The Slayer’s body was hot, her arms twisted and trapped behind her against Spike’s chest, her legs spread apart by his. Her breathing was ragged as she continued to struggle. For now, Spike contented himself with holding her to him, enjoying the way she squirmed ineffectually. Enjoying it enough that his cock was straining in his jeans, craving more friction than what the Slayer’s efforts provided. He had been hard throughout most of their fights, but this time was different. He had won. He knew it, but she hadn’t admitted it yet. Of course she hadn’t. The fight had probably been too short for her to realize what was happening.

Only a few minutes, a few measures of that fast-paced waltz they had been dancing for months, and she had given him the perfect opening. It was almost too easy, after all this anticipation, to end it like this. That was probably why Spike hadn’t killed her yet, giving her instead one last chance to escape, if she could only summon enough strength. It didn’t look like she would though, and Spike reveled in the knowledge that she was his, as completely as Dru had predicted. He gave his dead lover a warm thought, called his vampire face to the forefront, and tore into the Slayer’s neck.

Having laid her crossbow on the ground, Buffy grabbed a stake and held it firmly. She hated to even admit it to herself, but Spike was right. Stake and fangs, that was how it had to end. Still, the way he grinned as he approached her, as though already gloating about his victory, left a bad taste in her mouth. She refused to make it as easy as he obviously believed it was going to be.

Her first attack was simple and direct. She lunged at Spike, making a stabbing motion with her stake. He evaded, of course, and his grin only deepened.

“Come on, Slayer,” he taunted. “You can do better than that. Show me what you’ve got.”

The bastard just stood there and waited for her to come to him again. Buffy answered the invitation with a feint and a roundhouse kick. She managed to make contact this time, but Spike rolled with the blow and counter-attacked right away. She blocked his first punch, but the second caught her in the stomach. She dropped back to catch her breath, trying to re-center herself. Spike didn’t give her an instant before attacking again.

They had done this dance before and Buffy had known what to expect when coming here. It made it easier, somewhat, not to listen to the jabs he was throwing in her direction. It didn’t lessen the pain however, and each blow was sharp as a blade every time he made contact with her body.

She had been ready for it – or at least, she had thought she had been ready – but when he finally made her drop her stake and locked her arms behind her, she still felt a pang of shock. She had thought it would last longer than this. Then again, it was probably better that way.

Even now that it was over, she didn’t want to give in too fast and so she struggled in his deadly embrace. A part of her was wondering why he was taking so much time to finish her. When he bit her at last, she was surprised to realize that it didn’t hurt as much as she had thought it would; relief was a blessing.

At the instant Spike’s fangs sank into the delicate flesh of her neck, the Slayer stopped struggling. He didn’t even have the taste of her blood on his tongue yet, but already she was limp in his arms. It distracted him for an instant, enough that she might have taken advantage of it to free herself, but nothing of the sort happened. Securing his hold on her again, he took his first deep pull on her blood. She was as sweet, as strong, as magnificent as he had known she would be, and if possible his cock grew harder as he unconsciously ground it against her ass.

There was just one thing…

In his many dreams of their final battle, when he had seen himself take her life, she had been afraid and pleading, or struggling frantically and cursing him, trying to save herself until the end.

Her heartbeat was calm; calmer than it should have been after a fight to the death or when death was only moments away. And her scent held no trace of fear whatsoever.

She wanted this. She wanted it to end.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. He had seen the same thing happen with the first two Slayers he had killed. In the instant when they should have fought harder than ever, they had given up, and accepted the peace and death he had offered them. But while he had gladly taken advantage of the situation both times before, the idea that this one Slayer would fall into the same apathy angered Spike. She should have fought him back until the last drop of blood had left her veins. Anything else from her didn’t match up. Anything less meant that she hadn’t really tried her best. She was robbing him of his victory. She was robbing him of herself. No more fights, no more games, no more feeling her body against him or her small hands on him. She was giving up, and the hell if he was going to let her—

The detour Spike’s thoughts had taken shocked him enough that he froze, mouth still fastened to Buffy’s neck but no longer drawing her blood.

He had been sure, until that instant, that he wanted her dead. But suddenly, both his body and mind were making it clear that he simply wanted her. He had tasted her, but it wasn’t enough anymore; her death wouldn’t satiate his hunger.

Disgusted with himself, with his treacherous desires, he pushed her away from him. She tripped and fell down to her knees, thrusting her hands forward to break down her fall. She remained like this for a few seconds before finally turning over so that she was sitting on the grass, head tilted up toward him. She brought a tentative hand to her neck and gingerly touched the two bloody punctures there as though to confirm he had bitten her.

Spike’s skin burned wherever he had been touching her and it was all he could do not to grab her again. It wasn’t her blood that he was craving now, though. It was her mouth he wanted, her hot little body against his, beneath his, not fighting anymore but moving with him to reach a victory they could share with the same explosion of pleasure.

“Bloody hell!”

Head thrown back toward the sky, he cried out his frustration and anger.

This wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. He didn’t fuck Slayers. He killed them, and he’d dreamed of killing this one for weeks. That any part of him would want to touch her for anything other than pain…

Raging and cursing a blue streak, he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He refused to even acknowledge to himself how much his hands were trembling as he did so. When he looked down at her again, the Slayer still hadn’t moved. Hand pressed to her neck wound, she was frowning at him in incomprehension.

“It’s all your fault!” he accused her, practically growling. “I was ready to kill you once and for all, just like she…”

Spike’s eyes widened in horror as Drusilla’s words echoed in his mind again.

And then you will take her blood, and the Slayer will be yours. She will taste sweet and strong and you will forget all about Princess.

He had done just that, hadn’t he? He had forgotten about Drusilla, about her death at the hands of the Slayer, about how much he missed her, about the prediction she had made. He had forgotten his Princess, as she had said he would. He had tasted the Slayer, taken her blood. But when she had said the Slayer would be his…she couldn’t have meant…

Shaking his head in denial, he took an instinctive step back. It had to be a nightmare. He refused to believe it was anything else. Dru had to have been wrong, there was no way he would start to believe…

“What is wrong with you?” the Slayer’s voice suddenly intruded on his internal ramblings. “Are we going to finish this or what?”

She wavered a little as she got to her feet, and Spike’s stomach lurched when he caught himself wanting to help her stand. It was worse, much worse than a nightmare. In his nightmares, he was unable to stop Drusilla’s death, but he didn’t betray her by wanting to fuck her killer halfway to death and back.

Unable to say anything or to keep looking at her, he turned on his heel and walked away, cursing quietly in between deep drags on his cigarette. The smoke he inhaled was overwhelming what remained of her taste on his tongue, and it was better that way. He could hear her calling after him, but he refused to listen. His mind was enough of a mess, he didn’t need or want to add to the confusion. What he did want was a drink – or a few of them. Maybe if he got drunk enough, all of it would be nothing but a bad dream once he awakened with a nice hangover.

For one blessed second, Buffy thought that she was finally about to lay down her weapons for good. Someone else would pick up her fight; that was the beauty of the Slayer line.

But suddenly, the peace she so desperately craved was ripped away from her. Spike stopped pulling on her blood, and shoved her away from him. Both surprised and weakened by the blood she had lost, she stumbled and found herself on the ground. Turning over to see Spike and try to understand what was going on was one of the hardest things Buffy had ever done. She felt lightheaded, and coherent thoughts were beyond her reach. All she could think was – why? Why had he stopped? Why couldn’t she rest? Was there something wrong with her, or her blood?

The ridiculousness of that last thought brought some sense back into her. It was one thing to be ready to embrace death; another to blame herself for not being tasty enough for this stupid vampire. Clearly, the problem was on his side, not hers, and she couldn’t help making her tone stinging when she asked:

“What is wrong with you? Are we going to finish this or what?”

With some difficulty, she stood, keeping her eyes on Spike to know if he was ready to start again and end it this time. Under her bemused eyes, he turned his back on her and started walking away. Fast. She could almost have believed he was running away from her.

“Spike! Come back here, you coward!”

If her knees hadn’t been so shaky, she would have run after him. She would have made him finish what he had started.

For the second time in a few minutes, her own thoughts gave Buffy pause. It was ridiculous to think there was something wrong with her blood if Spike didn’t want it. It was just as silly to think of forcing him to kill her. And if her mind was playing such tricks on her, could she trust anything she was feeling? She had made her peace with the idea that her fight was over, she had even experienced a sort of calm joy about it… Had she been deluding herself about that, too?

She was so tired of fighting, night after night, without having anything other than vampires to occupy her mind. This was no way to live, Chosen One or not. There had to be a way to change things. And if Spike wasn’t this way, she had to find something else.