AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please review. Even suggest. I thought I knew where I was going, but all of a sudden, it came out on paper and was a muddled mess. I think that's how it is in my mind and didn't have the time to be refined.

P.S. I know the writing style is rudimentary. Too many pronouns, useless adverbs, and my sense of descriptive adjectives has failed me all together. All of my verbs have been flanked with a form of "to be" and it shames me. Oooooh, the shame.

Sigh. "Enjoy."

Chapter Five

He stood on the stoop, stoic as ever, his deeps eyes revealing nothing. Buffy, in contrast, nearly bowled Angel over in a very much unexpected hug. His arms went around her instinctively, a part of his brain telling him that he'd never be able to let go.

Sparing him the trouble, Buffy pulled away first, letting his hands cup her elbows. She kept quiet, sensing his need to speak.

"I'm sorry I haven't seen you sooner, Buffy. I know things have been hard." And they had been, assuredly, but life had been no picnic for himself. For now, they were just two people who needed to know it was going to be alright.

His words warmed her and she gave the barest hint of a smile. It didn't quite reach her eyes, though; it made them look wistful and far off, no doubt thinking of times past when things felt easier. No, it hadn't seemed easy then, but now Buffy realized that she had her friends with her to help her through whatever came up. No more. Now she was alone.

Mentally shaking herself back to reality, she invited Angel in.

"You're here now... And it means a lot to me." He paused, looking at her and considering. Finally, he nodded and followed her in, closing the door behind himself.

The sigh of Angel holding her--touching her--left an acrid taste in his mouth. Was this the other half of the loop? First, he would offer her help, second, she would refuse him, and third, she'd seek it somewhere else?

"And Peaches, no less," Spike grumbled before taking a long drag from his cigarette, inducing a much-needed nicotine rush. He hadn't done this in a while, not since he'd been back, anyway; just stand outside her house, not willing to admit to himself his fear of walking in. Doors were not meant for things like him... Too civil.

"Always gotta go for the goodie-goodies, yeh Slayer?" his soliloquy continued, "You know you've never had it as good as me.... Just wonder how long it'll take you to know." With that, he sat himself under the largest tree on the lawn, his back propped against the rough bark. He had a full pack of cigarettes, a brimming flask of liquid courage, and a boat-load of patience. He wasn't leaving until Mr. Soul-Happy left too.

* * *

The words poured from her mouth before her brain could even assess what she was saying. The only way Buffy could be sure it wasn't pointless babble came from Angel's intermittent poignant questions and understanding nods. These only spurred her on further, admitting her feelings of loss and hopelessness as the Scoobies slowly self-destructed, coupled with her regression into not feeling alive anymore. The only person who could make her forget was the one person she wanted to.

Everything which she felt she needed to keep pent up to spare the feelings of others came out--even the story of the hallucinogenic demon which had caused her to nearly kill her friends. Everything, that is, but her sordid "relationship" with Spike. She knew it would be too big a pill to swallow for Angel and she wanted his comfort, not his judgment.

Yes, she avoided the topic of the sex, but blatantly denied to herself what resembled pleasure when she had discovered his homecoming. Some things were better left unthought.

As quickly as it had started, it stopped. There was no more to tell. Buffy felt exhausted, drained, even, but appreciative that she could talk to Angel, who knew her so well.

There was a pause, a moment of peaceful silence. Buffy closed her eyes for a moment, collecting her thoughts which seemed more disorganized now than before the Spill-Your-Guts session.

She never saw the kiss coming until she found herself kissing him back. Her emotional state had put her over the top and Buffy felt as if she were in a haze, a distant spectator of her own actions. Her small hands skimmed over his waist as his supported her back, one resting on her shoulder, the other on the small of her back, keeping her close. He was her protector, her comforter--he was there for her.

Something was off... Missing. It felt natural, but not quite right. Her subconscious searched for the answer as her tongue searched for...

And then it hit her and she pulled away slowly, trying to keep from adding insult to injury. Her hands rubbed his arms in an affectionate gesture as Angel quizzically tilted his head.

"This isn't right--for either one of us," Buffy attempted to explain. "I've had enough comfort sex to last me a few lifetimes--not that there would be any, I know. But still..."

They both stood from the couch and she smiled.

"Thanks for coming when I needed you." He nodded before bending down, kissing her on the forehead and moved to leave. Once he was gone, Buffy slid her feet into her sandals and made for the door. She knew who she wanted to see.

* * *

Buffy didn't have far to look. She had been about to walk down her driveway, heading for the cemetery, before her Spikey-senses (Spider sense... Spidey-sense.... Aw c'mon, throw me a bone!) began to tingle, drawing her attention to the large tree in her lawn. She crept closer, stealthily as possible, subconsciously enjoying the angelic look on his face as he slept, hunkered down into his leather duster. Granted, he had fallen asleep with a cigarette (long burned out) in his mouth, but it added to the general charm.

Still standing a foot away, she nudged his boot with her toe.

"Expected sunrise for the dust inclined: 5:32 A.M," she heard herself say, imitating the local weather-woman. A glacier-blue eye opened, followed by its pair after gauging Buffy's expression. She extended a hand and, after Spike stood, silently led him into the house.

He didn't understand how it happened. One minute, he had been fuming about the Poof-to-end-all-poofs and situated himself under the tree, vowing to keep a vigil until his grandsire left. Then, he had slipped a hand into the left, inside pocket of his coat and unstoppered his flask, taking a draught that would knock the pants off of anyone human... (Explaining the fuzz, actually) The next thing he knew, he was being awoken by the voice which haunted his dreams and plagued his thoughts for more than just waking moments.

And now, it appeared he was walking into her house and...Bloody hell, was Angel still about? Maybe she had told him about their little tryst and was now leading him in to be slaughtered, an ever appealing thought. He sighed resignedly as he crossed the threshold, mentally preparing himself for a wailing.

But Angel wasn't there. The nose knows, you know?

This added to Spike's sleepified confusion as she pulled him up the stairs, turning into her room. He felt like stopping, pulling his hand from hers, and basically throw a fit. About Angel, about her, about them. Anything.

Even more than his desire to throw out some verbal abuse was the burning ache to hear her say--

"I love you, Spike," Yeah. That was it. Where was the difficulty in saying... Oh. Wait, sinking in. Processing... Processing... She wasn't waiting for him to sort through her words, however, and had continued on.

"I don't know why or how it happened, I just know that it's here and I feel it. I'm sick of running, Spike. I'm tired of it all. All I want now is you..." She trailed off, locking her eyes with his. Buffy waited for a few minutes until it became painstakingly apparent that Spike had run out of retorts. The frankness with which she had lain things out for him had finally stunned him into silence. Huh. Imagine that. More effective (cost effective, too) than a muzzle and phoo, the leather ones were expensive, not to mention Hanibal-looking...

The silence stood like a barrier between them, neither one willing to scale the wall for the other side. Eventually, Buffy opened her mouth to say something--anything--and stopped short as Spikes arms suddenly crushed her in a pouncing embrace. His lips were no less savage, demanding everything at once, eloquently stating what the silence had sailed to do.

She pushed herself against his lean frame, both small hands cupping his face, melding his mouth to hers. He began to wander, burning a trail from her mouth to her chin, tracing the determined line of her jaw, suckling the soft flesh of the neck. Her moan was timeless, made by generations of women before her and in the passion of the moment lived on. She inhaled his scent; leather, smoke, alcohol, all blended into the original musk of Spike. That is what was missing from Angel's embrace: it was not Spike.

His line of kisses had led him to the neckline of her tank-top, and just as he began to lift the clingy fabric over her head, she whispered the words which meant more to him than her declaration of love.

"I need you. Oh God, I always need you. Please, don't leave me again." Her words, her pleading, amorous tone, caused something inside him to snap. With a growl, he swept her off her feet and all but sprinted to the bed.

For once, it wasn't about the emotions, those crazy, whirlwind emotions that had Buffy pulling him close and then shutting him out. It was about need--pure, unadulterated, need.

It was different this time. Buffy's mind was not contaminated with guilt around the edges that slow seeped in after it was over. She felt free, alive, and she knew that it wouldn't crash around her once he was gone. There was strength in admitting a weakness; now was the time to indulge it.

In her throes of ecstasy, she said it again, over and over, like a soothing mantra.

"I love you, Spike. I love, need, want you. Please... Just..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes refocusing on her lovers human visage. A hot flash of lightning coursed through her body, but it wasn't just the sex. Something had changed.

Noting the change in her gaze, he tilted his head to the side in a silent question. Was this wrong? He thought it had felt pretty damn... Suddenly, he knew what she was feeling. The battle began in his mind--it had been so long since he had felt the warring halves, he wasn't sure what it was at first. They clashed inside him, the other trying to force its opponent out and be left the victor.

This time it was different, though. There was no winner of the two because, abruptly, there ceased being two. There was only one.

Her question summarized the jolting realization.

"Where have you gone, Spike? William?"