Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any of its characters.

"She'll tell you. Someday, she'll tell you." – Cassie Newton

It had been ten years.

Ten years to the day that Buffy Summers learned that she was singularly marked to become a slayer. A slayer. What did it mean to be a slayer? A permanent estrangement from anything normal. And for a fifteen year old, that was…

"Total bullshit." Buffy muttered before downing her drink. The world around her became distorted through the wineglass, an incandescent bubble of lights and blurred faces ever surrounded by the flow of pinot noir and music. Then as her head fell forward and the drink was set on the bar counter, she saw him.

"Seat taken?"

Mute, she gazed after Spike as he slid into the chair and turned to face her. Time had been kind to him, as it should have. There was the brow, perpetually smooth and dark. The eyes, a color betwixt blue and grey that could express so much. The cheek she once held, the jaw she once kissed. And after all that had happened, after all that had passed between them, the first thing that came to her mind was—

"You're still a blonde."

For a second, Spike looked taken aback then broke into a laugh.

"Ah, yeah, I still am." He replied, ruefully tugging at the peroxided hair.

"Where's your coat?"

"Got too old, had to get rid of it." Spike shrugged. "Just have to get used to this now." He gestured to his clothes which, much to Buffy's surprise, were not black and didn't look like they belonged at a rock concert. It was strange seeing him without that leather duster. He seemed—dare she think it—softer. No, not softer. Tranquil. Gentle. Was this really Spike?

She leaned back into her seat.

"You look different." She said after a while.

"Do I really?" Spike grinned. "Does a crew neck and jeans make that much of a change? If I'd known that, I would've started dressing like a pouf a lot earlier."

"No, I mean…" She bowed her head, embarrassed.

"C'mon, just say it." He teased with a trace of lazy arrogance. "I look good."

Buffy just smiled.

A companionable silence drifted in between them, occasionally broken by Buffy circling the base of her glass with the tip of her finger. She knew he was watching her, studying her features and trying to figure out what had changed in the time that had passed.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were still in LA."

"Well, I got a call. Something about a demon that's devouring people, mostly women. I came here only to get preliminary information and send it back to headquarters so a specialist could come back and catch this thing." He stopped before adding somewhat apologetically, "I didn't know you were here in Massachusetts."

Buffy's brows rose. "I live here."

Now it was Spike's turn to be surprised. "No you don't!"

"Yeah, I do." Buffy laughed. "I work from Salem too. There's an organization that specializes in exorcisms so the slaying I do is mostly demons and malignant creepy ghosts."

"How long?"

"Only a year."

"You plan on staying then?"

He saw her head nod slightly. "Yeah…" She paused. "…and I intend it to be permanent."

"Finally settled down, have you?" His voice was kind. "Well that's…that's great, it really is, Buffy. I mean it. I'm glad you got yourself a new place and all."

"Speaking of which, where are you staying in Salem?"

"Motel. Corporate's not too kind about overspending, you know? It's decent." Spike frowned. "Why?"

"Just asking." Buffy replied a little too quickly. She could already feel the awkwardness grow by the second as they sat there, two former lovers going through the formalities of re-introduction like strangers. Where were the stirring words, the passionate phrases when she needed them? What else could she say to the man whom she, if not hundreds of others, owed their lives to?

When she first heard that Spike had been resurrected, she didn't believe it. She wouldn't until she saw with her own very eyes because believing rather than seeing was far more painful. He didn't know it but she had gone to Los Angeles to see him. She had kept her distance by concrete floors and dark corridors but in a sliver of an unclosed door, she caught a glimpse of his face. It was indescribable. Then before she could let herself get away with emotion she turned away and flew straight out of California. He had come back for a reason, had gotten a second chance. There was no way she would let herself ruin his life again.

"You all right?"

She looked up to see him leaned towards her.

"Fine. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

An old annoyance flared up. "Yes."

"Sorry, sorry, just making sure." Spike backed away. He seemed to regret asking the question, even coming here to the bar. "Look, I'll just leave. Didn't mean to disturb you. I was just walking and saw…" He faltered before picking up again. "…I only wanted to say hi."

He got out of his chair. Then he came up to her and she thought for a moment that he was going to kiss her. Instead he put his right hand forward to gather the lighter he left on the counter, his fingers closing in on it and grazing her forearm.

"Goodbye."

He turned to go. She could feel the coldness of his skin seeping in, all the while cursing him for being such a tease, herself for being a fool.

.

.

.

.:*:.

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.

.

When they first kissed, a vague question ran through her mind, a question she always asked yet failed to find the answer to. Why do I keep letting him in?

Their arms stretched and twisted around their backs, trying to hold on to any part that they could. He tucked her skirt above her thighs, his hand reaching down, breathing hard against her neck. She gripped his shoulders then tugged at the hem, pulling it over his head. Reveling at the touch of naked skin, she smiled against his collarbone. Forcing her legs apart, he held her hips as he pushed himself in. Resting his head on hers, breaths coming out in short puffs, he could feel wisps of her hair go moist in sweat.

When he finally came, she reached for his lips and pressed against them until she felt dizzy. Together, they fell back, bodies entwined, and drifted into that semi-consciousness state called afterglow. Hugging each other's nakedness in the dark, they faced each other.

"I hope you won't punch me after this." Spike murmured, his head lying on the pillow. "You always hit me. Why?"

"Because you were an ass." replied Buffy, causing her and Spike to quietly laugh. Her hand crept up to his cheek and remained there. She brushed her forefinger against the bone, letting it travel to his brow and cross over to his temple.

"…why didn't you believe me?"

"About what?"

"The day the hellmouth closed…why didn't you believe me when I told you I loved you?"

Spike closed his eyes. "Don't do this."

"Why?"

"There were a million reasons why."

"Well why don't you start with number one then?"

"Do I really have to explain?" He sounded tired. A minute ago, he had been in heaven. This dark, warm world of tangled sheets and blankets. Her body so close to his, the heavy scent of sex still on her. But now it was as if he was falling slowly into a chasm, a chasm that had been reopened by her painful questions.

"You never loved me the way you loved Angel and the others. You never gave yourself to me. There was no trust with you. I was just there, a convenience, and you told me so straight. I mean, you didn't even come to Los Angeles to see me when you heard I'd come back. But I loved you anyway because I thought, and yeah I was a real prat about it, that you could feel something back."

There was a long silence.

"I did feel something." A voice whispered at last. "And it was love. It was real. You sacrificed a lot for me and my friends. You suffered and you struggled, just like me. I was so caught up with my own sadness that I didn't see it at the time. But I believed in you, I believed that you could be good and I was right."

"Do you still love me then?"

A sigh. "Well…let's just say that if I didn't, I wouldn't have let you touch me let alone in this house."

"Right, cryptic as always." Sarcasm was rife in his tone. "I s'pose you're going to kick me out in a few minutes."

"Actually," Buffy said softly, "I was going to ask if you'd like to stay here while you're in Salem. If that is, you want to." She added on a conciliatory note.

Though she couldn't see it, she knew he was surprised by her invitation. Perhaps even touched.

"…thank you."

"You're welcome, William."

Spike paused. "Buffy?"

"What?" She turned sideways to sleep.

"Do you have a name?"

"Huh?"

"A name…like a…look, Buffy can't be your real name. Were you given something else by your mum and dad?"

"I've been called Buffy since I was a kid."

"I know but you probably have a proper name that you're not telling me. C'mon, spit it out. It's not exactly fair that you get to use 'William' on me."

"Is too."

"Is not and I demand to know what your real name is. It wasn't even on your tombstone you know."

"If you are going to bug me about this all night, go to sleep on the couch."

"What? No!"

"Then stop asking."

"I just want to know!"

"Fine!" Buffy abruptly turned to him. "It's Elizabeth, okay?" She tugged at the blankets then wrapped herself tightly in them, forming a cushiony barrier from Spike.

"Thank you, that's all I wanted." He snapped, going back to bed.

A few hours later as the sun crept back up into the sky and Buffy found herself spooned with Spike, she heard him murmur in what must have been a playful tone, "Good night Elizabeth."

Inwardly kicking herself for revealing her name, Buffy fought the urge not to push him off and retreated back into her coverlets, exhausted.

"Good morning William."