Story Title: Love Hatred

Author: Hawk Martin

Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, Giles, or Spike…but I wouldn't mind it if I did.  At least the Spike bit…

Dedication: To Irish coffee, which inspired me to write this.

A/N: All right, this is just a random humor/angst type of thing.  It's set, probably, around the time where Buffy and Spike first start getting…to know one another better, if you understand what I mean.  And if you don't, I'm sorry.  Anyway, this is my take on how she felt at the time.  Maybe it's a bit AU, but writing from Buffy's POV is new to me so feedback would be nice.

Summary: She tries to convince herself that she doesn't love him. He's icky, he's loud, and he's British--all things that are namely gross in the Buffy Book of 'Things You Don't Want in an Undead Vampire Type of Guy.'

Notes: Italics are sarcasm.  All the rest is blah.

Rating: Pg-13 for swearing and sexuality.

Warning: If you don't like Spike, and don't like Buffy, or just don't like them together, feel free to read anyway.

~"My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep;

The more I give to thee,

The more I have,

For both are infinite."—William Shakespeare~

She tries to convince herself that she doesn't love him. He's icky, he's loud, and he's British--all things that are namely gross in the Buffy Book of 'Things You Don't Want in an Undead Vampire Type of Guy.' She never really followed her own rules, but now that they can help her pathetically weasel her way out into ignorance, she's going to preach those rules, goddamnit, or her name isn't Buffy the Semi-Perky, Over-Worked, Stupid Vampire-Loving, Vampire Slayer.

She really hates that name.

It's his fault anyway. He's all whiskey this and bloody that. She doesn't like those British curse words--they make her think of soiled furniture every time. Sodding...bugger...she shakes her head. Not that it matters--she still doesn't love him. Nope. Not in the least bit.

At least, that's what she tells herself.

Then, by the same token, if she does, she's not about to admit it. Hell no, with a resounding sung by a 20-person chorus, complete with matching outfits. She would just love to see Giles face when she'd walk into the shop, all innocently clad in sexy kitten wear, and mumble with that little smile of hers that she's in love with her mortal enemy, and he just happens to be a vampire too. He'd not only have a heart attack, but he'd also have a violent one with a sword nearby, which is never a good thing.

Or maybe he'd just have a mid-life crisis and marry a bunny. Somehow, Buffy likes the second option.

He's not even good-looking, she tells herself. Not Giles, but...him. God. She's so weak now that she can't even bring herself to say his name--hell, even think his name. It's a stupid one, though. Makes her think of bondage freaks with a fetish for pointy objects and possessed forks. Not that he would appreciate that. Probably would just mumble something about bloody "whatever" and move on. And she would sigh, knowing that he was kind of cute when he did this.

Not that she would ever admit it.

He's not cute like how she wants him to be, though. Not the 'Hello Kitty' kind of cute; or the knight in shining armor, all oiled up and ready to go kind either. He's just sort...rough. Like her, she guesses. He never sleeps, and when he does, it's only after sex. He's cruel, and he thinks he knows her. He thinks he loves her. She thinks he does, too.

Buffy hates it, though. She hates those thoughts, the kinds that are more painful than killing and more seductive than sex. Soft skin, the creamy kind that just gleams in the moonlight. She hates it--all of it. She hates him, his accent, and his love. She hates him more than anything.

And she loves him just as much.

It's not fun anymore--the quip retorts; the easy smirk with a gentle flick of a wrist, until they turn into nothing more than ashes and memory. All she is now is blood; the blood of her mother, her sister, herself. Her black secrets are dirty, so dirty that sometimes even scalding droplets of rehabilitation won't save her. Nothing will.

Except, maybe...him.

Spike.

God, how infuriating he is. He's evil. He's that four-letter word that is feared, and hated, but never understood. He's on the dark side, as if there's some thick red border keeping them apart. As if she knows exactly when to stop because someone's telling her; as if she'd listen. But she doesn't. There's no way to keep them apart, because there's no way to keep them together. They just are.

And she hates that, too.

She hates a lot of things lately. She hates more than she loves and she loves how much she hates. Poor, innocent Buffy is growing up, growing perfect, but becoming evil. That's her reasoning for it. She's just confused and grieving--that's what she tells them. That she doesn't love Spike--he's gross and icky and definitely too pale for her taste--but she needs him to unwind. And maybe that makes her sound like a whore, but the truth makes her sound worse--in love.

She's a vampire slayer. She takes her trusty stake and her adorable charm, and she kills people. Just like that. And the only way she can survive through it all is by telling herself that they aren't people...they aren't even real anymore. She tells herself that they deserve it, that they're evil--just like him. And she's different than all of them.

Unfortunately, she never believes herself.

Buffy isn't stupid; she knows she's lying. She's no different from those prowling creatures, no different from those that find comfort in blood. Damn, she loves blood sometimes--it's beautiful, and milky, and a gentle reminder of suffering humanity. She fucking loves that. She loves killing them and she hates herself for always being alive enough to watch it. But she's still the same--vampires and their slayers have to be. After all, how else would she be able to kill them so well?

She wants to kill him too. Every night, after the sex but before she falls asleep. He always go to bed right after--too tired and worn out. Must be a vampire thing. So she just lies next to him, thinking about how much she hates that bastard. And how much she loves him too.

Yeah, she loves him. And maybe she's even ready to tell him. Maybe instead of fucking tonight they'll hold each other; maybe instead of screaming she'll moan his name, like so many time Spike has done for her. And maybe, now that he's entered the room, she'll be honest.

"Spike?"

"Yeah, Buff?"

"I've got something I want to tell you."