She was hardheaded and bloody infuriating.

And he loved her like he'd never loved anything or anyone else in his unlife.

"C'mon, Slayer," he growled, pulling her to him roughly, "I can feel it. You know you wanna dance."

She gazed up at him, willful and silent, lips pursed, narrowed eyes looking up at him, unafraid. She never was. Afraid, that is. And it never failed to piss him off. What cheek! He'd killed two of her kind -- had attempted to kill her on numerous occasions -- and still, there she was, staring up at him as though he was nothing more than a speck of dirt on her shoe.

"Lost your shot, pet," he released her, hands folding neatly behind his back as he began to pace, circling her like a peroxide blond buzzard. "See, if you'd said no right off, I might've believed you." His shoulder brushed hers as he passed, examining her still, quiet form as he did so. His fingertips glided over her bare arms and shoulders, gooseflesh sprouting up in the wake of his light, teasing touches. "You think I can't feel it? You think I can't smell it on you? I may have this chip in my head, but you're forgetting one very important thing, here, pet... I'm a vampire. I can scent it on you when you walk into the room, can hear your heart pumping just that little bit faster."

Still, she said nothing. He gritted his teeth against his frustration. So. That's how the little chit was gonna play it, then. Fine. But he wasn't about to make this easy on her, by any means.

Mind games had always been more Angelus' forte -- he knew just how and when to strike, leaving his victims sobbing and begging for mercy -- while Spike had enjoyed the more physical side of things. But since the Initiative had stuck that bloody chip into his head, he'd had to revise his tactics.

Admittedly, it had taken him a little while to get used to it -- talking a nonce down instead of just ripping his head off, like he would have done in the past -- but Spike had always fancied himself a fast learner. And, he had to say, verbal torture had just as much use as the physical kind did. There was something distinctly satisfying about seeing a person's will crumble with a few carefully chosen words.

"People ask mountain climbers why they climb," he began, voice soft, conversational. "They say 'because it's there.' You think it's not the same with you lot?" He clasped both of her arms and pulled her tightly against him, her back pressed against his chest, curvaceous rear nudging the hardness in his jeans. "You dance with the dark every day of your life, kitten. You kiss all the vamps and make them die. And you wanna know what that's like." Spike's left hand crept down her body to clasp her hip, pulled her back against him more forcefully. A gasp escaped her lips, which she quickly pressed together, her eyes pinched tightly shut. "You wanna know what it's like to be bad. Give yourself over to that dark in you and just let it eat you up."

Before Buffy could protest, he continued his verbal and physical onslaught on her resolve, "You want it. You've always wanted it. But no..." he tsked softly in her ear, mocking her, "you can't have it. You're not even supposed to want it. You're the chosen one. You're supposed to be a tight-arsed little goody-goody for the rest of your days, however much time it is you have left." His hand journeyed further, fingers fanning over her lower abdomen as he whispered his poison into her ear. "Or... you can give in. Let the dark get a little taste of you. 'Cause believe me, kitten," his tongue darted out, tracing the shell of her ear. He had to hold back the victorious smirk when he heard her whimper ever so softly. And he relished the shiver that ran through her slender frame from head to toe. "The dark wants a taste of you."

"You may think you can hide it... from Whitebread and the rest... but you can't hide it from me. Every beat of that heart in your chest tells me all I need to know and more." Spike's hand slid upwards, nestling between her breasts, as though to cradle her heart. "You ... want ... me. You've enjoyed the dance, just like I have. You want it to end, just like I do. Don't you? And it can. It can end... right now. All you have to do is say one little word. Just one. That's all it takes."

"No."

"No?" Spike wasn't surprised. Not a bit. Smug little bitch wanted to play, huh? Well, he could play -- for hours, he could. He had all the time in the world. And it was now time to pull out the big guns.

"Riley --"

"--Is no match for you, but you know that," he let his arm drop and began circling again. "All this time, you've been trying to pretend that the superpowers those Initiative docs gave him didn't matter. That you'd love him still... even without them." Spike's boots made not a single sound as he passed behind her. "But now that he's Joe Normal... you're scared. Shit scared some nasty thing is gonna take a chunk out of him and you'll be responsible. He can't keep up with you anymore and try as you might, you can't deny it. It's a fact: he's weak. He can't hold a candle to you. You know that."

"But I lo--"

"You can't call it love," Spike hissed into her ear as he passed. "You can't love someone you pity, that's just how it is. He's not worthy of you."

"And you are?"

"I know what you're capable of. I know your strength -- I know your power. When you fight him, how much do you have to hold back? Half your true strength? A quarter? Less? Aren't you sick of him getting in the way when you're on patrol? That's all he's doing: getting in the way. And one of these days... his harebrained heroics'll get all of you killed."

"Now, let me run this little scenario past you. You've packed it in for the night, no more patrolling, no more baddies left to ice -- and you finally curl up in that big, empty bed... whose is the last face you see?" Spike captured a lock of Buffy's hair in his fingers, brought it to his nose, inhaling its fragrance deeply. "When the dark closes around you... slips inside... who do you touch?" he wrapped his arms around her tightly from behind, both hands pulling her body flush against his. Hands exploring hungrily, he nuzzled her cheek, voice a soft, gritty, whispering growl in her ear. She could close her eyes, she could try to keep him away physically, but his voice -- that voice -- refused to leave her be. "Who touches you, Slayer?"

"And when it's just you..." at these words his hips thrust against hers, almost imperceptibly, "and you're hungry for it... when you feel like you're going to die if you don't..." he had no need for breathe, yet he sighed, cool lips caressing the delicate shell of her ear. The shiver that coursed through her slight frame at his breath almost made him smile. Almost.

"Whose face do you imagine, hovering over you? Who knows just what you like... can give you what you need...? And when you finally let go... when you've ground that edge to its finest, sharpest point," the dulled point of a human incisor grazed her earlobe ever so gently, "and you can't wait any more... when you come... whose name is on your lips?" Fingers smoothing over her throat, becoming familiar with its softness. "You scream it into the pillow. Have to, really. Don't want to wake mum and baby sister, do you?"

"You know," his tone was gentle, but knowing. If it had been any other instant in their history, Buffy would have sworn he was patronizing her, yet Spike's tone remained even and devoid of any mockery. "You've had one of us in bed, before. And you wonder, don't you? Can't help but wonder. Do we all kiss the same way? Do our hands... reach for the same bits of flesh? And what about that pesky soul thing, hmm? How would that make us different from him? And you'd give almost anything to find out, wouldn't you? A vamp sex taste test."

"Don't," she growled, body tensing against his.

"I told you before," he buried his nose in her hair, arms twining around her once more like pale twin cobras, "you wanna hurt me? Go ahead. I'm giving you permission. First shot is yours, kitten. Take it." And when she remained still, his right hand shot up, threading through a thick handful of hair at the nape of her neck, yanking her head back viciously. "You heard me. If you don't hit me, it's no fun. You've gotta fight. Fight me." Still nothing. "If you don't fight, that means you surrender. To me. Give in." He tilted her head to one side, forcing her to meet his steely gaze. "Give in to me."

A sharp jab of her elbow to his midsection distracted him just long enough for her to whip around and bury her fist in his face, sparing not even a single ounce of strength, sending him flying backwards into the wall.

Settling serenely into fighting stance, Buffy watched as Spike dabbed gingerly at his bleeding lip with his fingers. Slouched against the brick wall, his eyes locked with hers, a triumphant leer twisting his thin lips.

"Yeah," he sighed almost blissfully as he rolled his shoulders. Tongue flickering out to catch a droplet of blood from the cut, he rocked back against the wall, pressing his shoulders against it, arching the lower half of his body outward, hips thrust towards her. "Ohh, yeah. That was good, baby. Gimme another."

She stomped up to him, standing toe to toe with the vampire, oblivious to the fact that he was several inches taller than she; once again, she was completely unafraid. He stood perfectly still as she drove her fist into his gut again and his torso caved inward, absorbing the force of the hit. Another punch and another -- and he took every one, barely making a sound as she continued to pummel him, putting forth no effort to deflect her blows or defend himself in any way. When it seemed as though she'd been pounding on him forever -- when at long last, even her highly toned muscles had begun to burn in protest -- Spike chose to make his move. On the next swing, he caught her hand by the wrist, lifting it up and away from him.

"Now... do you see?" There was an almost desperate lilt to his words. He was panting again. He didn't need to breathe and still, he was panting. Spike slid down the wall slowly until his knees met his chest, gazing up at her; a curiously calm expression on his face. Buffy stared at her hand, still clenched into a tight, deadly fist -- it looked so tiny compared to his own much larger hands. Spike gave her arm a slight tug, drawing her attention back to him. She had to hear what he was saying; she had to know the truth, no matter how much it may have hurt or scared her.

"Do you understand me now?" Her eyes were hazy, still unfocused. "The dark is in you. It always will be. Pushing it away will only make it come back twice as strong as before. It's a part of you, whether you want it to be or not. It's a part of you, just like any other. Accept that."

"What?" Buffy scoffed as she attempted to yank her arm free of his grasp. "Give in to the dark side of the force and turn into you? Not of the likely."

"Everybody's got a dark side, Slayer," he replied evenly, maintaining his hold on her wrist despite her struggling. "Don't matter if they're human or vampire, demon or codfish. It's not the givin' in that does the damage, pet. It's denyin' it that's the worst. Just because the dark's there, doesn't mean you automatically turn into a monster. As long as you know that it's there and accept it as part of you, it can never get the better of you."

The realization of Spike's words hit Buffy head on, stealing her breath away, leaving her stunned. She stared down at him, her face blank, her eyes filled with equal parts understanding and horror. And she didn't protest, didn't pull away or move to fight back, when he pulled her down onto his lap.

"And what if you're lying?" Buffy said at last, eyes brimming with suspicion. "This some kinda trick? Another little mind game of yours?"

"I wouldn't lie -- not to you, not about this," with those words, he released her arm. "You still don't understand, do you? We're not as different as you'd like to think. I am closer to you than anyone will ever be. Ever. We're two sides of the same coin. Your witch, the whelp, soldier boy... they've all killed, just like you have. But they're not like you. No... they're nothing like you at all. They don't understand what it's like, do they? Night after night, patrolling, killing, fighting, training. And it never stops, does it? Sure, they kill a demon here and there, but for you, it never stops. It's become a constant, just another part of Buffy Summers' Daily Routine. Like brushing your hair or breathing."

"Why are you doing this?" She was breathless, almost dazed, her voice edged with confusion.

"They all look up to you, don't they? Expecting you to save them from all the baddies under their beds. But you ... you just want to be normal," Spike reached out, brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. The gesture, as well as his expression, was oddly tender. "They don't know what it's like to be chosen. They can never know. You're so busy... lookin' out for everybody else. But... who looks out for you? Who's there for you when you need somebody? Who else knows what it's like to kill, night after night... and never get caught, never win and never, ever lose?"

Spike cradled her face in his cool hands, willing her to meet his eyes, grown dark with urgency. "If you don't hear anything else I've said tonight, Buffy, hear this: knowin' the dark is there doesn't mean you're destined to turn into somethin' like me. You witch'd tell you any day: true magick's neither black nor white and neither is your power. It's only as good or as evil as you want it to be. Whatever you do, don't fight it -- you'll only be fightin' against yourself. It's your nature that protects you, your instincts that keep you alive. Don't hide from what you are. Don't waste all your power, all your strength on wishin' you was normal. 'Cause it ain't ever gonna happen. Don't hide from it... hold it close to you. The one thing that sets you apart from the five billion or more poor bastards on this planet is what keeps you alive. Don't hide from that just so you can be 'normal.'"

Gently, the tip of his index finger, covered with chipped black polish, traced her eyebrow, glided down around her eye, drifted over her cheek, barely touching. Of their own accord, Buffy's eyes fluttered closed at the light, exploring touch, her breath frozen in her throat. She tipped her head in the direction of his hand, unconsciously leaning in to his touch -- bearing her throat to his ravenous gaze. He could see her pulse thrumming just beneath her skin, a crimson siren song, calling to him.

"If I could just..." Spike began softly, his voice a throaty whisper, fingertip following the natural curve of her cheekbone.

Game face coming to the fore, Spike clamped his needle-sharp fangs down onto his already split lower lip, blood trickling onto his tongue. He quickly concealed his true face before the slayer had a chance to open her eyes and lowered his hand. Resting his head back against the brick wall, he carefully cleaned the stray droplets of blood from his lip and watched as she slowly opened her eyes.

She had the good grace to look surprised.

"Don't say I never did anything for you," he said gruffly, moving to stand. She moved off of his lap, shifting to crouch on the pavement, the pole axed expression never leaving her face.

"What exactly did you do for me, again?" Buffy's tone was sharper than she'd intended and she found herself cringing at the sound of it in her mind.

"You'll know when the time comes."


Leather duster swirling around his legs, Spike turned and strode out of the alley.