It's the noise that wakes me up. A soft, vibrating rumble just below my ear. I nuzzle deeper into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut, not ready to get up.

The rumbling grows a little louder.

The pillow's vibrating beneath my cheek.

Wait, that can't be right…

I open my eyes, blinking the sleep away. I lift my head.

The room's illuminated by the light coming in through a crack in the drapes, but it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I glance around sleepily, then look down.

My pillow? Spike's chest.

And that rumbling noise? It's him.

He's purring.

Purring.

It's…kind of adorable.

In a vampires-purr-and-that-gives-me-the-major-wiggins kind of way.

I stare down at him, not remembering when he'd gotten back into bed with me.

Granted, he's lying on top of the covers, while I'm under them…so is he technically in bed with me?

Or is he just on top of the bed that I'm in?

And why am I over-thinking this?

I shift to pull away from him, but he has one arm wrapped firmly around my waist holding me in place.

And it's at this point that I realize that one of my hands is resting against his stomach, underneath his t-shirt.

I yank my hand back so fast you'd think he'd burned me, but not before my fingers brush against the cool, rippled skin of his lower abdomen.

I glance up to Spike's face, checking to see if my hurried movement's woken him up.

Nope.

Exhaling the breath I'd been holding, I lean around him to check the clock on the bedside table. Glowing red numbers tell me it's a little before noon.

I shift back a ways, propping myself up beside Spike on my hands, looking down. His arm is still around me, but I'm careful to keep face to face contact to a minimum, even if it would be through the sheet.

My eyes still feel sore and itchy, and I'm sure my face is all with the red and splotchy. Thinking back to the night before makes me feel both embarrassed and sad. There's no immediate danger of tears, though. I think I cried them all out.

Heaving a sigh, I look back at Spike's face. He looks so boyish, all tousled curls and dark, fluttering lashes. His eyes are moving underneath the lids.

He must be having another dream.

I bring a hand up and run it through my tangled hair. I'm in desperate need of a shower. I'd also kind of like to brush my teeth.

I grimace, looking down at my rumpled appearance.

And a fresh change of clothes wouldn't hurt.

As carefully as I can, not wanting to interrupt his sleep, I begin to inch myself away from Spike and down toward the foot of the bed.

The arm around me tightens.

My eyes fly up to his face, but his are still closed.

"Mmm," he rumbles, making that purring noise again, "Dru."

I freeze, shoulders tensing.

Drew?

Who's Drew?

I don't have long to think about it because a second later his lashes are fluttering open and he's looking up at me with sleepy blue eyes.

"Hey." He murmurs, clearing his throat.

"Hey." I murmur back.

We sit like this for a long awkward minute, me propped up on my hands beside him, his arm still draped around my waist.

"I was just, um…" I gesture toward the bathroom.

"Oh," He says, understanding, "right."

He lets his arm fall away from me, pulling it back around to rest on his stomach.

"Right." I push the sheets down, kicking my feet free and scrambling a little too quickly off the end of the bed.

I have no idea why this is so awkward.

I feel Spike's eyes on me as I bend down to grab my bag, unzipping it to make sure everything I need is in there before carrying the whole thing with me into the bathroom.

I've almost made it to the bathroom door when he calls my name.

So close.

I close my eyes, exhale, open my eyes and peak my head around the little partition. "Yeah?"

He's sitting up now, legs swung over the side of the bed. "Uh," he rubs the back of his neck, not looking at me, "probably oughtta be gettin' back on the road as soon as possible."

He looks like he feels as awkward as I do.

I nod, then realize that he isn't looking at me.

"Ok," I murmur, "sure."

I disappear into the bathroom before he can say anything else.

I take my time showering and getting dressed, opting to spend the extra effort to blow my hair dry again. This time when I apply the mascara, I don't feel quite as silly.

It helps to hide the residual puffiness, anyway.

I dig through the bag to find that there's actually more stuff in there than I originally thought. Two more t-shirts, an extra pair of jeans, and I can't help but laugh out loud when I spot the plastic package of cotton underwear.

They're pink with little white hearts on them.

The mental image I get of Spike standing in front of a giant store display of women's Hanes underwear has me laughing out loud again.

Still giggling, I open the package and pull on a pair of the cotton briefs, then put on the same pair of jeans from earlier, deciding to save the others.

I dig through the other t-shirts and pull on a long sleeved hunter green one that's surprisingly soft. Just like the white shirt, it's a little too big.

I wonder absently if Spike ever does laundry, or if he just steals more black t-shirts and jeans as he needs them.

I ask him this when I exit the bathroom.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "I look like someone who does laundry, luv?"

"You don't look like someone who enjoys bad diner coffee." I retort, setting my bag down on the floor beside my bed. "Looks can be deceiving."

My words carry a weight and a double meaning that I didn't intend them to, and an awkward silence descends on us again.

"You finished, then?" He asks after a minute, gesturing toward the bathroom.

I offer him a small, awkward smile. "Yep. I'm finished girl."

And am I blushing?

This is sowiggy.

He gives me a nod and moves toward the bathroom door, but stops just before he goes in, turning back to me.

"That shirt looks nice." He tilts his head to the side, sweeping his lashes up from my toes to my face. "It, uh, brings out your eyes."

He disappears behind the bathroom door without another word.

I stand there, blinking.

I look down at the t-shirt, pinching the hem and pulling it away from my body. Releasing the shirt with a sigh, I look back up toward the bathroom.

"So much easier to talk to when I thought he wanted to kill me." I mumble, dropping down onto the bed.

After Spike emerges from the bathroom, platinum curls once again neatly slicked back, we mostly avoid talking for the rest of the afternoon. It's still super awkward between us, but neither of us brings it up, and I wonder if it's because of what happened last night or if it's something else.

It's during the afternoon of avoiding that I discover Spike has a thing for soap operas.

His favorite is Passions.

We watch several episodes together, the silence only broken when I feel the need to ask him a question. To his credit, he only shushes me twice.

As if we couldn't get any further into bizzaro world.

Around 3:00 o'clock, the silence is starting to get to me.

I toy with the idea of engaging Spike in conversation.

I want to ask him why he's being weirder than usual.

I want to ask him what exactly he's planning to do with me.

I want to ask him who Drew is.

I want to ask him what last night meant.

But I chicken out and get up and go outside instead. I sit on the small cement stoop outside our door, sorting through my mismatched thoughts and soaking in what sunshine I can.

When the chilly December air gets to be too much for my t-shirt, I knock on the door and Spike lets me back in without a word.

By the time the sun starts to set around 4:30, I'm itching to get out, practically bouncing on my heels.

I watch Spike leisurely stand and stretch, walking over to the flip the TV off.

He eyes me, smirking. "You ready to go, pet?"

I roll my eyes. "I've been ready for hours. God, I don't know how you stand being stuck inside all day."

He slips the duster on and picks up his bag, shrugging. "Get used to it, I s'pose. Normally I'm asleep." He gives me a poignant look. "Sleepin' schedule's a bit off as of late."

I can't help the sardonic smile that curves my lips, grateful that the awkwardness from before seems to be petering out.

"Don't look at me, pal. I didn't force you to kidnap me and drive me across the country."

He looks at me, a serious and unreadable expression on his face. "I know that."

The teasing tone has left his voice.

"Um, w-we should go." I stammer awkwardly, gesturing outside.

He doesn't say anything, just pushes past me and grabs my bag from off the floor. He opens the door and storms through it, leaving me to trail behind him.

He's putting both of the bags into the backseat on the driver's side when I reach the car. I have my hand on the passenger door handle when he stops me by saying my name.

"I'll need to feed, luv. Before we go."

I look at him, brow furrowed.

Why is he telling me this?

He shuts the back door and stares across the top of the car at me, eyes dark in the rising moonlight.

"Do you want to go with me, or stay here?"

Oh.

That's why.

"You're asking me?"

He braces both hands on the top of car, looking down. His voice is low. "Know how you feel about it, is all."

I blink at him, confused.

"You...need to feed." I repeat his words matter of factly, still trying to figure out what it is he's asking me for.

He sighs, jaw ticking. "Look, I don't feature leavin' you here by yourself, but if it's too much for you—"

"Who?" I ask, starting to understand.

He looks a little startled but recovers quickly, his tone matter of fact. "Probably another gas station sod." He shrugs, looking at the car. "Need to fill up anyway."

"Are you going to kill them?" I ask, voice quiet and even.

He shifts from side to side, turning his head away from me to look out over the parking lot.

"Told you I wouldn't, didn't I?"

I nod, looking at his profile.

"I'll go." I say, pulling open the door and getting in.

Spike gets in the driver's seat a second later, starting the engine and eyeing me cautiously. I think he's waiting for me to have a meltdown.

I sigh, leaning my head back onto the leather seat. "I'm still not okay with it," I tell him honestly, twisting my head so I can see his face, "but it'd be a waste of time for you to go and have to come all the way back."

We pull out onto the highway and it's at least ten minutes before we come across a gas station. It's bigger than the one before, more cars out in front and parked at the pumps.

"Might try being a little more discreet than last time." I say snidely, looking out my window at the people milling around.

Spike's hand on my arm makes me jump.

I turn around to face him and feel the breath catch in my throat.

His eyes are stormy as they gaze into mine, his expression unreadable even in the fluorescent glow of the gas station. The lights make his face paler than usual, turns his cheekbones to marble, his eyes more robin's egg than azure.

"Before," he begins, brow furrowing like he's searching for the right words, " when I...I wasn't asking if you were okay with this."

He doesn't have to tell me what "this" is.

Asking me if I'd come with him tonight, knowing he'd be biting someone. It wasn't because he'd needed me to give him the all clear.

"I know." I say, keeping my eyes locked with his.

I realize something looking at him now that I hadn't quite grasped earlier.

He'd conceded a lot to me last night. Just by saying that one word. Sorry. Such a little thing to me, but it had been a hard thing for him.

He'd said it, and even if he hadn't meant it, at least not in the way he said he wanted to, it was a lot.

He'd given me a lot.

He isn't ready to give me any more.

And I'm not ready to take it.

More so now than ever, after everything that's happened since yesterday, I don't know what to think about the person sitting across from me.

I have feelings for him. I do.

I just don't know what those feelings are.

One minute, I think he disgusts me.

I think I can't stand him.

And the next he's looking at me the way he is now.

Maybe deciphering my feelings is a job better left for when his eyes aren't burning me into a puddle of Buffy shaped goo.

His hand shifts up slightly, moving to cup my elbow. "I wasn't asking permission."

His voice is barely above a whisper, husky and low.

"I know." I say again, then drop my voice down to match his. "I wasn't giving it."

When our lips meet this time, I'm not surprised.

His grip on my elbow slides up, both hands coming to wrap around my upper arms, anchoring me in place.

This kiss is different.

While there's still the same hunger and urgency now as there was with the last two, it's also slower. Deeper. Almost more intense. Like he's trying to tell me something and he doesn't know another way.

When he inhales sharply and pulls away, gazing down at me with dark eyes, I'm left dizzy and a little breathless. His thumbs rub tiny circles into my arms.

"Okay then."

He squeezes my arms once before jumping out of the car.

It feels like something important has just happened, but I'm too dazed to think about what.

I watch him strut across the parking lot, tossing one last look at me over his shoulder before disappearing into the gas station.

He emerges fifteen minutes later with a bottle of water and something else I can't see.

I peek around him and spot two very white faced employees watching Spike through the swinging glass door. Both look terrified, and both have nasty looking puncture wounds on their necks.

I feel an instant pang of irritation and that same stinging sense of betrayal.

When Spike reaches his hand in the window to drop the water bottle and what turns out to be a granola bar into my lap, I grab his wrist.

"Two of them?" I hiss, incredulous. "You bit two of them?"

He leans his head down so he's eye level with me. When he speaks, his voice is calm and matter of fact.

"Yeah." He says it the way I'd say 'duh'. "Took some from both instead of draining one."

Oh.

I look at him, considering this. I've never thought about the logistics.

With good reason, I tell myself.

I let go of his arm so he can fill up the gas tank. He's humming under his breath when he gets back in and starts the car.

I open the water bottle and take a few sips. It tastes amazing, and I realize I haven't had any water since the pancakes at the diner. I tip the bottle back to my lips and drain half of it without breaking for air.

Spike chuckles. "Thought you might be thirsty."

I nod. "You thought right."

"Usually do, pet." He pauses, eyeing my thoughtfully. "Would've gotten it sooner, but...you forget, right? Been over a century since I've had to think about anyone needin' water."

I finish off the water and lean back in the seat, training my eyes on the empty bottle in my lap, a question coming to mind that I'd considered once or twice since finding out about Spike's not-so-alive status.

"Is it weird?" I ask him, keeping my eyes down, toying with the plastic bottle's lid. "Being dead, I mean."

I wince.

Smooth, Buff.

"Undead." Spike corrects me automatically.

"Undead." I repeat, the word feeling funny on my tongue. I shift my eyes to him just in time to see him shrug.

"Don't feel dead." He says simply. Then quickly, "Or, er, undead."

I can't help but smile.

"You don't act undead, either." I turn my attention toward peeling the label off the water bottle. "Except for the not needing food and water thing. And the blood drinking thing." I frown, adding, "And you know, for the whole not having a pulse thing. So, I guess you dosort of act undead." I glance at him, smiling sheepishly. "I think I had a point somewhere in there."

Spike chuckles, casting a sly sideways look my way. "No worries, luv. Think I get the idea."

It's silent for a bit until I decide to ask him the question that's been niggling at me since this morning.

"Who's Drew?"

I watch his fingers instantly tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning even whiter. His foot hits the accelerator and our speed increases.

Okay, touched a nerve.

"What did you say?"

I can see the muscles in his jaw twitching. He's struggling to keep his voice calm.

Just drop it.

I don't.

"Umm, Drew?" I clear my throat. "You...it was a name you said...this morning. In your sleep."

Even in the dark, I can see his features shift, tensing then relaxing again, his shoulder slumping forward a little. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales, long and slow, through pursed lips.

He digs into his pocket and pulls out his cigarettes and the silver lighter, hastily shoving one between his teeth and lighting it.

It's tense between us as he takes a long drag, closing his eyes on the exhale.

I decide during this moment of silence that if he doesn't want to tell me, I'm not going to press him. Now that we've reached this sort of truce, or whatever it is between us, I'm in zero hurry to piss him off.

Just when I'm about to change the subject to something mundane, like the weather, or how he manages to bleach his hair without a reflection, he answers me.

"Drusilla." His voice is quiet, but easy for me to hear in the small space between us. "Dru. Her name is Drusilla."

Oh.

Dru. Not Drew.

There's a coiling knot tightening in my stomach that feels a lot like jealousy.

But that can't be right.

"Who is she?" I ask without thinking.

I have a feeling I already know. If the knot in my stomach wasn't enough, the way he's said her name tells me the rest.

"Drusilla was…" he sighs, lifting the cigarette out of his mouth, "…is…she sired me."

I look over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Sired?"

He chuckles a little, but it doesn't last long.

"Means she made me, luv. Made me a vampire."

I let the gravity of this sink in, watching him return to smoking his cigarette.

"Oh." I say, ripping into the label I've successfully stripped off the bottle in my hands. "So...she's important then?"

He scoffs, but it isn't malicious. "Important? She's the bloody face of my salvation."

The knot in my stomach tightens into a vice, squeezing a lump into my throat.

I swallow and try to force it back down.

"Stayed with each other for over a hundred years." He adds, a little wistfully.

But my ears perk up at his use of the past tense.

"Wow," I manage to keep my voice level, "that's…impressive." I begin folding the label into tiny squares, laughing awkwardly. "And here I thought nobody stayed together these days."

I wait for him to say something, and when he doesn't I find my mouth opening to speak again before I can think better of it.

"What happened?"

He glances at me, again tightening his grip on the steering wheel. From what I can see of his profile, his face looks almost pained.

I jump to apologize for bringing it up, but he's answering me before I can get the words out.

"She left me." His voice is even, but the pain in his eyes when he looks over at me belies the casual tone. "Decided I wasn't demon enough for the likes of her."

I turn to look at him. "Just like that? After a hundred years?" I frown, feeling a little indignant on Spike's behalf. "Seems…" —fickle, bitchy, stupid?— "kind of unfair."

"Wasn't all her fault." He says gently, sighing, shifting in his seat. "Dru…she's different, yeah? Special. She sees things." The way he emphasizes the word lets me know he doesn't mean visually. "She's also mad as a hatter." He adds, a tiny smirk tickling his lips. "One of the things I loved most about her."

I match his smirk with one of my own. "And they say romance is dead."

His face closes off again and he doesn't respond, just finishes his cigarette and tosses it out the open window.

I'm sort of wishing I hadn't asked about Dru now. Besides knowing that Spike had the Guinness World Record of long term relationships with his insane vampire lover, the awkwardness is back.

Except now it's worse, and I don't know what to do with the feels-a-lot-like-jealousy feeling still burning in my belly.

Less out of hunger and more out of a desire for something to do, I reach for the granola bar and open the package.

"'S just to hold you over." He says, gesturing with his head toward the unwrapped bar. "We'll stop for real food once we get through the state line."

I'd been starving yesterday, but sometime between the crying and the exhaustion and the supreme tenseness with Spike I've lost my appetite.

And gained a pretty wicked headache.

I choke down one bite of the granola bar before wrapping it back up and turn my attention out the window. There's nothing to see, and even if there was, it'd be too dark to make much of it out.

I hear the clicking of the old car stereo and the pounding sound of frantic drums and a wailing male voice a second later.

Perfect.

"Can we not with the punk music." I keep my forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window but turn my face toward Spike. "Don't you listen to anything else?"

He looks at me and says very seriously, "No."

I groan. "The 80s are over, Spike. The Billy Idol look might work for you, but at least update your music."

He raises one eyebrow at me, incredulous. "Update my music?"

I nod against the window, let my eyes fall closed. "It's come a long way. Sometimes it even has a melody and everything."

His rich, rumbling laugh reaches my ears and an involuntary smile curls me lips. A moment later, I hear another click and the unintelligible wailing is replaced by the twang of a guitar. Country. I can handle country.

"That's nice." I murmur, my headache easing a little.

Then the guitar intro fades out and a deep, male voice starts singing.

Baby lock the door and turn the lights down low

Put some music on that's soft and slow

Baby we ain't got no place to go

I hope you understand

"Yeah. Real clever, that." Spike scoffs.

I shush him. "At least you can understand the lyrics."

…'bout this all day long

Never felt a feeling quite this strong

I can't believe how much it turns me on

My eyes meet Spike's.

Just to be your man

It's not the most explicit song I've ever heard.

Not even close.

But something about the implied intimacy in the lyrics, the rumble of the singer's deep voice, the tenseness emanating from the vampire beside me...

We're alone now

You don't know how

Long I've wanted to…

I reach my hand out and flick the radio dial over until I hear the familiar strains "My Girl" beginning on another station.

"I'm not really a country fan, either." I say quickly, feeling embarrassed by my reaction. I can feel the blush staining my cheeks.

Spike smirks at me, leaning down to turn the volume up. "Right. The Temptations it is then."

He manages to make the name sound dirty.

I open my mouth for a snappy comeback, but stop when I hear it.

Spike's singing along. Not just humming, but singing the words, so softly under his breath that at first I wonder if I'm imagining it.

I'm not.

I stare at him, straining my ears to hear, mesmerized by watching his lips move.

About half way through the song, I catch myself leaning over and twisting the volume down a little.

Spike stops singing instantly, glancing over at me.

"No, please." I say softly, leaning back against the cool window and closing my eyes. "Keep singing. It's nice."

There's a brief pause, and I can tell he isn't sure.

But then he's singing again, very softly at first, but it soon gets louder. I keep my eyes closed to listen.

He has a nice voice.

It's not quite as deep as it is when he speaks, but sort of silken and raspy at the same time. He finishes "My Girl", and when I make no effort to open my eyes, he begins singing the next song too.

I don't recognize it, but the words are sweet and simple.

If not a little ironic.

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun...

Here comes the sun

And I say...

It's all right

I spend the next several hours of the drive content to keep my eyes closed, just listening to Spike sing.

Even though I'm pretty sure he knows every song that comes on this particular radio station, he refuses to sing a couple of them. He skips the Beach Boys on account of their being "bloody poofters", and avoids several others on the grounds that they're just too "wankerish".

"Still a sodding demon, aren't I?" He gripes when I ask him why he isn't singing along to "I'm A Believer".

I'm so relaxed throughout the drive that I don't even notice our speed has slowed to a crawl until Spike puts his hand on my knee, shaking me.

"Buffy, luv, open your eyes."

I do, and immediately emit a tiny gasp.

When I'd first closed my eyes there'd been nothing around us on either side but darkness and dead fields. Now, I find myself staring out at a myriad of colored Christmas lights, twinkling and blinking at us through a light dusting of snow. Row after row of lights, artfully strung up along several beautiful Spanish style buildings.

The effect of the display is stunning, and as the car continues to move parallel to the buildings on a side street, I can see that the lights extend about three blocks down.

I tear my gaze away from the spectacle to look at Spike, who's grinning beside me.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"Kansas City." He answers, turning down another road that takes us directly through the center of one of the streets lined with buildings and lights on either side. "Call this the Plaza. String up lights each year round Christmas time." He glances at me, smiling wider. "Like it?"

I laugh, looking back out the window. "It's gorgeous."

And it really is.

Every ornate building is adorned in a different color of light. Some red, some green, others yellow and blue.

And the snow. I haven't seen snow since I was little.

Since before we left New York.

Since before mom.

My eyes burn suddenly, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision.

"'S famous round here." Spike is saying, turning down yet another road with even more lights.

There are tons of people milling around. Families, children, young couples holding hands. Dressed in winter coats and snow boots, cheeks tinged pink from the cold.

The whole thing looks like something off a Christmas card.

"I can see why." I murmur, soaking it all in.

Spike drives down one more street, then pulls into an empty parking space out in front of what looks like a clock tower, dressed in red lights.

He clears his throat. "Know it's not the mountains, but I—"

He cuts himself off abruptly when I turn my eyes to his. In the twinkling glow from the lights all around us, they're back to a deep, almost navy blue. His expression is so open, but also hesitant, more unsure than I've seen him before.

The knot that's taken up residence in my stomach since I first asked him about Drusilla loosens just a little.

I don't think too much about it.

I lean over and press my lips to his.

Spike stiffens under my touch, but relaxes again almost instantly.

The kiss is brief, more a show of appreciation than anything.

When I pull away, I place my hands on either side of his face and whisper earnestly, "Thank you."

He doesn't say anything, just nods, a tiny smile on his lips.

The tender moment is broken by a very loud growl from my stomach.

I give him a sheepish smile. "Guess I'm a little hungry."

I pull my hands away from his face, letting my thumbs graze along his cheekbones before bringing them back to my lap.

"Know just the place."

We pull out of the parking space and start back down the road. I look out the window, soaking in the lights and colors until we turn the corner.

We only have to drive about three minutes before I spot where Spike's taking me. It's another sketchy looking diner with a weird tower looking thing in the logo.

"Winstead's?" I ask, reading the name.

But Spike's already jumping out of the car and heading inside, so I get out and hurry after him.

I may have to have him steal me a coat.

I'm surprised to find we're far from the only people in the diner. Almost every table is full, and I'll admit, it smells incredible.

The hostess seats us at one of the only available tables, a little two seater up against a window, hands us our menus and leaves.

"Let me guess," I say, opening the menu and eyeing Spike over the top of it, "'World's Best Coffee'?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Close. World's Best Limeade."

I blink at him. "Are you serious?"

"As a bleeding heart attack." He tilts his head. "If I could have one, that is."

I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling in spite of myself.

I order a simple house salad with crispy chicken which Spike scoffs at before ordering himself a steakburger "so rare it's bleedin'".

Ew.

He orders a cup of coffee, and "the lady will have a Limeade."

I gape at him, but manage to butt in and ask the waitress for a water as well.

She scribbles our order down and smiles at us before walking away.

I glare at him.

"What?"

"I can order my own drink."

"Never said you couldn't."

I cross my arms. "What if I didn't want a Limeade?"

"Did you not?" He asks, all false innocence and fluttering lashes.

I purse my lips against the smile threatening my feminist riff.

"Besides," he continues just as our waitress returns with our drinks, "I wanted to try some."

She sets them down in front of us, tossing a handful of straws onto the table and turning her back to me, trying to engage Spike in flirty banter.

He barely pays any attention to her, and she soon leaves, looking dejected.

"Not hunting tonight?" I ask, emphasizing the word he'd used the last time around, unwrapping one of the straws and sticking it in the retro green Coca-Cola glass.

He wraps one hand around the ceramic mug in front of him but doesn't take a sip.

"Already ate." He glances over my shoulder in the direction our waitress just left. "Not my type, anyway."

"No," I agree, "you like your women 'dark and twisted'."

I wrap my lips around the straw and take a sip of the limeade.

It's pretty incredible.

Spike smirks at me. "Remember that, do you?"

"I remember a lot from that night." I tell him, taking another sip. Yum. "It wasn't that long ago."

I lean back in my chair and push the glass toward him, grabbing one of the still wrapped straws off the table and passing it over.

He takes it from me, looking down at the green drink.

"No, I guess not." He sets the straw down, deliberately taking the glass and lifting the edge to his lips. "Feels longer."

He sets the limeade back down and pushes it back toward me, pointing at it. "That's bloody delicious."

I laugh. "It really is."

Our waitress returns with our food, and this time she consciously ignores Spike.

We eat in companionable silence for a little while, the fresh greens tasting abnormally good to me, until Spike takes a handful of french fries off his plate and dumps them on top of my salad.

"Hey!" I grab a napkin out of the silver holder on the table and use my fork to brush the offending potatoes off my greens and onto it. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'm feeding you, aren't I?" His expression is serious. "You need to eat."

My first instinct is to snap at him, ask him why he cares.

But the question sticks on my tongue.

Because whether I'm ready to admit it or not, and whether I understand it or not, I realize that he does.

Care.

In what way exactly, I don't know. I'm not even sure in what way he can.

But if whatever way he cares for me can somehow keep me from ending up with Wolfram and Hart, it isn't something I can afford to ignore.

So I bite my tongue and give him a playful but poignant look, gesturing to my salad. "Exhibit A."

He rolls his eyes. "Who goes to a famous burger joint and orders a bloody salad?"

"One who's had nothing but processed sugar and alcohol for five days." I challenge, eyebrows raised.

"Got me there." He pauses, cocking his head to one side. "Still, you should eat more. Growing little slayer like you."

The reminder of everything I still don't understand causes the stomach knot to tighten again.

"I'm not the slayer." I remind him, stubbornly laying my fork down on the table.

"No, you're not. They've already got one of those." He reaches for the limeade glass and takes another sip. "You," he sets it back down, voice dropping to a sensuous purr, "are something far more interesting."

I register the fact that he doesn't use the word "valuable" with a little spark of hope.

I push the salad plate away from me, folding my hands in my lap.

"Yeah." I murmur, not really agreeing. "We just don't know what."

Spike leans across the table toward me. "You know, the best people to ask? Probably the pillocks that are tryin' so hard to find you."

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "Good plan." I say, gesticulating wildly with my arms. "I'll just waltz right in and ask the evil lawyers at the evil law firm what I am that's got them jonesing so bad for me."

He leans back in his chair. "Why not? Bet you those blighters know exactly what's happenin' to you."

"Spike," I sound the words out very slowly, "they're an evil law firm. As in evil. As in probably not a paragon of honesty and group hugs."

"Hey, I never said anythin' about a group hug."

I groan. "Spike—"

"You have what they want, Buffy." He cuts me off, leaning toward me again, all traces of teasing gone in an instant. "You are what they want. To top it off, they need you alive. If you want answers, pet, you can get them." He reaches out and puts one hand on top of mine, squeezing. His voice drops to an urgent whisper, azure eyes searching mine. "You haven't realized this yet, luv, but you hold all the cards here."

I blink at him dumbly, unable to tear my gaze away from the intensity he's leveling at me. I replay his words in my head a few times.

"…you hold all the cards here."

Part of me wonders if we're still just talking about Wolfram and Hart.

For some reason, I don't think we are.

I take a deep breath, eyes glued to his, trying to determine what it is I'm seeing there.

"Spike." It comes out part question and part sigh.

I just want to understand this moment passing between us.

I just want him to tell me what it means.

But he doesn't.

He lets go of my hand abruptly and nods toward my abandoned plate, voice rough when he speaks.

"If you're finished, we should get going. Still have a little ways to go before sunrise."

I dimly notice as we stand up to leave that the waitress hasn't even brought over our bill. Not that it matters.

She should just be glad she isn't vamp chow, I think dryly, falling in line behind Spike as we wade through the still crowded diner and back towards the front door.

We've just stepped outside when something catches my eyes.

There, on the front page of a national paper, tucked inside a metal newsstand, is the bolded headline: FIVE DEAD IN DENVER, KILLER STILL AT LARGE

I step up to the stand and yank the paper out, unfolding it and scanning the story as quickly as possible.

The words blur together, but I easily find what I knew I was going to see.

Neck trauma…massive blood loss…serial killer…throats torn…messages left in the victim's blood…

My hand shakes as I bring it my mouth. "Oh, God."

Spike comes up beside me, wrenches the paper from my hand and gives it a quick once over. If possible, his face pales even further.

"We have to go." He tosses the paper aside and grabs my hand, tugging me in the direction of the car. "Now."

He doesn't even wait for me to buckle my seat belt before he punches the gas, tearing through the parking lot and out onto the street.

"Buffy."

I don't respond.

I'm staring straight ahead, tears blurring my eyes, thinking about the people in the paper.

"Buffy." He tries again, more forcefully this time.

I remain silent.

Five people. Five more people dead.

Because of me.

"Buffy!" He reaches out, turning my face toward his.

I stare at him, wide eyed.

He looks at me, back up to the road, then back to me again.

"Do you trust me?" He asks as we slow down at a red light, his touch light but firm against my cheek.

I blink at him.

"I-I don't know."

It's the truth, and it's all I can manage right now.

He nods, brushing his thumb over my cheekbone once. "Good enough."

He drops his hand, grips the steering wheel, and tears off down the street just as the light turns green.