Why was it, Buffy wondered, that it was always the little guys that gave her the most trouble? She swerved around a gravestone, negotiated a floral tribute, ducked under a low-hanging branch and ran on, her eyes fixed on her target. I mean, the big stupid ones? Always just stood and fought. The bigger they came, the stupider they seemed to be, and give her a big, dumb demon any day rather than the smart-assed little… she skidded to a halt and gave a frustrated growl. And what's more, the big guys didn't find it so easy to hide.

"OK. Come on out." She pushed aside a clump of ivy with the end of her crossbow and peered into the void of the empty tomb. Nothing but undisturbed dust and… yeww!... spiders. Big ones. So not going in there.

She turned around, scanning the shadows of the moonlit cemetery, crossbow cocked, poised and balanced. "You know, I'm gonna find you. It's just if you come out now I get to go home early to hot chocolate and marshmallows and you get to die less painfully. Your call and all, but…" A fleeting movement caught her eye, a brown-clad shape making for the exit from the graveyard. "Oh, no, you don't!" She really wasn't in the mood for a chase through the less salubrious alleyways of Sunnydale with all the attendant dangers of Saturday night fallout from the bars and clubs. Fighting through inebriated co-eds and sliding in pools of vomit in the alleyways was kind of over-rated as a pastime. This ended now. "Will you stand still!" she shouted without much hope of a reaction, and raced after the retreating form, weaving through the headstones and memorials. The little brown demon made the exit ahead of her – and stopped. It turned toward her and held up a hand, or at least she assumed the appendage thing it was holding up was a hand. She stopped and looked at it. It looked at her. This was somewhat disconcerting. Buffy shrugged. "OK – so you're the first ever demon to actually do what I asked." She raised the crossbow and aimed. "I guess I should thank you nicely." The bolt left the bow straight and true, heading through the exit gate toward the small huddled form. Only it didn't make it through the exit gate. It hung in the air, in a perfect line with the centre of the demon's chest, but just – going nowhere.

"Oh, that's no fair!" Buffy lowered the bow and frowned. "Force fields are cheating! You just turn it off right now!"

The demon gestured with its arm – and the moon went out. Buffy looked up at the sky. Heavy black clouds were roiling across the stars, blanking them out in rapid succession. "Oh, great." There was a flash of lightening, a deafening crash of thunder, and the heavens opened. "Well, that's just… wonderful." She glared at the demon which was standing, perfectly dry and bathed in moonlight, on the other side of its force field, and Buffy was damn sure that strange gurgling noise was laughter. Rain pouring down her face, she made a dash for the exit, only to bounce back from an invisible elasticity in the air. Perfect. Trapped.

She peered through the rain at the demon. "You know this is cheating, right? I'll bet there's some sort of demon code of ethics about this." The demon turned and began to shuffle away. "Hey! Come back and undo it! Now! Ohhhh!" She stamped her foot in frustration as the small figure disappeared into the shadows, chuckling quietly to itself. Damn it! It was probably going to be dining out on this for years, which given that the story was it dined on small furry animals was bad news for Sunnydale's cat and dog population. Not that, on reflection, she saw many cats in Sunnydale.

The lightening crashed and the thunder rolled and, not to be left out, an enthusiastic wind joined the weather party. Buffy pushed her wet hair back from her face and set off back through the cemetery. The rain was now pouring in cold rivulets down her back. Her cute but sexy-without-being-cheap little cotton t-shirt was soaked and providing very little in the way of protection against the wind, and as for her jeans… Wet denim? All kinds of bad.

She sensed something – a quick movement at the corner of her vision and spun around, peering through the sheeting rain, seeing nothing. Her slayer senses were on high alert, the tingling at the base of her spine screaming 'vampire' – and in this weather, she was the one at a disadvantage. Another half-sensed movement and she spun around again, frustrated by the lack of visibility. Nothing. But she could sense something. Something nasty was definitely lurking out there. She raised the crossbow, circling warily. Over there! The bolt thudded uselessly into an ivy-covered memorial, and at that moment something grabbed her. She swung her fist wildly, made no contact, found her arm held in a vice-like grip that spun her around and suddenly she was staring straight into a pair of amused blue eyes.

"Spike." Who else? She sighed in annoyance.

"Slayer." The grin matched the eyes. "You're gettin' slow."

"Wasn't trying. You're not worth the effort." She shook his hand from her arm, trying to look as relaxed as possible given that a small river was currently coursing down over her face.

Spike peered at her. "You're wet."

She rolled her eyes. Never one to let go the chance of stating the obvious. "No, really? Thank you for that. I hadn't noticed." She pushed her dripping hair back out of her eyes.

Spike squinted up at the sky and pulled his duster closer around him. "This weather isn't natural. And I can't get out of the cemetery, there's some sort of…" He looked over at Buffy, realisation dawning. "Oh, wait a minute! I'll bet this is your fault, isn't it? You've gone and pissed something off again, haven't you? Bloody hell, slayer, couldn't you just go mess in your own backyard 'stead of mine?"

"You don't know it was me!" Buffy glared at him. "It might just be a… a local weather wiggins."

"Very local. Like just the cemetery? And with the barring spell? Nope, this has 'another Buffy balls up' written all over it." There was another ominous roll of thunder. "And I'm out of fags and I can't get the hell out of here to go nick some more!"

"Oh, well, I'm very sorry you've been inconvenienced!" Buffy began to shiver. "If I'd known me trying to deal with some major badness would mean you missed out on your nicotine fix, I'd obviously just have let it go on terrorising the neighbourhood!" She sneezed suddenly and glared at Spike angrily. "And now I'm getting a cold."

Spike looked over at her, raised his eyes skywards and shrugged off his duster. "Here. Put this on. Keep the worst of it off for a while anyway. You can come back to my place 'til it's over."

"What are you doing?" Buffy stared at the coat in disbelief.

He looked at the coat and gave an exasperated snort. "Just offering! Personally, I'm quite happy with the wet T-shirt look." His eyes moved slowly down over her body.

Buffy looked down at herself and was suddenly very aware of how the combination of cool air and wet cotton was affecting her nipples. She dropped the crossbow and her hands flew to her breasts.

Spike smirked. "Want a little help there?"

"Go away," Buffy said icily, the urge to punch that smirk momentarily outweighed by the urge to keep her recalcitrant nipples under cover.

Spike shrugged. "You wanna catch pneumonia, that's up to you. I only care because if anythin' is going to kill you, I'd be happier if it was me." The thunder rolled again as he shrugged back into his duster. "I'm gonna go home, dry out, pour myself a nice drop 'o sipping whisky and watch a bit of telly." He looked up at the relentlessly stormy sky and gave Buffy a hard grin. "Enjoy." By the time her dazzled eyes had recovered from the next flash of lightening, he'd gone.

Muttering curses at Spike, the rain, and the effect the increasingly soggy ground was having on her stylish and inexpensive but completely impractical boots - but mainly at Spike - Buffy headed across the graveyard. She was hoping against all reasonable hope that perhaps the south exit was open. It wasn't. She made her frustrated way back into the heart of the cemetery where the more elaborate and larger tombs were concentrated, half-blinded by the rain, searching for a spider-free shelter. Luckily, it seemed that every other self-respecting member of the evil undead was cosily curled up in their crypts, and Buffy's angry stalking wasn't interrupted. That did, however, make her less than keen to blunder into an unknown crypt searching for shelter. She was hardly fit for fighting (wet denim chafed horribly, she was finding) and she was sort of concerned that the rain might have done her crossbow no good at all. The last thing she needed was rust. She looked up at the tomb in front of her. Well, there was one option….

She paused at the door, hand resting against the rough, worn wood. Really, really not sure about this. Was hanging out in Spike's crypt really preferable to standing around in the rain? And the cold? And the… right on cue a blinding flash of lightening lit the rain-soaked graveyard, thunder reverberated around the tombs and if anything the down-pour intensified. Buffy flung open the crypt door and dashed inside.

As the door flew back on its hinges, Spike spun around, every muscle tensed, body poised for fight. And it was the body that prompted a squeaked "Oh!" from Buffy; because he didn't turn round quite quickly enough for her not to get a perfect, if fleeting, view of the long, lean expanse of his back above a hard, well-honed butt, his pale skin brushed gold by the candle light. And now he was facing her she had an equally perfect but much less fleeting view of a smooth, muscular chest, well-defined abdominals and… "Oh!" she squeaked again.

He grabbed his discarded T-shirt and held it in front of his crotch, frowning angrily. "Oh, well, come in why don't you!" he growled.

"You… said…" Buffy was aware she was blushing and quite possibly staring, but just at that moment she didn't seem to be able to avoid it. Amidst the 'ohmygodohmygodohmygod' panic that was holding her stunned brain in thrall, the sneaking and traitorous thought that 'Riley naked really didn't compare' was beginning to surface.

Spike smirked. "See anything you like, slayer?"

She spun around quickly as the hand holding the modesty-protecting T-shirt twitched. "No!" She kept her back to him resolutely. "Not even remotely."

"Wanna check?"

"No!" Buffy flushed furiously. "Will you just… put something… clothes… now."

"Spare your blushes. All decent." She waited until she heard the sound of a zipper then turned cautiously. Safely jeans-clad, Spike was shrugging on a black t-shirt. She felt vastly relieved – but also, in all honestly, vaguely disappointed. "So – do tell. How did this little fiasco come about?" His head emerged from the confines of the t-shirt, hair ruffled into short, curled spikes.

"There was this demon…" Buffy sighed.

"Oh, let me guess. Little guy, about yay high," he held his hand about a metre from the ground, "brown cloak, six arms. Yeah?"

"Well, I didn't count the arms – is that what they were? But… yeah, sounds like."

Spike sighed heavily and walked over to the fridge humming quietly in the corner. "Tarxu demon. What the hell made you pick on one of those?

"We… that is… Willow…"

"Oh right, blame the witch."

"Well, it fitted the MO!"

"Which was?"

"It… was… a demon."

"And we all look alike to you." Spike snorted from the depths of the fridge.

"No. I mean, it was clearly evil, what with the whole tentacley arms things – tentacles are evil, right? - and… and it kicked me!"

Spike re-emerged from the fridge clutching a bottle. "It kicked you? Good for it!"

"I had my back turned! I was all with the slaying and it came up behind me and kicked me on the ankle!" Spike's was watching her bemusedly, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "Hey! Not funny! It had sharp… toes." The twitching had turned into a broad grin and despite herself, Buffy found herself smiling back, abashed. "That sounds really lame, huh?"

"Well, yeah. The great slayer floored by a kick to the ankle from a knee-high demon? Has a certain lameness."

"Stop gloating."

"Maybe in a while." Spike opened the beer and took a drink. He looked over at her and held out the bottle, eyebrow cocked, as if suddenly remembering his manners.

"Yeww." Buffy wrinkled her nose in disgust.

He shrugged. "Something stronger?" He peered vaguely around the crypt. "Got a bottle of whiskey somewhere…"

"I don't think drinking strong liquor is a good idea right now," Buffy said primly.

Spike snorted. "What's the matter? Scared I'll get you drunk and take advantage of your precious virtue? Dream on, slayer!"

"How long do I have to put up with this?"

He shrugged. "It'll let up at dawn – spell'll fall apart once the light hits. You'll be able to get out then."

"You're telling me I'm stuck with you until dawn?"

"More than welcome to go brave the elements, pet." Spike sprawled comfortably in his chair. "Go for it. The wet look suits you." He gave a satisfied grin as her hands went automatically to her breasts.

She forced herself to drop them. "Don't start that again or I may just have to stake you."

"You could try." The grin became a challenge.

"Don't tempt me." She stood uncomfortably in the middle of the crypt. Now she was here, she wasn't exactly sure how to behave. Clearly, as a guest, her usual beat-him-up-and-go procedure was hardly suitable. She shivered again.

Spike was watching her quietly. "You should probably get out of those wet things. You'll catch a chill or whatever." The sudden disconcerting shift to concern threw her and she blinked at him mutely. Spike was worried about her health? "There's probably something of Harmony's around somewhere," he gestured vaguely around the crypt.

"Harmony? No way am I wearing Harmony's clothes!"

"Well, you could wear mine, but I think hers might be a better fit. 'Sides, don't want mine smelling of Buffy. Here." He pulled a blanket from the back of the chair and tossed it to her. "I hear the brown blanket look is big on the Paris catwalks this season."

She took the blanket as gracefully as she was able and wrapped it around her shoulders. "So, where is Miss Personality 1999?" Buffy didn't much relish the thought of having to face Harmony's inane ramblings.

"Dunno." Spike gave an unconcerned shrug. "Silly bint went off in the huff earlier because I wouldn't take her to Paris."

"Harmony in Paris!" Buffy snorted. "I can just see her hanging out in the Louvre."

"Only if they've turned it into a designer shopping mall. Not sure she'd appreciate the finer points of the Impressionist movement." Spike grinned. "You know Harmony - brain's not her most outstanding feature."

"That doesn't sound very loyal. Shouldn't you be leaping to her defence or something?"

"Why would I wanna do that?" He gave her a puzzled frown.

"Well, she's you're girlfriend and all. Usually goes along with a certain amount of love and respect."

"For Harmony?"

"Point taken. Can't imagine what you see in her."

Spike shrugged. "She's not a bad fu…"

"I think a little too much information there." Buffy interrupted swiftly.

"Well, whatever - at least I don't have your problem."

"Problem? I have no problem." She frowned at him. "What problem?"

Spike examined his beer bottle closely. "How is Captain Cardboard?"

"Riley's fine," Buffy said icily.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "We talking about inappropriate couplings, let's talk about you and him."

"No." Buffy folded her arms and glared. "Let's not."

But Spike wasn't to be stopped. "I mean, anyone can see he's not man enough for you. So – what? You're ready to settle for the solid and reliable? Trade in the passion for the lack of heartbreak?"

"There's passion! There's all sorts of passion!"

"Oh, right! That's why you're out here slayin' every night rather than curled up with lover boy." Spike shook his head. "I've seen you, slayer. You just don't have the air of a satisfied woman."

"Oh, and you'd know all about that!"

"Never had any complaints." He smirked, tongue against teeth.

"Arrogant, much?" Buffy snorted. "This is none of your damned business."

"You brought it up, bangin' on about my choice of bird. Don't mind dishing it out, but don't like takin' it, huh?"

"Riley and me – we're good. And it really isn't any of your business."

"Hey! Just sayin'. You need to get your jollies with a bit of slaying at bedtime, doesn't sound like the man is doing it for you is all." Spike held up his hands.

"Shut up." Buffy glared at him icily.

"Ooo! The slayer's riled!" Spike stood up to face her with a triumphant grin. "At last, a bit of passion!"

"This isn't passion. This is contempt." She locked eyes with him as he moved to stand in front of her.

"Yeah?" his voice was a quiet growl. "Not from where I'm standing." She lashed out and he caught her fist easily. "You know, if it bothers you this much, there has to be somethin' worth botherin' about…"

She pulled her hand away from his grip. "You don't know me. You have no idea…"

"Oh, but I think I do." His eyes held hers. "I think you feel it, too."

"I feel… nothing," she said coldly. She turned away and crossed the crypt, anger coursing through her. The howling wind and rain greeted her as she opened the door and stalked blindly out into the night. What is it with him? He just never knows when to stop! Knew exactly which buttons to press to rile her, and boy did he get a kick out of pushing them. Smug, annoying, irritating, arrogant… she pressed on through the storm, the words a mantra in time to her angry steps. She really should just stake him, because she could seriously do without this. In fact, she paused, why not now?

He was right behind her. "You don't love him." He had to shout over the noise of the tempest. She spun around to face him, fighting the urge to lash out. He stood in the pouring rain, suddenly deadly serious, no hint of snark. "You need the fire, slayer. You lose the fire you might as well give up." He even sounded like he cared, and that threw her. "Love's not about the safe."

She stood and looked at him while the elements warred above them and the wind whipped her hair into angry, crackling snakes across her face. As the lightening flashed and thunder shook the ground, she stepped forward and she kissed him.

xxxxxx

Later, she tried to rationalise that kiss in her mind.

It was a way to shut him up, stop the speaker-of-truths act, because really it was getting too close to home and, let's face it, nothing else was working – that was all.

It was nothing to do with the sight of him, hair in wet, unruly curls, the rain lashing around him, soaking his t-shirt until it sculpted to the perfect lines of his chest and stomach. Nothing to do with the flash of understanding in those intense blue eyes, the sympathetic softening of his lips, the questioning tilt of his head. Nothing to do with the sudden need to discover the taste of the mouth that riled her so easily, the yearning for the feel of the hard coolness of him against her.

And the burning in her guts that flared as his hesitation and surprise gave way to a deep, bruising kiss, his mouth as desperate and questing as hers – that wasn't desire, it was just suppressed hatred, morbid curiosity, punishment – or… something.

The way she moaned as his mouth moved against hers and his hand found her breast, the way she sobbed his name against his lips as he pushed her against a tomb and she wrapped her legs around his hips and pressed herself against bulge of his crotch, and just the feel of him, hard against the throbbing ache between her legs brought her to a quick, shuddering climax unlike anything she'd felt before – that was just the weather. Something carried over from the spell made her do it, the wild elements messing with her mind, stirring her blood until she just needed… someone convenient.

But the way their kiss lengthened and deepened, the way her release-heavy, tingling body moulded to his, the perfection of the fit, the way everything else faded to nothing beyond the all encompassing sense of him and the way it made her feel, touched her to the core – she couldn't seem to find an excuse for that.

xxxxxx

When they finally parted, she opened dazed eyes, her gaze lingering on the full, flushed curve of his lips, moving slowly up to meet his stunned gaze. She became vaguely aware that the rain had stopped, that the wind was dying softly around them, that the sky was just beginning to be touched by soft fingers of light.

"Buffy?" His voice was soft, wondering. He should have sneered. He should have been all snark and big bad swagger, relished her weakness and the way she'd come at his touch, revelled in getting one up on the slayer. She could have coped with that, one way or another. But instead – instead he looked at her like… like he cared, like he knew her and he understood her. That touched her at some level deeper than she'd ever known, and that was a scary as hell.

So, naturally, she ran.

xxxxxx

"Well, that was a barrel of laughs!" He wasn't sure how long he'd stood there, staring at nothing, before an annoyed voice broke through his thoughts. "I've been standing around outside the cemetery for, like, hours." Harmony picked her way daintily between the puddles. "And this mud is so ruining my Jimmy Choos." She stopped to examine the mud-caked shoes in question. "Now I'll just have to go steal me a new pair. Melanie – you know, big Al's girl? The one with the unconvincing falsies and the skanky dye job? How she thinks she can get away with red hair with her complexion. Dead girls really shouldn't go redhead. Anyway she says it was a spell." She draped her arms around his shoulders from behind and kissed the back of his neck. "How was your night, boo boo? Did you miss me?"

Spike peered thoughtfully off into the distance. "Oh, you know… same old…"

Harmony looked up at the sky. "We'd better get undercover. The sun's coming up." She moved round, rubbing herself seductively against him. "Mmm… my blondie bear hungry? We could go snuggle…"

"Yeah… right…" Spike really wasn't with her.

Harmony gave a puzzled frown at his lack of responsiveness. She reached up to kiss him and then paused. She sniffed his mouth. "What's that smell?" she asked suspiciously.