was the same. She may not have witnessed him killing humans, but she knew, with the same certainty that she knew a stake through his heart would kill him, that he had killed while she had been living with him. She had managed not to think about it until this day, but she couldn’t continue like this. She couldn’t allow herself to be in love with a killer.

It was the first time she had consciously associated the feeling to Spike, and suddenly her legs were threatening to give in beneath her. A little wobbly, she stepped to the nearest tombstone and sat on the edge of it after sparing an apologetic thought for the owner of the tomb. Just three feet away from her, Spike was mirroring her position; she looked at him through brand new eyes. She had come back to his apartment earlier thinking that she wanted him as her lover. Only now was it dawning on her that she wanted more than that – more that she could admit to him.

“It has to be different,” she finally answered his question, “because I want…no, I need to be able to look at myself in a mirror.”

Spike leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees.

“How did you do it until now? It doesn’t have to change.”

“But it already has changed. Until today I lived with you because I didn’t have any other option. I can’t use that as an excuse anymore. I could live elsewhere. I just…I just don’t want to.”

She finished on a whisper, but she had no doubt that Spike had heard all of it. She struggled not to drop her eyes, keeping them instead locked to Spike’s. She could have sworn that, for just a second as he stood, they burned the bright color of amber.


Until this moment, Spike had been sure that the Slayer was trying to play hard to get for the sheer enjoyment of it. But the quiet admission she offered him changed that. Buffy hadn’t professed feelings that Spike himself wasn’t ready to admit to, but she had done even more. With those few words, she had told him that she was thinking at what would happen beyond the fuck they both craved. A Slayer’s life left little place for long-term plans, and yet that was what Buffy was struggling with here.

Standing, he took small steps toward her, tilting his head sideways to look at her. Pretty, pretty Slayer, so fair and small and deadly.

“Do you think it’s easy for me?” he blurted out, biting back the urge to make promises he would regret all too soon.

By the small shake of head and frown she gave him, he could tell that she didn’t understand.

“You said it yourself, I swore to kill you. And instead, I’ve been taking care of you. Wanting you.” He snorted. “Dru might be dead, but she’s not forgiving me for that broken promise, and she’ll never let me forget it.”

Comprehension gleamed in her eyes, as well, maybe, as a glint of pity Spike chose to ignore.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone so brightly honest that Spike could almost believe her. “Not for killing Drusilla, because it was her or me, but I’m sorry I didn’t even imagine you’d still hurt because of it. I guess…I guess I should move out.”

She stood, finally breaking eye contact to slide her stake through a loop of leather at her belt. This was the breaking point, Spike realized. They had fought, they had talked, and he would either make a small gesture toward her now, or lose her.

“I can’t stop hunting,” he said more harshly than he meant to. “I need it, the blood and the hunt. That’s who I am.”

Looking back at him, she gave a small nod of acceptance that urged him forward, however hard the concession was to make.

“But I can refrain from killing.”

She blinked, then frowned. “Is there a difference?”

With a movement slow enough that she wouldn’t think he was threatening her, he reached toward her, pulling at her collar until he could brush a finger to the marks on her neck.

“I drank from you, but I didn’t kill you. Would you believe me if I said I can do that again? If I said I’m ready to hunt humans without killing them?”

“What happened to not paying a price?”

He dropped his hand and smiled grimly. “It’s not what you asked from me, so it’s not a price. More like an offering, on my terms. And it comes with no guarantees. I might slip, sometimes, and stop too late. It’s hard too judge how much it will take to kill someone, it varies with every person, with how strong they are and how much they want to live. I might kill without wanting too, and that shouldn’t be a deal-breaker.”

She gave a half chuckle. “I think you’re trying to give me an excuse to say no.”

“No, I’m trying to get rid of the excuses before you ever need to use them.”

This time, her laugh was more pronounced. Then she stopped abruptly and simply said, “OK.”

Taken aback, Spike couldn’t do more than repeat the word. “OK?”

“I would…I will believe you if you say that from now on, you’ll do your best to feed without killing.”

Beyond those words, Spike could hear more than what she said. It was a bargain they were striking, and if he broke the terms he had chosen for himself, he had no doubt that he would lose her, probably before losing his life too. It was a good thing that he meant what he had said.

She extended her hand between them, to seal their agreement with a handshake. He took it, and used this hold to pull her into his arms. She let out a surprised gasp, but she was smiling when he crushed his mouth to hers, and he wanted to crow to the night and whoever wanted to listen that he had won this battle. That they had both won.


As was often the case with Spike, Buffy wasn’t too sure of what had just happened. They had been standing, kissing with the same passion they had each put into their fight earlier. And now they were still kissing – oh God, were they ever – but she was on the grass, Spike half lying on top of her, resting on his forearm so that his weight felt more comfortable than overwhelming. He was grinding his crotch against hers, and the hardness there sent sparks up her spine every time it pressed against her clit. All she could do was hang on for dear life, her fingers woven through the short strands of his hair.

She was panting when he pulled his mouth away, and it took her a few seconds to notice he was tugging and pulling at the buttons of her shirt, exposing more and more of her skin to the cool night air and his quickly warming hand. The shudder that shook her wasn’t completely due to his light touch.

“Not here,” she breathed, closing her hand on top of his to still it.

A blink brought his eyes back to hers and she shuddered again, this time at the pure heat of his gaze.

“Someone could see us,” she insisted.

With a light laugh, he looked around. “Someone? Like who? You’re the only one with a heartbeat ‘round here, luv.” Even as he finished, a light frown crossed his brow and he glanced around them again. “But I suppose we could take this to somewhere a bit more comfortable.”

A hard press of his mouth against hers, a flicker of his tongue at the scar on her lips, and he was helping her up. She buttoned just enough of her shirt again to be decent while watching, caught between amusement and nervousness, as he adjusted himself in jeans that had never seemed so tight.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he accused good-naturedly.

“Not anymore,” she laughed, and took his hand to pull him back toward his apartment.