Inspiration from Taylor Swift's song "I Almost Do" from her re-released Red Album.

So I said this was possibly a one shot, but here I am already with a new chapter haha. The writing bug has me on a roll! Please let me know what you think, I would love to hear your thoughts.

Set 8 months after Chosen. Spike has already been resurrected, and Buffy is in Europe. Goes non canon away from Angel and the comics. Spuffy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing from the brilliant Buffyverse nor this song.

Chapter 2. Touch Now, Regrets Later

This…can't be happening. No fucking way.

Her mind was in overdrive and could not process it all- this was too much and she was not prepared for this.

The room started to spin as Buffy began to hear a sharp ringing in her ears. Before she could stop herself, her legs gave out and she almost collapsed to the floor.

Spike quickly leaped forward and caught her mid air in his arms, continuing to hold and support her as he slowly stood up with her.

Damn vampire reflexes.

Buffy sucked in a deep breath, inhaling his intoxicating scent that she knew all too well. His strong arms firmly held around her waist, the feel of them wrapped around her raising instant goosebumps across her skin.

This is one hell of a convincing fever dream.

"Love? Are you okay?" he quipped, shock and concern crossing his face.

She peered deeply into his blue eyes, their faces only a few inches away. Her vision was a bit fuzzy, and she definitely did not feel all quite there- after all, this is a dream right? She found her fingers gripping his leather duster.

The blurred lines between if this is reality or if this is one hell of a wine drunk dream had her reeling in confusion.

She was afraid to say anything to break herself out of the most realistic dream of him that she's had so far. She wanted to bask in this dream and not wake up.

"H-how are you here….?" she whispered.

"Well, you see there's this thing called an airplane."

Yup. Must be real. She rolled her eyes and snorted. Fantasy Spike didn't include the sass and only focused on the moans (and inducing her moans).

She didn't realize that while rolling her eyes, she swayed a bit. She was still pretty unsteady on her feet. Her grip on his leather duster tightened.

"Are you drunk?" he suddenly asked, an eyebrow raised.

"No shit, Sherlock. You and your vampy senses could smell me a mile awayyy," she slurred slightly. God, she really couldn't help herself. It was like her mouth entirely had a mind of its own. Word vomit much?

He shrugged and sniffed. "I guess I could have figured that, smellin' like a vineyard here."

And here he stood, looking just as yummy as he did in her dreams night after night. The moonlight cast shadows on his sharp cheekbones, his jawline set as he held her gaze with his signature intense stare. It was impossible not to notice him.

How are you so damn gorgeous?

She found herself shamelessly ogling at him and bit her lip.

Drunk Buffy's inhibitions were tossed to the wind. Sober Buffy would be cringing so hard at this, screaming at her to get her shit together. After all, wasn't she not supposed to feel anything? Here she spent months torturing herself by intentionally not contacting him in order to avoid the inevitable goodbye that would follow.

But Drunk Buffy is in the driver seat this time, so anything she says goes. And after not having sex for months- damn, how long has it been?! - lusty Drunk Buffy was quickly taking over and shoved Sober Buffy aside. There were only so many dirty dreams and cold showers she could take.

Touch now, ruminate in self loathing and intense regrets later! After all, could she really help herself with him looking like that, staring at her like that?

Finer than aged wine…wait what was that saying? Something about wine…but wait, he doesn't age since he's a vampire…She shook her head at herself. These were complicated thoughts to table for Sober Buffy.

She slid her hands across his chest, tracing the muscles underneath his thin black shirt. She breathed him in and licked her lips.

Spike raised an eyebrow at her. He suddenly caught a whiff of an all too familiar scent that was Buffy, and before he could stop himself it made his blood rush down south. He held back a groan and sighed. This wasn't the point of him being here…right? His jeans suddenly felt a bit tight.

"Love, let's get you inside and tucked into bed."

"Mmm okayyy. As long as you're in it with me," she quipped boldly. She flashed him a cheeky grin. Her lust filled brain knew no bounds.

He smirked. For someone who ignored his calls for months and treated him like he didn't exist, she sure was coming on to him strong. Wow, she really is off her damn bird.

"How drunk are you?" he leered, amused.

"Enough to regret this so much later," she shrugged. She was slightly miffed he didn't respond to her invitation to bed her. "But that's for daylight. Daytime Buffy can deal."

"Uh huh. Well, let's get Nighttime Buffy some sleep." Spike attempted to guide her towards the door but she refused to budge, instead occupying herself with tracing circles on his chest.

So yummy. She could just lick him up…

"Buffy…"

She pouted, jutting out her bottom lip in that way that made him fight the temptation to nibble on it. As tempting (and amusing) as this all was for him, she really was drunk off her arse and needed to get said arse to bed. Spike stood there with a pointed look.

Party pooper. Grumbling to herself, she removed her lingering hands from his chest and attempted to stand as firmly as she could on her own. He released his hold on her waist but still held his arm out as a way of support to catch her just in case she came tumbling back down. She swatted his arm away.

"I got this," she muttered, sounding slightly irritated. She wasn't happy that her lusty advances were ignored. "Come inside."

He crossed the threshold of her doorway as she closed and locked the door behind them.

He looked around, noting the sparseness of décor in her apartment. It looked as plain as it does in a pre furnished college dorm, equipped with the bare bones of only essential furniture. The only notable pieces of furniture was the wine rack and liquor cabinet in the dining room, and both seemed fully stocked minus two empty wine bottle slots.

Christ, Slayer…where is your eye for design?

"Would you like anything to drink?" Buffy asked, making her way to the dining room. She consciously did her best to walk steadily on her own, with a slight wobble that concerned him.

"I'll have some whisky if you have any," he shrugged and followed her closely just in case she took a tumble.

She reached into the liquor cabinet and drew out a bottle of Glenfiddich 18.

He raised an eyebrow. That head Slayer income must have its perks to just casually drink from that choice of scotch. He eyed the rest of the selection in the liquor cabinet.

You'd think with that amount of disposable income that the Slayer would do something to spruce up the damn place…at least something for these empty walls…

Much to his surprise and irritation, she opened the bottle and lifted it to her lips, taking a long drink.

"Alright, love. I think that's enough drinkin' for tonight," he reached over and quickly grabbed the bottle from her.

She pouted, trying to shoot him an intense glare that resulted in her squinting. He tried his best not to laugh at her face. Yes, her attempt at intimidation was amusing, but she still had her Slayer strength that could be drunkenly used and cause damage.

She was adorable, with that messy sunshine hair, that scrunched up nose, those twinkling green eyes…

God, I could just kiss that stubborn pout right off your lips. He sighed and took a long swig from the bottle.

"What?" Buffy asked him curiously, dropping her failed attempt at scowling at him. Her tone softened. "What are you thinking about?"

She took a step closer. Her eyes searched his own as she placed a hand on his shoulder. She began to trace circles against the thin fabric of his shirt again, biting her lip as lustful thoughts crossed her mind. Drunk horny Buffy was ready to go, all reservations tossed to the wayside. Her ache for him was becoming too much at this point after months of no sex and countless sultry dreams.

He closed his eyes, breathing in her vanilla and strawberry scent that drove him wild. Her scent was deeply ingrained in his memories. He could practically taste her…Don't. Can't go there.

He opened his eyes and took a step back, away from her touch. "Let's talk in the morning, Slayer."

She stared after him, the hurt unmistakable in her green eyes.

"Buffy," she mumbled.

He cocked his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"You used to…at the end…call me Buffy. Not Slayer."

Things steered in a very different direction and were closely reaching dangerous territory on topics that were way too heavy to discuss with an intoxicated Slayer.

He couldn't respond to that, at least not now.

"Let's go to bed, love," he muttered.

He set the bottle on the dining table and extended an olive branch by reaching for her hand. He expected her to shove him away, to snap out of her drunken stupor and growl at him.

But she didn't.

She seemed resigned to herself, letting him lead her by the hand and quietly followed him down the hallway. He peered into one of the darkened rooms, assuming this was her bedroom given the large bed with her stuffed pig, Mr. Gordo, sitting at the head of it.

Just like the rest of her apartment, her bedroom was incredibly sparse. Mr. Gordo was the only indication that someone even lived here.

Buffy tiredly collapsed on the bed. Spike reached over to gently remove her shoes for her. His quick and nimble fingers worked the laces effortlessly as he slipped off her sneakers. She sighed softly, imagining those fingers working on her in other ways. As he removed her socks, his fingers ghosted her ankles. His gentle touch instantly sent shockwaves through Buffy and she visibly twitched. She blushed furiously, and he couldn't help but smirk at his effect on her.

He grabbed the edge of the comforter and she scooted up into the pillows, moving to let him grab the bedspread from underneath her. He silently tucked her in.

"Spike?"

He looked at her. "Yes?"

There was a long pause. "Do you hate me?"

He stared at her, stunned at the bluntness of her question.

"Never." He moved over and sat next to her on the bed. He reached over to gently touch her arm. "I could never."

"You say that…but I would. Hate me," she whispered.

Something in that broke his undead heart. The fearful look in her eyes reminded him of a child fearing punishment…or being left behind. The self loathing was unmistakable. He shook his head.

"I can tell you that I really don't, pet," he murmured softly. No matter how angry or hurt he was with her, he could never bring himself to hate her. Even at times when he wanted to.

She paused, seeming to consider his response. Based on her glazed over expression, he doubted she would remember any of this in the morning.

"Why are you here, Spike?" Buffy asked suddenly.

He looked away, staring at the blank white walls. If only there was actually something there for him to actually hold his gaze. "Because…Dawn asked me to. Everyone is worried sick about you, pet. You haven't been answerin' anyone's calls." Especially none of my own. He tried his best to shield away the bitterness at the thought of that.

There was no response.

He continued. "Slayer…Buffy…your loved ones are worried about you. I am worried about you. The only way anyone has known you are even still alive and kickin' is by hearing updates from instructors at the academy."

"Look...I know that things have been complicated between us. But none of that matters as long as I know you are okay." He paused, sighing heavily. "Please…let someone in." Let me in.

Silence. He waited for a response.

She snored softly, hugging Mr. Gordo tightly to her chest.

Of course she didn't hear any of that.

Spike shook his head. Figures. Slayer was as drunk as a skunk, staying up any later was not in the cards.

His eyes lingered on her sleeping face, and a myriad of emotions flooded through him as he stared. He couldn't believe it, that he was here with her in person. It wasn't another dream of his that he was indulging in, not another fantasy or walk down memory lane. Here she was, peacefully asleep and holding Mr. Gordo in a death grip.

He fought the urge to kiss her on her forehead and instead grabbed a pillow off the bed, settling on the floor. He reached into the pockets of his jeans and took out his phone to send a text.

'Will need more time here. Will get back to you later on this.'