"What?" he says when he notices me watching him from the porch.

"What, what?"

"What're you doing staring at me like that with your bloody martyred crusader face on?"

"I don't have a martyred crusader face," I say, dropping my hands from my hips and crossing them over my chest defensively.

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do no-" I narrow my eyes at him, biting my tongue between my teeth. Come on Buffy. New approach, remember? Arguments that revolve around do too/do not only end in him stalking toward you and you pretending that grabbing the lapels of his coat and pulling him even further into your personal space is vitality important to proving your point.

"I was not staring at you with my alleged martyred crusader face." I say calmly, "I was trying to decide whether you lurk or skulk." He smiles for a second and I try to remember why the whole personal space thing was something I wanted to keep to myself."Neither, pet. I prowl."

"Prowling would entail some sort of movement."

"I move." He says, sounding offended. I roll my eyes.

"From one side of my yard to the other?" I ask skeptically. He doesn't respond, just growls and kicks at a cigarette butt so I take advantage of his momentary distraction to edge quietly over to my mom's old car.

"Where're you going?" he asks, standing suddenly all too close to me.

Crap. Stupid vampire peripheral vision.

"Grocery shopping."

"Can I come?"
"No."

"Why not?"

"Why would you want to?" I ask. I'm not even giving him shit for once. I hate the grocery store, childhood lost in the supermarket-type trauma and I can't understand why anyone would go voluntarily.

"Oh, no particular reason," he says, sounding amused, "Because we both know you hold no interest to me." He's grinning at me, blue eyes like search lights and I can feel my lips thinning, the line of my mouth tightening, one fist clenching. It's an automatic response, one that I almost regret because on some level I know that was kind of sweet.

"Back off, Spike." I say, voice harsh. The grin falls from his face but he stays put as he watches me fumble with the car keys.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I shouldn't be doing this. I'm the slayer, you know. Vampires are my specialty. I should be able to just turn around right now and say—

Pale hands, grabbing my keys and my arm, surprisingly gentle.

"You kissed me first, love," he says, voice quiet.

"A week ago. Maybe I've gotten over it."

"You kissed me first," he repeats.

"You have the logic of a seven year old," I say, staring at his feet.

"Probably," he admits, "But it still stands."

"I can't do this," I mutter as I make a grab for my keys. He holds them just out of my reach, leaning in slightly.

"Do what exactly?" he asks with a leer.

Do this, Spike. Be this close to you and not touch you. Talk to you and feel obligated to bite back the laugh when you say something funny. Hit you when I want to kiss you. Move to wipe the blood away and then have to pretend I was going in for another punch. I. can't. do. this.

I don't say that though. I just glare at him. He sighs heavily and I blink as his face takes on a carefully blank expression.

"Look, Slayer," he says, staring off to the side somewhere, "I'll make this easy on you." And now he looks at me, eyes studying me in what I don't want to admit is desperation. "Just tell me that was a fluke," he says, so softly I almost don't hear him, "just tell me that was gratitude for taking care of Dawn over the summer. Tell me you were just looking for comfort. Anything. Because if you don't kill the hope now you may never get rid of me."

This my chance. I should sigh and look repentant and say, "God, Spike, I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to take advantage of your feelings, bladdy fucking blah." I should. I should lie through my teeth and get away from him while I still can and do whatever I have to in order to forget him. He's making this easy on me. This is my way out. I'd be an idiot not to take it.

But as I've mentioned, I'm the slayer. I hit things. The thinking thing isn't really my strong suit.

He's staring at me, waiting for me to answer and he doesn't move when my hand closes over the hand he's holding my keys in.

"I need my keys, Spike," I whisper. It wasn't supposed to come out a whisper. It was supposed to come out all strong and assertive, not floaty and come-hither. He notices, obviously. He shakes his head.

"I'm in love with you," he says softly, "At least give me an answer."

"I can't," I say and he growls, rolling his eyes.

"That's crap, Slayer and you know it," he says, "Just give me a answer for christsake Buffy. You know if you ever took just a bloody second too—"

"I can't tell you it was just a fluke," I say, cutting him off and beginning to pace in front of him. "I can't tell you it was just a fluke because I'm a crappy liar. I can't tell you it's just a fluke but I can't admit it wasn't because I can't give you what you want! I can't do it! I don't understand how this happened, or if it's been there for awhile and I'm worried because if it has then I really have no idea what's going on in my subconscious and ever since I've come back from the dead all this stuff that I've apparently been repressing has risen to the surface, about everyone, not just you, but for fuck's sake Spike, they never told me to expect love!" I turn to look at him and the look on his face, like he's been hit by a Mac truck, makes me realize what I just said. I decide to screw the car keys and take advantage of his shock to break into a dead sprint down the street away from him but I can still see him, flashes in the mirrors of the cars parked along the street, his face breaking into a slow grin before he starts after me.