Nevermore, you're welcome to steal my line, but only if it means you'll be writing stuff here again! : )

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When Buffy arrived at Spike's crypt--cold, bedraggled, and terrified--she noticed three things: first, Spike was outside. During the day. Moving back and forth between his crypt and that black boat he drove, his arms full of something she couldn't make out, but was probably either illegal or dangerous. She glanced up at the sky. All right, so the cloud cover was pretty dense, but if he got caught by a drive-by sunbeam after all he'd put her through, she was fairly sure she was going to have to find a way of resurrecting him so she could have the satisfaction of dusting him herself.

The second thing she noticed was that he was singing to himself. And not very well, either. She'd spent just enough time with Giles to recognize it as a Rolling Stones tune. "I said yeah… oh yeah… oh yeah…" Spike crooned, tossing whatever he was carrying into the trunk. "You'll never make a saint of me…" He headed back inside.

The fact that he was singing in the first place, not to mention his choice of music, was enough to startle a giggle out of her. And then, as she drew closer, she noticed the third thing: the bundle he'd been carrying was a duffel bag. And there were a few more in the trunk beside it. She thought she could identify a few of the shapes inside them--books, weapons, alcohol bottles. Spike Necessities. Her heart began to pound. And when he came back outside lugging a tattered suitcase, she suddenly found she couldn't breathe.

He'd sensed her, of course, and even though he'd refused to look at her, the knowledge that she was nearby had been enough to knock quite the hole into whatever enthusiasm he'd managed to muster up. He tried to ignore her, hoping as he ducked back inside that maybe she'd give up on torturing him and just go away. No such luck, of course. When he came out into the rain again, she was standing right next to his car, far too close to ignore. Even with the rain plastering her hair to her head and an oversized raincoat wrapped around her, she was beautiful enough that he felt a stab to his heart. Bitch. And she was looking at him with an expression of such hurt and betrayal that he wanted immediately to make it better, whatever he'd done.

He had to consciously focus on keeping his mouth shut, otherwise he'd have apologized to her, sorry git that he was. And he most definitely had nothing to apologize for. I'm not the one traipsing off to L.A. for a life of hair gel and heroic martyrdom with Peaches.

She might have noticed his face darkening with anger, but she was too busy trying to keep her heart beating through the vise that seemed to have closed around her chest.

"What are you doing?" She was pretty sure she was the one who said it, though the weak, hoarse voice certainly didn't sound like hers. She didn't think he'd actually do it, not again…

"I'm having a sodding tea party, what does it look like I'm doing?" he replied, hurt making his sarcasm even sharper than usual. "I'm leaving, sweetheart. Just a bit too much Hell in the Hellmouth for me these days." What did she expect, that he was just going to hang around and pine for her? All right, that probably was what she was expecting, and with good reason, too, but his little victory over Halfrek had left the taste of power in his mouth. He wasn't anxious to let that slip away.

"Leaving?" she repeated breathlessly, the color draining from her cheeks. He just stared at her, utterly confused. She'd left him first, hadn't she?

Buffy noticed distantly that Spike was goggling at her as if she'd gone completely nuts. She'd been numb at first, but then she felt a slow burn of rage building inside her, getting hotter by the second, growing exponentially until it forced a single word from her mouth:

"No."

"No?" Spike echoed, incredulous.

"No." She shoved him out of the way, ignoring his halfhearted protest, and moved to the trunk, curling her fingers around the first bag she saw. "My father left." She yanked the bag out of the trunk, heaved it twenty feet and through the open door of his crypt. "Angel left." Another bag thumped beside the first. "Riley left." Another. "Giles left." Another, this one landing with a crash that gave Spike the sinking feeling he'd be heading to the liquor store sometime soon. She didn't even notice, slamming the trunk closed, grabbing him by the front of his jacket. "And you." She shoved him up against the side of the car, her eyes burning into his. "Are not. Leaving."

Looking down at her, he realized that even though he had no idea what she was about, some corner of him was cheering her on. He thought that he might love her most when she was like this, all fierce and commanding and take-no-prisoners. But then his pride reasserted itself, and his own temper began to boil over.

"I'm not leaving? What about you? Thought you'd be halfway to L.A. by now," he sneered, curling his tongue inside his lower lip in the way that he knew drove her round the bend.

Instead of hurling back some scathing retort, though, she just looked at him blankly. "L.A.?" What the hell was he talking about? A sudden fear shot through her. "Is Angel all right?"

The name cut him, as always, but he was determined not to let her see it. "You tell me, pet. You're the one buggering off to start a glorious new life with him."

"What?" Now concern was starting to creep through the wall of anger. Had he ingested some sort of weird vampire drug? Been attacked by a hallucination demon? "What are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes, furious that she was making him say it. "I'm talking about you, prancing down here not three hours ago and sharing the happy news that you and Soul Boy are going to be spending the foreseeable future seeing which of you can bore the other more. My money's on Peaches, there, but I suppose you never know." She was still looking at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. A light clicked on suddenly in the back of his brain. Either she was suffering from some sort of Hellmouth-induced amnesia, or…

"Spike." She made an effort to speak slowly and clearly. "I was asleep three hours ago. I went home after I left you last night, and I've been there ever since. Ask Willow. Ask Xander."

That clinched it. "Halfrek," he growled menacingly. A red haze drifted across his vision as he indulged in several vivid fantasies as to what he'd do to the frizzy-haired demon if he ever got his hands on her again.

"Halfrek?" Buffy's eyes grew hard. The only thing that had stopped her from killing the so-called "justice demon" was that she was a friend of Anya's, but she was beginning to regret that decision. "You're telling me Halfrek told you I was leaving for L.A. to be with Angel?"

"She didn't just tell me about you, she was you." He shook his head, scrubbing a hand through his dripping hair. "I knew there was something wrong about her… you'd never have been up so early on a weekend."

"You confused me with Halfrek?" she asked, incredulous. "God, do I just have no personality? Why is it that whenever someone steals my body, no one can seem to tell the difference?"

"I don't think well in the morning!" Spike protested defensively. Then, grasping at straws, "I knew the difference between you and the robot, didn't I?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. Hmm. Perhaps not the wisest topic to bring up at the moment. She took a step towards him, and he tensed immediately, ready to defend, but then she stopped and forced herself to take a deep breath. Fortunately for him, she had bigger fish to fry.

"Why would she do that?" She concentrated on keeping her voice perfectly even.

Several answers came to mind—because she's a raving bitch put on this earth to torment me, for example, though he supposed that description could apply to Buffy, too—but he knew the main reason was simple. He shrugged. "It's her job. She looks for weaknesses, and she takes advantage of them."

"And I'm your weakness?"

Well, she didn't have to look so bloody pleased about it. "Enough with the twenty questions, luv," he muttered irritably. But still, the anger and hurt was beginning to fade under the onslaught of enormous relief, and he remembered something. And one side of his mouth quirked. "Can we go back to the bit where you're not letting me leave?"

Buffy could feel her face turning red, and she cursed the self-satisfied look in his eyes. But she stood her ground bravely, trying to muster up as much dignity as possible despite her resemblance to a drowned rat. "Well, I'm not."

He cocked his head a little, gave her that quizzical look. "Why not?"

He seemed genuinely surprised, and she felt a pang of guilt, though she tried to ignore it. Her brain was babbling away, offering more than a few answers to his question: Because the last time you left, I couldn't breathe right for a week. Because I like the way it makes my heart beat faster, wondering if you'll sneak up and ambush me during a patrol. Because when I'm miserable, you know when to talk and when to shut up. Because you get me, even though it scares the hell out of me. All of those answers, and a hundred more, and she opened her mouth and blurted out, "Dawn."

His face fell, and though he pulled the mask of indifference down quickly, she still had time to see how deeply she'd cut him. Part of her, the running-hiding-hurting-coward part, cheered as it always did at anything that increased the distance between them. But the part that had driven her here in the rain to tell him who-knows-what--that part was frowning disapprovingly. She spared a second to wish that all the various parts of her would just get the hell together and agree on something, but she had a feeling that was too much to ask.

He shook his head, furious at himself for even the bare sliver of hope, started back inside to retrieve his bags. "She'll be fine. Don't waste my time, Slayer."

Shit. He was serious this time, and if she didn't say the right thing, or at least a better thing than what she'd just said, he'd leave. "Xander told me," she tried, which was as close as she could get to what she meant to say.

Shit. He stopped, cursing the whelp and wishing his own right hook had been just a little less inebriated--with any luck, on any other day, they'd've had to wire the boy's jaw shut, and then he wouldn't be in this position. Bad enough she'd de-fanged him; worse that she knew it. He turned back reluctantly. "Told you all about my dark night of the soulless, did he?" He clucked his tongue, sarcasm sour in his mouth. "Never send a boy to keep a man's secret."

Secret? "I would've thought you'd want me to know."

His mouth curved bitterly. "Why?" He threw out his arms, sending droplets flying, and began pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "So I could get the credit? Are you still singing that tune, about how I never do selfless and altruistic and heroic good deeds like you do?" He stopped pacing long enough to glare at her. "Damn right I don't. And I never will, as long as I can help it. I'll take whatever credit's due me, and more if I can." He moved a step closer, and the intensity in his eyes had her retreating a step before she caught herself. "I didn't want him to tell you because you've changed me, and I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing it." He barked a short laugh at the shock on her face. "Isn't that what every woman wants to hear? You changed me, Buffy. Before I knew you, I knew what I was. Now I don't know anything, except that I'm done letting you bloody women--" he spat the word like a curse--"run my unlife. Been doing it for a century and a half, now, and I'm done." He stared her down, fists clenched, oblivious to the driving rain. "You turned everything about me upside down, and there's not much I can do about that," he finished quietly, intently. "But I'll be the one to set it right again. And I'll do it my way."

She watched him, his eyes hot and impossibly blue in that pale face, and she realized he hadn't looked so strong, so determined, since… she couldn't remember the last time, actually. It terrified and excited her, and the excitement terrified her even more. Her heart was pounding again. She wondered if he could hear it. He met her gaze in silence for a long moment, challenging, then, when she didn't respond, shook his head in disgust and turned his back on her, striding purposefully towards his crypt.

Her heart seized, her throat closed, but she managed to croak out, "Wait!"

"No point," he tossed back over his shoulder, his steps never faltering.

Panic. For so many reasons. "Spike, please," she called desperately.

He couldn't help it. His feet stopped moving before he'd even had time to think about it. "Please" was not a word that fell easily from the Slayer's lips, at least not in non-orgasmic situations. So it caught at him, and he stopped. But he wouldn't look at her. "Why?" he asked simply, eyes trained on the ground, waiting for her to run away like she always did.

Jumping off that tower into the portal was a day at the mall compared to this, she thought with a hint of hysteria. "Because… I want you to stay," she forced out, her stomach churning and her palms beginning to sweat even under the rain. She saw his back stiffen, like she'd shot him, but he didn't take a step either forward or back. "Because we're both broken, and as totally bizarre and wrong as it might be, maybe we can help fix each other. Because this thing with us is there, even though we both wish it wasn't, and I'm tired of lying about it. And I'm tired of the angst and the arguing and the drama. I've got enough demons to fight. I don't want to fight that one anymore."

Spike was thankful that his heart didn't beat, otherwise he was pretty sure it would've been knocking a sizeable hole in his chest right about now. As it was, he hardly dared move for fear he'd break whatever spell she was apparently under.

He still wasn't moving. She was baring her soul here, goddammit, how dare he not even dignify her with a response? Especially considering he didn't even have a soul to bare. Typical, she seethed inwardly, feeling the tears well up hot in her eyes. "You made me care about you, you bastard, even though I want to kill you about fifty times a day--including right now, by the way--and after all that, you just think you can walk away? Well, fuck that, and fuck you. It's not that easy."

Ah, there was his girl. Hadn't seen much of her lately. Also, he was pretty sure he'd caught the word "care" in there amongst all the vitriol, and that crumb alone was enough to make him want to unpack his bags and redecorate his crypt for long-term tenancy. Still, he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to give up the recent burst of independence that Halfrek's visit had touched off. Though major portions of his body were babbling at him to take what he could get before she changed her mind, he needed to hear the terms. He turned to face her. "So what are you saying, pet?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm saying we try this. For real." She could feel the Grand Canyon of Fear opening up in front of her as she spoke, but she barreled on anyway. "Eyes open. You don't try to convert me to the Dark Side, and I work on giving you the benefit of the doubt."

He wondered distantly if he was dreaming, decided he didn't care if he was. "Fair enough," he replied quietly.

She nodded jerkily, looking as green around the gills as he felt. "OK." Then her eyes grew serious. "I'd like to say I trusted you before Xander told me about the bar, but we both know I don't get that luxury." He nodded back, understanding. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, because of what you did--or didn't do--last night. But if I'm wrong about you, I'll kill you. You have to know that."

He met her eyes evenly. "If I change my mind, you'll know it. That's all I can promise."

"Fair enough," she echoed him, and they both stood there in silence for a second, just looking nervously at each other. Spike felt as if someone had just offered him a lifetime membership to the Sunnydale Blood Bank, and he wasn't sure quite how to deal with it. Vampires were built to handle pain, fury, even exhilaration, but not joy. He didn't have the first clue what to do with so much happiness pouring through him, like a flood, like a tidal wave, swamping him. He panicked. Thoroughly.

"I'm still going to do things my way," he told her, defensive, as if she'd just suggested otherwise.

She blinked, surprised. "OK."

"I'm not going to get a job and become a useful member of society."

"OK."

"I'm not going to parade around in a sodding white hat."

That mental image, especially coupled with the profound seriousness of his tone, was enough to make her mouth quirk up on one side. "Spike."

"What?"

"Shut up."

He furrowed his brow, mouth half-open, insulted, until a thought occurred to him. And then he smiled at her: a slow, dangerous, suggestive smirk that sent a flash of heat straight down to her toes.

"Make me."

She couldn't have said afterwards exactly who jumped who, she just knew that suddenly his mouth was on hers and she was wrapped around him so tightly she could feel even his tiniest muscles flexing and every nerve in her body was sparking like a firecracker. Too long, too long, she kept repeating in her mind, and Spike's brain was swimming as he realized that this was what she tasted like when there were no barriers, no hesitations, and a desperation to remember instead of to forget. Her hands clutched at his arms, and she felt a primal satisfaction knowing she'd leave marks on the pale skin. "Mine," she whispered fiercely into his mouth, and he smiled and growled his agreement.

Soaked to the skin, they staggered together towards the door of the crypt, never breaking contact, laughing through kisses as they stumbled over Spike's abused duffel bags. They barely managed to shove the heavy door closed before they were tearing each other's clothes off.

"Bed," Spike muttered hoarsely as she tossed his precious duster aside and began tugging impatiently on his shirt. He pressed kisses along her collarbone as he stripped off the heavy raincoat.

"Too… ohhh… far," she sighed back, her breath catching as he hit a particularly responsive spot. "Now." She gave up on the buttons, tore the shirt, and started in on his belt buckle.

He laughed low in his throat, and picked her up, carrying her a few feet to the mattress lying on the floor of the crypt. He'd intended to try stuffing it in the DeSoto to take with him to parts unknown, but seeing how matters stood at the moment, he thought he'd save that experiment for later.

She looked around for a second, surprised at the sudden appearance of his bed, then shrugged. "Convenient," she murmured appreciatively, and dove back into the task of peeling off his wet jeans.

"I thought so," he replied, grinning against her skin, and then they were naked, and she was touching him, and all thinking became suddenly out of the question.

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Sorry, kreepyk, I'm not big with the smut--I read it, just don't feel comfortable writing it--but there's a little implied nookie, anyway. : ) Thanks for the worship, though--it's much appreciated!

TBC… just a little epilogue on the way!