AN: So sorry for the long wait since the last chapter. Real life has been crazy, new (better) job, new city, moving-out, moving-in. Been really busy. I hope you can forgive me with this chapter :-)

"Spike."

An electrical crackle snapping through the air was all Buffy got for an answer.

"Spike," she sighed again, wrapping herself deeper into the leather duster he'd lent her. "Not getting warmer over here," she added as a cool breeze blew through her still-wet hair and pulled goosebumps up to the surface of her skin.

"Just need a couple more seconds," the crouched vampire mumbled, not looking away from the sleek red Ducati he was currently trying to steal. Or commandeer may be more accurate, since you could hardly call it stealing when the owner had deliberately left it behind. "T's not like you could catch a cold."

"Slayers can get sick you know. The flu even sent me to the hospital once," she replied, repressing a shiver, not because she was cold but rather because of the memory of what had lurked about in that said hospital.

Her eyes wandered around their surroundings while she waited and unsurprisingly ended up staring in the direction of Revello Drive. The ruffle of the passionate conversations which had broke out in her house after their departure had long ceased to reach their ears, they'd put enough distance between themselves and the confused group they'd left behind. They'd started on foot, officially to look for a house where they could spend the rest of the night, but in truth they'd needed to clear their mind and take some time to absorb it all. Then out of the blue Buffy had suggested a place they could go and- since it was further away from what they'd originally intended- when Spike had spotted the flaming motorcycle he hadn't been able to resist 'taking this baby for a last spin.'

She glanced over her companion's shoulder and watched his busy fingers fiddle with the wires for a while. He chose a brown one that had been burried deeper than the rest then cut and stripped it, using his vampire teeth for an instant.

Buffy's eyebrows twitched at the sight. She knew that neither a shock nor copper poisoning would kill him but still...

"Have you even done this before?"

She didn't mean to offend him, but bare wires were all over the place and the two of them had been exposed sitting ducks for some time now. The quietness of the night was eerie and shadows sometimes shrank, sometimes swelled, thickening as if into a liquid around the edges of the houses around them. All her senses were tingling and alert. They needed to move.

"I'd do a lot better, love, if you-"

The words froze in his throat, body tensing and sharp eyes peering into the darkness. He'd noticed the same thing than Buffy : the subtle stretch of a shadow, somewhere ahead. They stood still for an instant. She heard him sniff the air, and all he could hear was Buffy's heart…and another one. Faster, smaller, barely audible behind the strong beating coming from the Slayer's chest.

As if to ease their minds- and cut the suspense short- a black cat appeared and silently landed on the pavement opposite the street with a graceful leap. Tail in the air and ears pricking, the feline looked as if this was just another hunting night. It turned its pair of penetrating green eyes towards the couple but with little interest. Too big to be preys, too wary to be predators. Soon it undulated back into the darkness, apparently unconcerned by the mass exodus which had affected the rest of Sunnydale.

Buff's lungs let loose the air they'd been holding. For a minute there she had become painfully aware of how unarmed she was. A feeling she really didn't fancy. "Come on Spike, just let it go. It's really not that far away," she pressed. "And we don't actually have to go there, it was just idea, any house will do really... Besides if we want to keep a low profile riding a red bike is kinda a big no-no. I mean, the racket- "

The engine roared throatily into life at this point and Spike lithely rose to his feet, a smirk firmly set on his lips. "Who's bad now?" he muttered to himself, eyes sparkling at the private joke.

Buffy eyed him sternly, her gaze heavy enough that he turned towards her. "I don't know what you're so smug about," she reprimanded as the smell of gasoline stung her nostrils. "The whole neighborhood heard that."

"What neighbourhood?" He put the ignition cover back on so the wires were out of sight again. "Everybody's gone."

"Quit being a smartass. You know what I mean," she said grimly, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. Her eyes were hard as stones, but the oversized duster draped around her shoulders and trailing behind her undermined all credibility she might have had.

Spike swallowed back the smile that wanted to spring to his lips and swung his leg over the bike. "We know for a fact there won't be an attack tonight."

"We don't know that," she argued, trying hard to keep an edge to her voice while every cell in her brain focused on how hot he suddenly looked. The sight of Spike sitting astride an italian engine strapped to two wheels had apparently tapped into an unexpected source of estrogen whithin her. "There's no guarantee it truly was the future that we saw," she kept going in a distracted voice, her gaze trying to settle down anywhere but on him. "And if it was then we've probably changed it already..."

"Buffy," he said, holding back the rest until she finally looked at him again. "It's hardly the time or place to philosophize over space-time continuum, parallel universes, and whatnot. Not a minute ago you wanted nothin' more than to take shelter. Quickest way to do that is to stop arguin' and hop on."

The leather duster creaked as her crossed-arms tightened and she gulped down her pride. Sometimes she hated it when he was right. Not giving him the chance to notice the blush that was creeping up to her face she climbed up behind him, letting out a huff that fanned over his nape and placing her hands lightly on his hips. "We're facing the wrong way," she grumbled, the vibrations of the purring engine between her legs adding to the 'Spike on a bike' fantasy she didn't know she had until now.

Since she couldn't see his face anymore, Spike allowed his lips to curl into a small smile when he leaned the bike over against his left leg. Without warning he twisted the throttle and spun the rear wheel around the axis of his braced leg, slewing the bike in a sharp u-turn and prompting Buffy to reflexively grasp his waist tight. Tyres screeched against the asphalt, spitting out tiny stones onto the road, and they surged forwards into the night.

*-X-*-X-*-X-*

With little taps, nudges, or squeezes of either his left or right arm, Buffy guided him through the town, silently telling him when to turn and where to go. They'd reached the outskirt of Sunnydale, where mansions, villas, and pleasure gardens had replaced the smaller, more modest houses of the city center. They rode through the deserted suburbs of the ghost town, the snarling Ducati thundering through the silence, the large full moon being their only but strong source of light, until Buffy pointed at one particularly imposing wrought-iron gate and Spike skidded the bike to a stop next to it with a finale rev of the engine.

"This' the place?" he asked, reaching behind him to slip his hand inside the pocket of the duster Buffy was still wearing. She let him pull his pack of Morleys out then climbed down the bike and stretched her legs that had been clamped too tightly on either side of the vehicle.

"Yep," she muttered, closing the gap between herself and the gate, gazing through the filigree of ironwork at the Mediterranean-inspired mansion that stood in the distance. The frat house where Cordelia had once dragged a reluctant Buffy. She'd been only sixteen years old at the time, insecure and secretly desirous of attention, swooning over Angel while Spike had been off trying to nurse a sickly Drusilla back to health. A lifetime ago.

While memories of that night painted pictures in her mind, she was adjusting to the nightly silence again; the soft chorus of crickets caressing her eardrums, the familiar sound of Spike flicking his lighter alight in her back.

"Why here?" he queried.

Buffy cast a glance at him over her shoulder. Leaning against the leather seat of the bike, black-jean clad legs crossed at the ankle, the tip of his cigarette glowing bright red as he inhaled... She quickly looked ahead again, kicking herself inside at her inhability to control her hormones, especially since she knew he would have heard the increase of her heart rate.

"I don't know," she replied, swallowing. "Call it nostalgia."

"Nostalgia?" he chuckled. "You find being chained as an offering to a cavernous wall nostalgic? Mmh?"

The double entendre here couldn't be missed. He could either mean the all 'Machida psycho-cult business' she'd told him about, or the time when he had bound her to the wall of his crypt, finally revealing the full extent of his obsession with her.

Buffy shrugged, deliberately ignoring the hint and walked alongside the gate until she reached the boundary wall that surrounded the property, the wall being a little lower than the gate itself. She took a few steps back for momentum. "At least I won't feel any remorse about pawing through their stuff and sleeping in their beds." Without waiting for an answer she suddenly leaped over the wall and gracefully landed in a rolling summersault in the grass.

Spike tucked his cigarette between his smiling lips and pushed away from the bike. Positioning himself directly in front of the gate he sprang upwards to grab the upper edge, slung himself over the top and dropped to the gravelly pathway before joining Buffy's side.

The house was just as big and fancy as she remembered it, though noticeably silent and empty. The white exterior reflected the moonlight brillantly, causing the building to stand out against the dark green lawn. The arches, the balconies, the neatly trimmed bushes, all of it was brandishing the wealth of the owners before you'd even entered the house.

They walked into the darkness shrouding the front door under the arcade and Spike tried the handle. Locked. "Wouldn't count on it," he sighed around his cigarette, lifting the nearest plant pot, "but perhaps there's a spare somewhere-" The crash of the door being roughly kicked-in by an impatient Slayer interrupted him. Eyebrows raised in resigned bewilderment, the vampire lowered the Morley from his mouth. "Or we can do that," he concluded wryly, jabbing the cigarette out in the pot he was still holding.

The inside was pretty dark, but they could still discern the main shapes of the furniture. Neither of them commented on the fact that Spike was able to enter without an invitation. The reason was too depressing.

'This town really is theirs, innit?'

"Right," Buffy said. "Candle hunting mode: on."

"Let the professional handle it," Spike cut in, walking ahead of her and into the nearest room to their right which happened to be a dining room. Buffy followed him as he went straight towards the wooden cupboard that was nestled in the corner of the room. He grabbed the ornate five-branched candelabrum that had been standing there and started to light up the candles with his Zippo. He'd been born to the scent of candles, had lived his human life and a good deal of his vampire years in a world where electricity hadn't been discovered yet. Candle wax was a smell he wasn't about to forget.

"How did you..." Buffy blurted, then turned astonished eyes on him. "You smelled the candles?"

Illuminated by the warm glow of the flames, his lips cocked at one corner into a small smirk. "You don't wanna know all the things I can smell, Kitten."

Buffy wondered for an instant what he meant then remembered her body's reaction to seing him on the bike and hoped to God that wasn't what he'd implied. Heat flooded her chest and crawled up her neck to cover her face. If Spike had sensed her embarrassment he didn't show it, instead he handed her the now-fully-lit candelabrum and rattled through the cupboard's drawer, spilling more candles onto the top.

"Hum, since apparently you've got this," Buffy wavered, "I'm gonna go see if I can find something to put on. You know, something not wet. Or ripped." I need to stop talking now.

"Sure," he acknowledged absently, focused on his task.

Buffy stiffly nodded, feeling slightly awkward as she left the room. In the profound silence of the house she could hear her damp shoes squish with each step. The candles she held cast long shadows as she ventured through the corridors. Framed black and white photographs peppered the walls here and there, expensive-looking oriental carpets covered the dark glossy hardwood floor, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. All in impersonal opulence.

She passed a pair of french doors and found herself in what she remembered as the main living room. The furniture had changed. Buffy had vaguely heard that the house had been confiscated from the fraterny and bought by some rich familly. Nevertheless she decided the style had remained the same as she noticed the fireplace mantelpiece and the cups and trophies displayed with ostentatious pretension on it.

She slipped out of Spike's duster, slung it over the back of the nearest armchair, and started up the stairs she knew led to the bedrooms. She avoided the one where she'd hauled her drugged body that night when the house had been filled with devil-worshiping frat boys, tried another bedroom which closets had been stripped empty, then a second one that contained only men's clothes far too big for her, and it was in the third room that she found some pieces- scattered over the bed, a mark of the owners precipitated departure- that could suit her.

Feminine silk shirts, pencil skirts, pants that weren't her size and would hang too low on her hips... She eventually settled for a long, satin, black cocktail dress. At least she believed it was black; it was hard to tell with so little light. Dark red maybe. She wished she could have found something less formal, but it was the only dress she had dug out that wasn't in velvet, sparkling with tiny shiny stones, or exposing vertiginous cleavage. It was the simplest one that had been left here, still probably ten times more expensive than anything she'd ever had in her wardrobe.

She made her way to a bathroom, laid the candleholder one the vanity top, and vigorously rubbed dry her messy hair with a towel. The dark little spot on the side of her throat caught her attention and Buffy pulled her hair on the other side of her neck. She drew close to the miror, watching her own fingers brush against the bite mark that was already half healed.

Another scar that would constantly remind her that she wasn't quite human herself.

*-X-*-X-*-X-*

Spike placed the last candle on the black lacquered coffee table that occupied the center of the room and straightened up to admire his work. He'd gotten his hands on quite a few candles in the end, but more importantly he'd managed to turn on the gas fireplace, and the living room was flickering with a golden haze.

The vintage walnut cabinet he'd already noticed drew his attention again. He ambled towards it, opened the stained glass doors, and eyed the crystal carafes that lay there. He withdrew an angular one that was half filled with a dark amber liquid, lifted the lid, and raised it to his nose. A strong, sweetly pungent scent of nuts and cherry invaded his sensitive nostrils and his eyes all but rolled back in their sockets. He hummed outloud and his mouth flooded with saliva. A good old scotch, single malt- he could tell- and probably thirty or more years old. Liquid gold. Vastly superior (incomparable really) to the cheap scorching bourbon he was used to.

Snatching up a glass he poured himself a generous amount and put the carafe back on its shelf before continuing his exploration of the room. Small dust-free circles on shelves indicated that bibelots were missing, grabbed in a haste during the suitcase-packing, car-loading frenzy that had taken place here. Portraits of some stuck-up, snobbish family members remained, and Spike snorted at the look of haughty disdain on their faces. As if even the camera lens wasn't good enough for them.

He took a sip of the scotch and had to close his eyes at the mouth-coating sensation, the smoky-flavoured, silky-feeling beverage taking its time to reach his stomach, leaving a smooth trail of fire down his throat. Not as heavenly as Buffy's blood, but damn good nonetheless. He mentally apologized to the photographs, people who drank this kind of stuff couldn't be total knobs.

His wandering about brought him in front of what looked like a portable vinyl turntable. Spike couldn't see any wire coming out of it and he crossed his fingers as he flicked the power button. A small LED shone green, triggering a boyish grin from the vampire. Battery operated! Well, this certainly was the place to be during a power cut.

He wondered why the Hell they hadn't taken it with them while he flicked through the vinyl jackets that were tidily stored on a rack next to the record player. No rock, but a best of Ella Fitzgerald caught his eye. He laid the album on the turntable, gently placed the needle on the black rotating surface of the vinyl, and soon Cry Me a River suffused the air. Ella's effortless stunning vocals washed over him like warm water, completing the cosy, peaceful bubble he was wrapping himself into. With that music in the air, with that taste in his mouth, it was hard to believe they were on the brink of the Apocalypse.

A large leather tufted couch flanked by two matching armchairs were framing the coffee table and facing the fireplace. Spike slouched down on the couch, one arm draped across the backrest, the other bringing the glass up to his lips again, his eyes quickly losing themselves in the bright flames dancing in the hearth.

As far as 'last nights of the condemned' went, this wasn't bad at all.

The house was snug and well-equipped, he was drinking the smoothest, most refined whisky in town (it had to be), the soft warm light was soothing, the couch was comfortable, the music exquisite. And, above all, he had Buffy all for himself. He should have been satisfied, if not happy. Yet he dropped a sorrowful gaze to his glass and the thumb which was absentmindedly running along its rim, and felt his throat constrict in melancholy.

He'd been ready to die for a long time now. Ever since he'd gotten his soul back. He wasn't quite sure what had kept him alive these first few months. Perhaps the wish to do right by Buffy, the hope to finally deserve her forgiveness and regard. He'd been ready to die the day before, he'd been ready to die that very morning. But now? After what he'd shared with Buffy? He wasn't so eager anymore. He wished he could have enjoyed it just a little bit longer...

Pointless, he knew. At that very same hour the next day he would be gone. Burnt to the bone, having taken all of the bat-faced wankers with him. His wish to do right by the Slayer would be granted: he would save her life, and everybody else's.

He exhaled a long, drawn out sigh and took another sip as a consolation. They would have to talk about it at some point, even if he knew she didn't want to. Their knowledge of the battle's outcome changed everything. No one needed to die apart from him, better to safely keep everyone far away from the blast. He could go down there on his own and he would win. In the vision the amulet had started to tingle from the very beginning but he'd tried to ignore it, until its calling had been too strong. He knew that if instead of fighting it he embraced it, things would be over pretty quickly. He would go wherever it was that the amulet would take him, which was definitely not on this plane of existence.

Head leaned against the backrest, he was staring at the ceiling when he heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs. His eyes inevitably gravitated towards her and his mind emptied of thoughts as soon as he saw her. Any worry, any fear he might have had, vanished all at once.

She padded down the stairs in her bare feet, holding the silver candelabrum in her hand, a spaghetti-strap, dark merlot-colored dress loosely wrapped around her slender figure. Thigh-high side slits parted with every step she took, allowing glimpses of her smooth, lissom legs. And with her wild, wavy blond hair sublimated by candlelight, she looked more vampire now than Harmony ever had. A vision, from another time.

The univers' message was clear. 'Here you go. Enjoy it while you can William.'

"I love what you've done with the place," Buffy interrupted the univers as she climbed down the last step.

The tight waist of the dress was accentuating her slim build, with just the right amount of attention to her feminine curves. Folds of her dress caught the light, the glossy fabric changing color as she moved. Black, burgendy, crimson, prune...

"Hum," he started hoarsly, then cleared his throat. "Yeah... I- yeah. Tried my best," he stammered quietly, his eyes glued to her form as she bent over to put the candelabrum on the coffee table and came to stand in front of him.

She didn't seem to mind his unbending stare-which he wasn't even trying to hide- and she glanced down at the glass he was holding. "Whatcha drinking?" she asked prettily, as if she wasn't aware of her exuding sensuality. As if.

Before his mind had the time to form a coherent answer, she reached down and slipped the glass from Spike's suddenly boneless fingers. She sniffed the beverage, and he expected her to wrinkle her nose at the powerful smell, but instead an air of surprised appreciation crossed her features. She took a sip, scrunched up her face for a second, then looked into the glass. "Not bad."

The vampire remained speechless, not looking away from her face, dragging Buffy's gaze up to meet his. Her eyes gradually lost their pretense of casualness, until some intense determination was all that was left in her smoldering irises. Without a word she slightly lifted her dress with one hand and slowly climbed onto the couch, putting her legs on either side of his. Spike tensed, his lung sucking in a breath of air, filling him with her scent, but never broke eye contact. Now sitting astride him, Buffy grazed the rim of the glass against her parted lips before she drained it altogether and leaned in to kiss him.

Spike's lids slid shut and soon he felt the soft pressure of her lips against his. His arms moved on their own accord, circling her waist, and he parted his lips under hers. The taste of scotch pervaded his mouth, he felt the burning liquid flow over his tongue and only then realised she hadn't consumed that last gulp. He swallowed, the intoxicating mixed flavour of Buffy and whisky wringing a muffled grunt from his throat. Losing any restraint, he buried his fingers in the mass of her hair, and greedily drank from her mouth, his loins ablazed. In return Buffy dropped the empty glass, which rolled on the couch to land soundlessly on the thick rug below, and poured her soul into the kiss. A single drop escaped their linked lips, dribbled down Buffy's jaw, and it was quickly licked off her skin by Spike's hungry tongue.

They both slid into dark, hot desire. In a haze of searching lips and twirling tongues, they pressed their bodies together as if they could merge into one. His hands were everywhere, fondling, caressing, exploring, open palms gliding up her bare thighs and slipping under the hem of her dress until they cupped her buttocks. Naked. They moaned simutaneously, Spike feeling more than cramped in his jeans, his head dropping to the crook of her neck, his lips skimming over her pulse.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump...

Buffy leaned her head back in trust- a move utterly wrong coming from a Slayer- and Spike ignored the blood coursing beneath her silky skin, a move utterly wrong coming from a vampire. He raised her up with his hands until his face was level with her chest. The tip of his nose brushed along the v-shape edge of her dress, then over the satin itself to reach the nearest nipple peaking under the thin material. He sighed in contentent, his cool breath tickling her skin through the fabric then pressed his lips against it, the mouthwatering scent of her arousal suddenly thick and heady in the air.

Buffy exhaled unsteadily, grazed his scalp with her nails, and reached between them to pull his zipper down, finishing what she had started in her bathroom an hour earlier. Soon their bodies were joined, Buffy's arms wound tightly around his neck like she were afraid he might disappear into thin air any second, her pelvis rising and sinking at a slow, rhythmic, delicious pace over him. Rising, falling, swiveling, tensing, relaxing...

Their eyes stayed locked together the whole time. While she rocked her hips against his with increasing force, Spike vision narrowed until all he could see was her glowing face, flushed cheeks, parted lips, and the breathtaking pleasure in her eyes. That was how he wanted to remember her. Trusting, intense, magnificent.

His guts burning in blissful fire, he carved this picture in his mind so he would take it to the grave, marvelling over the fact that, for the first time in their tumultuous relationship, they were truly making love.

*-X-*-X-*-X-*

Some candles had burnt out, the rest had become considerably shorter. Their clothes lay in heaps on the rug, their bare bodies lying on the couch, limbs intertwined together like they were the last lovers in the world. The music had stopped, replaced by the soft crackling of the vinyl spinnng idly in the background, and Buffy had finally found sleep in his arms.

She was snuggled up against him and he was holding her close, brushing the back of his knuckles up and down her body. Gently caressing down her shoulder, her arm, the dip of her waist, the hill of her hip, then up again along the flat surface of her belly... He was watching her sleep, soaking up as much as he could of her into his memory, fighting against fatigue as long as he could, until he lost to Morpheus and fell into slumber as well.

AN: Thanks for reading ! Tell me what you think, if you have a minute :-)

PS: I know that this chapter is more of a filler than anything else. Next one will be more centered on the plot.

Title: Dry and Dusty - Fever Ray