Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spike was whipped.

There was no other word for it, really. Not just obsessed. Not just infatuated. But… utterly, helplessly, hopelessly whipped.

And everyone knew it.

Even Xander — the last person to ever offer Spike sympathy — found himself feeling kind of bad for the guy. And honestly? That was saying something.

It wasn’t just the way Spike followed Buffy around like a lost puppy. It wasn’t even the way he looked at her, like she was both salvation and destruction wrapped in one impossibly tiny, infuriating package.

No, it was the way he endured her.

The clipped dismissals. The cutting remarks. The loaded silences. The eye-rolls. She’d shoot him down and still he’d show up at her side like clockwork — coat flapping, eyes hollow but hopeful, waiting for a single word that might make the pain worth it.

Xander and Willow had clocked it weeks ago. They hadn’t really talked about it — not directly — but there had been a shared look, a kind of unspoken “You seeing this too?” exchange after one of Buffy’s more public eviscerations of Spike’s ego.

Not that they blamed her. Not really. She had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Again. Trying to raise an army of kids, keep Dawn safe, fight off whatever new apocalyptic horror was creeping in this week — she was barely keeping herself standing, let alone managing Spike’s feelings. And with everything that had happened — the soul, the basement breakdown, the thing that none of them quite knew how to talk about — it wasn’t like Spike made it easy.

Still.

There was something weirdly noble in his persistence. Pathetic, maybe, but noble.

He didn’t ask for anything. Not anymore. He just… stayed.

Took the hits. Showed up. Took more.

Loyal in that infuriating way he always was — not because it earned him anything, but because she was his North Star. And even when she treated him like a footnote, he never looked away.

It gnawed at Xander in a way he didn’t really want to name. Because Spike was still Spike — annoying, smug, undead. But somewhere along the way, he’d become a person, too.

A person who looked at Buffy like she was the only thing tethering him to the world.

A person who kept trying, even when it was clear he’d already lost.

And somehow, Xander found himself feeling… sad for the guy.

Not for the vampire. Not for the monster.

But for the man.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Upstairs, Spike leaned against the wall while Buffy paced, arms crossed. She was all business in front of the girls, barking logistics, assigning rotations, keeping distance.

Spike slipped out a smart remark and made some of the girls laugh. She glared, scoffed, said, “Can you not?”

“Right, then,” Spike said coolly, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I’ll take my undead self somewhere less offensive.”

He turned, steps heading toward the basement.

Not long later, she descended slowly, the wooden steps creaking beneath her boots.

Spike didn’t move. He was sitting on the cot, elbows on his knees, cigarette unlit in his fingers. When he saw her, he froze like she was some fragile apparition that might vanish if he blinked too hard.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t need to.

It was all there in the way her eyes locked on his, in the way his breath hitched when she took that final step.

Then—collision.

Their mouths met in a kiss that was more than want; it was need, confession, sanctuary. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. His arms wound around her waist, anchoring her like he was terrified the world might steal her away again.

It was frenzied — not desperate — but fierce. Loving. Reverent. Her lips whispered apologies he’d never ask for. His touch promised things he’d never speak aloud.

He backed toward the bed, guiding her down with care, as if she might break under too much weight — too much truth.

When they finally lay tangled together, skin against skin, breath shared and steady, it wasn’t about fire or fury or the end of the world.

It was quiet.

It was sweet.

It was theirs.

And no one upstairs would ever know.

Chapter Text

It had begun slowly.

Every now and then, she’d lean in closer than he expected, and he’d be overwhelmed by the scent of her—so sharp and warm that it left him dizzy, unable to think straight.

He couldn’t help himself. A quiet gasp would escape his lips. Not loud, but not quiet enough to go unnoticed.

She never said a word. Her face gave nothing away. But in her eyes—those wide, unreadable eyes—he could’ve sworn he saw something. Longing, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

Spike knew better than to pursue anything. He forced himself to pull away each time, keeping a respectful distance like penance. She deserved better than him. Always had.

The first night she came down to the basement, he genuinely thought he’d lost the plot—that it was just another hallucination, another cruel flicker of hope conjured by a fractured mind.

It was only when he felt the weight of her on the cot next to him that he realised she was real.

She lay on her side, back turned to him, a good few inches of space between them.

But it was enough.

Just breathing her in—knowing she was there—was enough.

The following night, she returned. And again the next night. And the one after that.

It became routine. Quiet visits, shared silence, no expectations. And Spike—damaged, ashamed, soul-heavy Spike—was more than happy to take what little she offered.

Until one night, she turned to face him.

He stiffened instantly. He didn’t need to breathe, but somehow he still held it, body frozen, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile thing was forming between them.

She leaned closer, her face just inches from his. He didn’t dare touch her, didn’t even lift a hand. But her nearness—it scrambled his thoughts, made him ache in ways he couldn’t begin to describe.

And just when he thought she’d fallen asleep… she reached for his hand.

His eyes flew open. She met his gaze, silent, steady. Vulnerable.

Until now, she’d always left before morning.

After a long, charged beat, he gently pulled their joined hands to his chest and closed his eyes.

Buffy stared at him. At his lips. At the quiet tension in his face. Her throat tightened. She fought the urge to lean in, to press her mouth to his. Instead, she forced her eyes shut and lay still.

The next night, she appeared again—slipping through the dark like a secret—and curled beside him once more, a little closer than before.

Bolder this time, he pulled her to him.

She didn’t resist. In fact, she relaxed into him, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

It was another few nights before her lips finally found his.

When they did, it was cautious at first, a question unspoken. But when he answered—deepening the kiss, tongue tracing hers—she moaned, soft and real and helpless.

Her body pressed to his, hips rolling against him. His hand slid down, thumb trailing along the centre of her thighs.

She groaned and shifted, wordlessly inviting more.

But he held back, not trusting the situation, feeling like it was too good to be true after all this time. After everything…

Instead he continued kissing her, keeping her body at a distance despite her best efforts to close the gap.

Sensing it was getting too much for both of them, he pulled back, moving to lie behind her and coaxing her body to lie flush against his.

They both took a few moments to compose themselves before Buffy laced her fingers in his and pulled them to her chest.

Spike kissed her shoulder, relieved, not knowing how much self control he’d have in him if she were to pursue things further.

And so they slept.

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It was only a matter of time over the next few nights that things escalated.

Buffy whimpered and moved against him, intoxicated by the feel of Spike’s lips nuzzling her neck and the warmth of him even through their layers of clothing.

He pulled her closer so that her body was flush against him, his throbbing erection pressed against Buffy and causing a moan.

She instinctively arched into him, their movements somehow familiar yet still so tentative.

Spike knew the moment was dangerous. He’d always known it, with Buffy. The way she felt, the way she looked at him, the heat in her hand when she brushed it against his — it was like a spark on dry kindling. And he had no control. He never did.

His hand skated below the material of her pants and she couldn’t stop a shiver at the contact.

His fingers moved lower and Spike gasped at the wetness he could feel through the chiffon of her panties, rubbing her through the damp material.

When his hand moved up to the top of her underwear and skimmed down underneath, Buffy bit her lip, feeling like she’d never been this turned on in all her life.

Spike’s gentle fingers stroked her opening before moving up to circle her clitoris and she whimpered at the contact, the muscles clenched deep in her belly.

Spike deepened the kiss as he continued to caress her and for Buffy it felt as though every nerve ending was firing, rendering her helpless.

Just as she was about to cry out in frustration, Spike slipped his finger in, marvelling at the tightness that greeted him. Buffy felt herself writhe, lost in the sweet agony of his caress.

He began thrusting his fingers into her, simultaneously palming her clit with his hand. Buffy arched against his fingers and moaned, her hips rising to meet his ministrations.

“Hmm… Spike,” she whispered, afraid he might stop, afraid he would pull back again and they’d lose this moment. “Don’t…” she began but words failed her as his fingers found the soft swell of her clitorus and stroked.

She thrusted against him, mouth parting.

“…stop,” she finally gasped out, never wanting him to stop, always wanting to be in this moment. Just the two of them. Together. As it always should have been. “Please…”

And then—he froze.

Something in him snapped. His muscles went rigid, heart cold. A memory, uninvited and cruel, surfaced behind his eyes. That night. The worst night.

He pulled away.

Buffy looked at him in alarm, playing the words she’d uttered out loud and realising what had happened.

“Wait - I didn’t mean… Spike?” Buffy pleaded, reaching for him.

But he was already sitting up, eyes distant, body shaking.

She stayed quiet, her breath shallow.

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

So she said nothing, and he lay back down—this time on the far side of the mattress leaving her plenty of space.

“Spike, you don’t-” she began and reached for him but he pulled away.

“I can’t, Buffy,” he said with a level of solemnity and self loathing that she had never seen before. “Please,” was all he managed to say as he desperately tried to keep his composure.

She moved to lay beside him but they didn’t reach for each other again, the distance between them somehow wider than ever before.

Chapter Text

It had been two straight weeks of high-pitched voices, clashing personalities, and the thudding sound of boots on the stairs at all hours of the night. Spike had endured war, torture, and centuries of hell — literal and otherwise — but even he was starting to crack under the weight of teenage chaos.

The Potentials were everywhere. On the couch. In the kitchen. Hogging the bathroom. Piling around the training room like puppies with too many limbs. He couldn’t smoke in peace without someone giggling at him from the corner or whispering to her friend about how “hot” the scary vampire was. It was maddening.

He’d taken to skulking in the basement even more, muttering to himself as he lit another cigarette or lifted weights he didn’t need to lift.

“Full house of hormonal slayers-in-waiting,” he grumbled, flicking a cigarette into a tin and letting it hiss out. “Bloody nightmare.”

Upstairs, things weren’t much better.

Tensions had been mounting. Between Buffy’s pressure as general, the constant training drills, the lack of sleep, and the ever-present fear that any one of them could be the next to die — nerves were frayed to the point of snapping.

Even Dawn was getting cranky. She’d snapped at a Potential for borrowing her lip gloss without asking and nearly made Amanda cry. Xander had retreated to his apartment for “structural damage assessments” no one asked for, and Willow had started drinking instant coffee again — a dire sign if ever there was one.

So when Giles walked in one morning — bags packed, expression calm — and announced he was taking the girls on a short training retreat into the desert for a few days, you could’ve sworn the entire house exhaled at once.

“Desert?” Buffy blinked. “Like, with sand?”

“Quite a bit of it, yes,” Giles said, adjusting his glasses. “And solitude. And distance. Which, I think, we could all benefit from at the moment.”

“God, yes,” Anya said flatly, passing through the living room with a basket of laundry. “Get them out of here before I start setting traps.”

Buffy didn’t argue. Neither did anyone else.

The next morning, a parade of duffel bags, eye rolls, and uncertain enthusiasm marched out the door, leaving behind a blessed quiet.

Spike stood at the top of the basement stairs, arms crossed, watching as the last of the girls piled into Giles’ rented van.

Buffy wandered into the kitchen, rolling her shoulders like someone trying to shake off a heavy coat.

“Think the house just gained ten square feet of space,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.

“Not to mention ten decibels of peace and quiet,” Spike said, appearing behind her and snagging the coffee pot. “Might actually be able to hear myself think without someone asking if I sparkle in sunlight.”

Buffy gave a weak laugh and leaned back against the counter. “I mean, I get it, I do. They’re scared. They’re kids. They’re looking to be brave.”

“Sure,” Spike said, pouring a mug, “but they can be brave somewhere else for a bit. Like a bloody oasis.”

They exchanged a glance — tired, relieved, maybe a little amused — and for the first time in days, the tension seemed to lift slightly. The house, for once, felt like theirs again.

Buffy sighed. “God help Giles.”

Spike smirked into his coffee. “Rather him than me.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ 

The house was finally quiet.

For the first time in weeks, Buffy could hear her own heartbeat. No nervous chatter from the girls, no constant footsteps or clanging pipes. Just the low hum of the night and the familiar scent of cigarette smoke drifting up through the floorboards.

She followed it downstairs before she could talk herself out of it.

The basement was dim, shadows stretching long against the concrete walls. Spike sat on the edge of his cot, bare-chested, head bowed slightly as smoke curled around him. He looked like a ghost caught halfway between worlds — pale, tired, and almost beautiful in that dangerous way that made her chest ache.

He didn’t look up right away. When he finally did, surprise flickered across his face, then faded into something guarded.

“Didn’t think you’d come down tonight,” he said. His voice was rough, like gravel. “House all to yourself — figured you’d want to enjoy the peace for once.”

Buffy frowned, stepping down the last stair. “You think that’s why I come down here?”

He gave a small, humourless laugh and flicked ash into a tin can beside the cot. “Wouldn’t blame you if it was. Must get crowded up there with all the little soldiers about. This—” he gestured vaguely at the basement “—isn’t exactly a spa retreat.”

“I come down here because I want to,” she said quietly.

That made him look at her again. The light from the single bulb caught the sharp planes of his face, the uncertain tilt of his mouth. He looked almost… afraid.

“You shouldn’t,” he murmured with an edge neither of them anticipated.

They hadn’t talked about the other night. Not really. And when Spike’s eyes flickered — that brief, haunted look — Buffy knew exactly where his mind had gone. Back to that bathroom. Back to what neither of them could ever fully erase.

But Buffy was done with living in shadows, running from the past. She wasn’t going to let memory dictate her life anymore.

“Why not?” She asked simply.

“You know why not.” His tone was low, almost pleading.

Buffy took a slow step closer. “You think I haven’t made peace with what happened?”

“Don’t—” His voice cracked, and he shook his head, moving away as if scared of her. “Don’t say that. It’s not your job to make peace with it. You shouldn’t have to.”

He stood now, every line of him tense and brittle. “Of all the things I’ve done — every horror, every death — that’s the one that sticks. That look on your face…” He stopped, his jaw clenching. “Like I was something you didn’t even recognise. Like I was worse than the monsters you fight.”

Buffy’s breath caught, but she didn’t back away. “You weren’t you then.”

“I was me enough, pet, believe me.” His voice was almost a growl, thick with guilt. “Don’t make excuses for me, Slayer. Don’t rewrite it to make it easier. I got my soul because of that. Not just for you — not to win you — but because I couldn’t stand to live being the thing that did that to you.”

Silence filled the room like smoke.

Finally, she said softly, “I know.”

His eyes snapped to hers — sharp, wet, unbelieving.

“You think I don’t see what it’s done to you?” she continued. “You think I don’t see how hard you try to be better, every single day? You think I don’t know the difference?”

“It doesn’t change what I did,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. But it changes who you are.”

She reached for him then. Her hand brushed over his chest — cool skin over muscle, tense and still. She could feel his heart not beating, but she felt everything else: the tremor under her palm, the way his breath hitched like he’d forgotten how to breathe at all.

“You wouldn’t hurt me now,” she whispered. “You couldn’t.”

He shut his eyes, shaking his head. “I still see it, Buffy. Every time I close my eyes.”

“Then let me be here when you open them.”

That undid him. The fight drained out of his shoulders, and he exhaled shakily. She stepped closer, close enough that the air between them felt electric.

Buffy stepped closer, her eyes searching Spike’s with a mix of uncertainty and vulnerability. Without a word, she leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was gentle but insistent. Spike’s eyes widened, then softened, and he let himself be drawn into her warmth. Her hand cupped his jaw, guiding him, grounding him, while the world around them seemed to hush.

Buffy pulled back slightly, her fingers still resting against Spike’s jaw, and looked up into his eyes—sharp, daring, yet vulnerable too.

“You know this is a bad idea, right?”

“We’ve made plenty of mistakes, Spike. But this isn’t one of them. I can feel it.”

Time seemed to hang on the edge of her gaze.

Spike’s lips parted slightly, and then, as if pulled by an irresistible force, he leaned in again, this time kissing her with a fierce, passionate intensity.

The tenderness of her first move met the fire of his response, their breaths mingling, hearts racing, and the world around them disappearing into the heat of that single, electric moment.

It wasn’t like the nights before, the secret visits, the silent comfort. This was something new — still fragile, still uncertain, but real.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, Buffy smiled faintly. “You really thought I came down here because the house was full?”

He huffed a small, shaky laugh. “Didn’t want to hope it was anything else.”

“Well,” she said, brushing her thumb across his jaw, “guess you should’ve hoped a little.”

They sank down together onto the cot — no desperation, no denial, just quiet understanding. For once, the silence between them wasn’t heavy.

Spike’s hands trembled slightly as he held her close, his lips never leaving hers. Every second of the kiss was charged with the ache he’d carried for her, years of longing and quiet desperation spilling out in a rush. He had missed her like this—missed the warmth of her, the sharp edge of her, the way she made him feel alive—and now that she was here, in his arms, it all came rushing back, overwhelming and undeniable.

It felt so right to settle his weight over her, to kiss her again as his cock throbbed behind the zipper of his jeans. The friction of skin against skin was exactly what he’d been missing.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked, hoping, praying she was.

Buffy nodded, biting her lip with a look of determination and as he looked into her perfect face, he suddenly wasn’t so sure he was.

He dragged his lips away from her mouth and trailed them over her neck, pausing to sink his blunt teeth into the sensitive flesh at the base of her neck.

She shuddered and bucked her hips against his.

He groaned at the exquisite torture of being separated by mere layers of clothing, especially with the promise of something more.

Eyes on hers, he peeled off her top, exposing a delicately embroidered bra. She arched against him as his tongue danced just under the edge of the barrier, letting out a moan that had his cock throbbing harder.

He moved to take her pants off and she shifted obligingly, as his eyes drunk in the sight, her face turning a light pink as a result.

He moved to kiss her again, fingers caressing every inch of her as though memorising the feel of her skin.

Buffy pulled back and gave a small frown of annoyance.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she teased and he flashed her a smile, relieved that she clearly wanted this as much as he did.

Spike was about to remove his jeans when Buffy’s hands took his intended spot, opening his button and pulling down his zipper in an agonisingly slow movement.

She kissed him as her hand slipped inside, grasping his throbbing cock and stroking forcefully.

He moaned, briefly closing his eyes, before using all his concentration to remove her bra and panties as she continued her explorations.

He moved away from her touch with a grin, taking in the sight of her naked and ready as he removed his pants.

He wanted to taste her, to kiss every part and have her screaming his name but he knew he couldn’t bear not being in her any longer.

Spike moved over her, settling himself between her thighs where he lined his penis up to her opening.

He inched in, lost in how good it felt after all this time, and gave a small tentative thrust.

Buffy’s head fell back on the pillow and she moaned at the sensation, only now feeling the weight of how much she had been longing for this, as she moved to allow him in deeper.

The second she opened for him, he forgot all about going slow and sweet. He forgot about pain and regret and the impending end of the world. He drove into her with one swift stroke.

“Spike!” Buffy squirmed beneath him, her nails digging into her shoulders.

How long had he been waiting for this moment again? It felt like all his life.

He lost himself to the rhythm. To the feel of her surrounding him. To the sound of her breath in his ear as she gasped and moaned. This was what he’d been missing. This was everything he wanted.

He caught her mouth with his and was reminded of all their other times together before it had all gone so wrong. Knowing how much she loved taking the lead, he rolled onto his back, anchoring her above him.

She flashed him a knowing smile and began to ride him, his grip on her hips harder than he intended but necessary as she moved above him, over him, around him, chasing her orgasm as he barely managed to keep up.

Their gazes locked, their breath synced, and their bodies began to move as one.

“Buffy?” He said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah?” She breathed.

“Are you with me?” He squeezed her hips harder.

“I’m with you.”

“Good. Then hang on.” Spike rolled them again, pinning her to the mattress and slamming into her at a punishing rhythm.

“Spike,” she whimpered and it was like music to his ears. She was getting wetter and tighter, her nails digging deeper.

“Now,” he muttered and his word was her undoing.

They came together in a synchronised release that had them both dissolving into pleasure.

Spike rode it out, carrying her with him, and when it was over he collapsed with a heroic groan.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breath coming in short gasps.

Spike moved beside Buffy, pulling her with him where her head found a familiar spot on his chest.

“Just like riding a bike,” Buffy said sleepily and Spike laughed, pulling her in tighter and kissing her hair.

“Thanks, love…I guess,” he chuckled.

“I mean familiar,” she argued, unable to stop the smile at his reaction. “Reassuring,” she jested.

“Predictable?” Spike he teased back.

“No, not that. Never that,” she added as she snuggled in tighter.

“Might need to keep the stabilisers on for a bit, pet,” he joked, a hint of uncertainty in his tone that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Then we will,” she said sweetly as she kissed his chest before placing her cheek back on it. “Stabilisers and matching helmets, the works.”

“And a cute little basket on the front I’d wager,” he smiled and Buffy was glad he sounded lighter.

“Of course! Where else would I keep my stakes?”

Chapter Text

The morning light slipped through the partially blacked out windows, golden and soft, dancing on the wall furthest away from them. For once, everything was still— no doors slamming, no Giles pacing with books, no potentials screaming about toothpaste or patrol rotations. Just quiet.

Buffy stirred, eyes blinking open to the feel of Spike’s cool, bare chest beneath her cheek. For a split second, she forgot where she was — then his arm tightened around her waist and she remembered. She was exactly where she wanted to be.

She couldn’t help the smile from forming as she turned to look at him properly.

His face was softer in sleep, all the edges she knew too well smoothed away. She traced them with her eyes, stealing time she knew she shouldn’t have.

She’d wanted this — God, she’d wanted this — but fear had always kept the feelings buried. Too much pain, too many ghosts between them. Yet here, in this fragile dawn, it was simple. Just her, and him, and the truth she could finally let herself feel.

As if sensing her thoughts, Spike’s eyes opened and he too took a moment to remember how they ended up where they were, unable to stop his own smile.

“Morning, love,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. His dulcet tones wrapped around her like a blanket, the kind of comfort she’d never admit to craving.

“No,” Buffy replied playfully and nestled her head in further to his chest.

“No?” He chuckled, at a loss as to where this conversation was heading already.

“I refuse to acknowledge its actually morning. How did that even happen? Where did the night go?” Buffy whined gently.

“Nights been and gone, pet. You just were too occupied to notice,” Spike grinned salaciously, his hands stroking up and down her arms before resting on her back.

Buffy moved her face to look at him. “Ohhh, I get it now. So it’s your fault, then?”

“Can’t help it if I make the earth move for you, love,” he replied, his chest swelling when he got a genuine laugh out of her.

Buffy lifted her head to place a tender kiss on Spike’s lips, pulling away far too quickly for his liking.

“Hey,” she said sweetly, unable to keep from beaming at him.

“Hey yourself,” Spike smiled back and pulled her in for another kiss.

When they pulled apart, Spike brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, fingers gentle. “Could get used to this,” he said quietly.

“Well don’t,” she said reluctantly, her voice softer than her words. “You know how it is. Any minute now they’ll all come back and start demanding training or breakfast or existential guidance. We were better off before the sun had the audacity to rise.”

“How inconsiderate of it,” Spike agreed. “Can’t even let an old vamp have his morning cuddle.”

He moved so she was under him, his arms gently holding her in place.

“Uh-huh. Something tells me ‘cuddling’ is the last thing on your mind,” she teased, his erection already pressing against her thigh as he began to kiss her neck and rub against her.

“You’re the one who said we can’t get used to this,” he murmured against her skin, “better make the most of it.”

As his trailing kisses moved down to her chest, Buffy got lost in the sensation. “Trust you to use my own words against me,” she breathlessly replied, moaning when Spike took one of her nipples in his mouth and began flicking it with his tongue, all the while massaging the other.

“Hmm, Spike,” she managed to get out, her fingers running through his messy hair.

Needing no further encouragement, Spike moved his legs between hers and guided his now throbbing erection to her wet opening.

He inched in slowly, relishing in the noises she was making as he began to move gently into her.

It was a slow pace, each deliberate motion sending waves of pleasure through both of them.

Whereas last night had been a storm — wild, unthinking, consuming — morning found Spike gentled, measured.

Each touch no longer driven by need or hunger.

He closed the space between them, his mouth seeking hers in a slow, certain claim.

Buffy marvelled at the fullness she felt with Spike inside her, moving her hips to meet his each time. She felt the weight of it — of him, of them — of the way being with Spike always filled the spaces she tried to ignore.

They soon lost themselves to the rhythm and it wasn’t long before Spike felt her muscles irresistibly squeeze around his cock, her breath catching as he buried into her.

He caught her eyes, savouring the closeness before he pulled her into a deep kiss that left her gasping.

“Spike...” she managed to let out as her orgasm began to build deep within her.

Taking pleasure at the sound of his name on her lips, he pulled her in for another kiss, very aware of how close he was too.

She stiffened and sucked the air through her teeth at the same time it all became too much for him as well. He held her close as they came together, crying out and revelling in the sensations.

They continued to move slightly as they savoured the lasting ripples of pleasure.

Once again he took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, to which she happily reciprocated.

When their breathing had returned to normal, Spike moved to the side of Buffy, pulling her into an embrace.

“Okay I admit I approve of the whole ‘morning cuddle’ thing. Still a misleading title, though.” Buffy smiled.

After a few minutes of stillness, Buffy stirred with a certain degree of reluctance. “I’d better get going…” she began only for Spike to pull her back into his arms.

“No,” Spike echoed her earlier words as he nuzzled her neck and she chuckled. “Just for a little while,” he added softly with a tone that melted her insides.

“Ok,” she agreed, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “One more minute. But then I have to—”

“Save the world?” he offered.

“Make coffee,” she clarified.

“Pretend you didn’t spend the night down here,” he countered, a hint of uncertainty cutting through his teasing tone.

Buffy sighed, tracing lazy circles against his skin. “I just… want to keep it private, you know? The girls would have a field day if they found out. And my friends…” Her voice drifted off.

Spike gave a short, knowing laugh. “Would think you’d lost your bloody mind.”

Buffy shot him a look — half amused, half uncomfortable.

He caught it immediately, his tone gentling. “Hey, I get it, Slayer. Still early days. No point inviting everyone else’s opinion on what’s between us. Not when it’s ours.”

She nodded, grateful for the understanding she didn’t have to ask for. For now, the secret was theirs alone — fragile, real, and safe in the quiet of the basement.

He smirked, tugging her a little closer. “Besides, I reckon I can keep a secret better than you can, Slayer.”

“Please,” she said, smiling now. “I’m way better at secrets than you are.”

“Liar,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her temple. “You’re terrible at it. But lucky for you, I happen to like watching you try.”

Buffy laughed, sinking against him again. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t thinking about the next battle, the next loss, or the weight of the world.

Just Spike. Just them. Just this fleeting, quiet morning before everything came crashing back.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Spike had gotten used to the silence of the basement — the hum of the old pipes, the steady drip in the corner, the faint scent of detergent that never quite masked the damp. He sat on his cot, cigarette unlit between his fingers, thinking about her. About Buffy.

He’d overheard her earlier, corralling the Potentials into patrol groups, that clipped, leader-Buffy tone that always made him half-proud and half-aching. He figured she’d be out for hours.

So when footsteps creaked on the stairs, he didn’t bother to look up. “Back already, are you? What, girls finally mutinied?”

Silence.

Then: “Disappointed to see me?”

He turned — and his grin came quick, unguarded. “Never, love. Just didn’t expect—”

He stopped. Something was off. She stood there, same jeans, same jacket, hair loose around her shoulders — but her stance was wrong. Relaxed in a way Buffy never was these days. And her smile… too sharp.

“What’s all this then?” he asked carefully.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Can’t a girl come check on her favourite vampire?”

“Sure,” he said slowly, rising from the cot. “But you’re usually a bit more mission focused lately. Thought you’d be out all day.”

She laughed — a low, throaty sound that didn’t belong to the woman he knew. “Oh, Spike. You always think you know her so well. What she’s feeling, what she’s not saying…” She took a step closer, tracing a finger along the rough concrete wall. “But tell me — does she let you see everything?”

He frowned, unease prickling under his skin. “You’re not Buffy,” he said simply.

She smiled sweetly, though her eyes stayed dark and cold. “I’m really not.”

The words hit like a punch. His jaw clenched. “Then why look like her?”

“Because looks can be deceiving,” she said softly, circling him now. “You should know that better than anyone.”

He turned to follow her movement, tension coiling in his shoulders. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I already have what I want,” she said. “Front-row seats. It’s adorable, really — the Slayer and her pet vampire rekindling their little romance. The shame, the secrecy, the whispers in the dark.”

Spike froze.

She leaned in close enough that he could feel the chill radiating from her. “Don’t look so shocked. I know her. Every thought, every flicker of doubt. Every time she tries to convince herself that she feels more for you than she does.”

His voice dropped to a growl. “Stop it,” he warned.

Suddenly her face transformed into a more convincing version of Buffy, enough to stir Spike’s memories and to make his stomach drop. “Ask me again why I could never love you!”

“Enough,” he seethed.

“Just as I thought. You’re no fun when you’re all hers,” she pouted before breaking into another malicious smile.

She paused as if something had just occurred to her. “Maybe she’s the one I should be playing with instead.”

“Stay away from her!” Spike shouted, taking a step closer.

Buffy held her ground, folding her arms across her chest defiantly. “Behave yourself and maybe I won’t have to,” she said, stepping back into the shadows. “For now it can just be our little secret.”

And before Spike could move, she was gone. Only the echo and the faintest trace of Buffy’s perfume remained — twisted somehow, wrong.

Spike stood there for a long time, cigarette forgotten, heart pounding dead in his chest.

He’d been through Hell. He’d seen ghosts, monsters, gods.

But nothing scared him quite like the idea of what might happen next.

Chapter Text

The clatter of the kitchen door jolted Spike out of his thoughts. Evening sunlight streamed through the window, warm and fading. He hadn’t slept — just paced, smoked, and replayed that voice in his head.

“For now it can just be our little secret.”

He was still hearing it when she walked in.

Buffy pushed open the kitchen door, shoulders stiff. The day with the Potentials had left her drained — a tangle of exhaustion and adrenaline she hadn’t even realised she was carrying. Her hair hung loose, a little messy from training, and her jacket was wrinkled from the long hours.

She saw Spike and instantly seemed to soften.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re up early.” She noted absentmindedly before giving a deep sigh. “You missed another thrilling day of Slayer boot camp. Lots of running, screaming, and me trying not to stake anyone out of frustration. You’d have loved it—so much potential carnage, so little actual progress.”

He met her eyes — and for a terrifying heartbeat, he didn’t know.

Was it her he’d seen earlier? Was this Buffy real?

He stared at her, really stared. Watching for something — a flicker, a shadow, a wrongness. But there was nothing. Just Buffy, perfect as ever if a bit weary.

And still, his stomach twisted.

Buffy shifted under his intense scrutiny, her cheeks turning pink. “Everything okay?” She asked awkwardly.

He opened his mouth — and the door swung open again.

“What’s for dinner?” Dawn breezed in, followed by Kennedy and Willow, arguing about whose turn it was to cook.

Spike stepped back instinctively, the space between them feeling wrong.

“Spike,” Willow greeted with a polite smile, grabbing chopping board. “Isn’t it a bit early for you? No basement brooding today?”

He tried to smirk, but it came out hollow. “Thought I’d risk the setting sun for once. Keeps the gloom at bay.”

Buffy’s eyes flicked toward him again, sharp, searching. She could tell something was off. He knew she could. But surrounded by people, she couldn’t ask — and he couldn’t explain.

The kitchen filled with chatter and cooking smells. Kennedy was teasing Dawn, Willow humming as she began chopping ingredients. Ordinary chaos. Safe.

Except Spike continued to watch Buffy — looking for cracks. Looking for darkness.

But with the easy smile she gave Dawn, the warmth in her voice as she chatted with her friends. It was all her. His Buffy. Not the echo, not the lie.

The First couldn’t fake this kind of life.

She caught his gaze and frowned slightly, mouthing silently, What’s wrong?

He shook his head. Nothing. And he finally meant it.

Buffy moved closer to him all the while pretending not to.

The kitchen buzzed around them — Dawn laughing, dishes clinking — and no one noticed when Buffy’s hand grazed his. Just a whisper of skin, quick as breath. Spike didn’t move, didn’t dare. But the warmth lingered, solid and real, and for the first time all day, he felt calm.

The smallest smile ghosted across her lips before she turned away, and that was all he needed. The First could mimic her face and her words — but not that. Not this quiet, human ache between them.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

A few days had passed since the First’s encounter, and for Spike, things were starting to return to normal.

Buffy, the real Buffy, had spent the last couple of days with the other Slayers, training, patrolling, and catching up on what felt like a million little things she’d ignored while the battle raged on.

She now sat on the edge of Spike’s cot, cross-legged, one hand resting on his knee as she talked about the day — a minor demon dusted, another Potential whining, Dawn stealing the last Pop-Tart.

He listened, half-smiling, head tilted like he could soak in her voice forever.

For a few blessed minutes, everything felt as it should.

“Y’know,” he said, brushing his thumb along her wrist, “you could stay down here tonight. We’ve not done that in a while,” he added conversationally.

It was true. Since that night together, a mix of circumstances had kept them apart — not only Spike’s lingering fears, but also the potentials occupying so much of their time. Their interactions had continued to be limited to stolen kisses and touches, quick and secretive, shared only when no one was watching.

Buffy laughed softly. “Wouldn’t that ruin your image as the tortured loner type?”

“Could use a little ruining,” he murmured, leaning closer as Buffy’s hand went to rest on his chest.

“I bet,” she teased, her breath hitching just slightly. “I think we both could,” she added.

The air between them changed — that familiar spark, fragile and dangerous.

What started as playful sparring now carried a weight neither of them could ignore.

Her hand lingered on his torso, tracing a line that wasn’t entirely innocent. Spike’s own hand hovered near hers, tense, wanting, but he let her take the first step.

“Careful, Slayer,” he murmured, voice rough with something more than desire, more than need. “Might not be able to stop myself if you keep doin’ that.”

Buffy smirked, leaning just a fraction closer. “Maybe I don’t want you to stop yourself...”

She was just about to kiss him when the corner of the room darkened, and a second voice — low, sultry, cruel — whispered from the shadows.

“Aw how sweet. Just a shame she’s lying to you.”

Spike froze. His gaze flicked toward the far wall.

Buffy followed it, puzzled. “What? What is it?”

He said nothing. Because he saw her.

Buffy — or rather the First wearing her face — lounged against the concrete like a cat, smile lazy and knowing.

“Oh, Spike,” she purred. “You fall so easily, don’t you? Dru, Cecily, the Slayer… always reaching for the light. Always getting burned.”

Spike’s jaw tightened. “Not now.”

Buffy frowned. “Not now what?”

The First smirked. “Tell her, then. Tell her what it’s like knowing she used to dream about Angel. How she looks at you and still wonders if he’d forgive her for touching you.”

It circled him slowly, voice a poisoned whisper. “Or maybe Riley, hmm? All those good-boy types. Must sting, knowing you’re just the monster she hides in the dark.”

Spike’s hands curled into fists. “Shut up.”

“Spike?” Buffy’s voice sharpened. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The First had moved closer, wearing that too-bright smile.

“She’ll leave you, too. You know she will. As soon as this is all over and she’s free to live again. You’ll watch her walk away — back to the sun — and you’ll rot here in the dark, same as always.”

Something inside him cracked. “Enough!” he shouted, louder than he meant to.

Buffy jolted back, startled. “Okay, what is going on with you?”

He looked at her — really looked — and the fear in her eyes twisted the knife deeper. He wanted to tell her. Wanted to say it’s not you, that the shadows were lying to him again. But the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he turned away. “Just… go upstairs, Slayer. Not a good night.”

“Spike—”

“Please,” he said, quieter now. “Just go.”

She hesitated, confusion and hurt flickering across her face. Finally she nodded, slow and wary.

“Fine. Whatever this is… I hope you figure it out.”

When she was gone, the First’s laughter echoed softly through the basement.

“Pushing her away already,” it whispered. “Didn’t even have to try.”

And when the lightbulb flickered out, Spike was left staring into the dark — alone again, with only the ghosts of his thoughts for company.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The cemetery was quiet, the kind of quiet that made the night feel like it was waiting. The group had only encountered a few vampires that were taken care of with relative ease.

Buffy’s boots scuffed the gravel path, the Potentials trailing behind in various stages of eagerness and exhaustion. She glanced over her shoulder at them — then sideways, at the vampire walking just out of step with her.

Spike hadn’t said much all night. He kept his eyes on the ground, jaw tight, movements too precise. Controlled. Like he was afraid of breaking something. Or himself.

“Alright, team,” Buffy said brightly, too brightly. “Let’s spread out and finish up. Same pairs as before. Keep your eyes open — these vamps seem to be in the mood for a Friday night snack.”

The girls moved off, whispering, glancing at Spike like he was both a cautionary tale and a mystery they didn’t dare solve. When they were far enough away, Buffy slowed.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she observed conversationally, her eyes deliberately focused on the ground beneath her.

“Didn’t think the lesson plan required witty banter,” he teased.

“Well, no. But snarky comments always seem to be on the curriculum when you’re around,” she said lightly and was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.

Something flickered in her chest — worry, mostly. Maybe something else she didn’t want to name. “You okay?” she asked, softer this time.

He stopped, finally meeting her eyes. “Nothing for you to worry about. I’m right as rain.”

“Would that be thunder and heavy showers by any chance?” She asked, not quite letting him off the hook.

Spike gave a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching into that familiar smirk. “Maybe a bit of drizzle.”

“Made all the lighter by getting out of my basement for a bit,” she added.

Spike let out a low whistle, shaking his head with realisation. “So that’s it, is it? This isn’t just about me helping with the Chosen Few but rather being out and about for my own bloody good?”

“You mad?” Buffy asked, offering a small smile as realisation dawned on him.

“Never with you,” he said sincerely and gave her a look that made her insides squirm.

“Hey, nothing like a little quality violence to clear your head,” she said, tilting her face and offering a sly grin.

Spike stared at her for a long beat, then smirked. “Therapy sessions from the Slayer, huh? Guess I should start paying for my treatments.”

Before she could reply, two vampires lunged from the shadows, fangs flashing in the dim moonlight.

Spike and Buffy moved as one—no hesitation, no words—just instinct.

Buffy’s vamp came in fast, wild and sloppy. She met him with precision, her movements sharp and clean. A quick sidestep, a backhand across his jaw, and then a spinning kick that sent him sprawling into a headstone.

A few yards away, Spike fought his own with a kind of brutal grace. His style was rougher, dirtier—more brawl than ballet—but every move landed with intent. He took a punch that only paused him momentarily, before he drove his elbow into the vamp’s ribs hard enough to crack bone. The vamp doubled over; Spike caught him by the collar and slammed him into a mausoleum wall with a snarl. Dirt sprayed from the impact, and Spike followed with a headbutt that left the creature dazed.

Buffy broke free of her vamp’s grip, slammed her knee into his chest, and drove him backward into a stone cross.

She ducked as he swung, her stake driving home the same moment Spike’s did, sending the vamps crashing into each other as they dusted.

Ash burst into the air, glittering between them as the silence settled. They stood there, panting, eyes locked through the swirling cloud.

Buffy remembered all too well another night when fighting had turned into something else entirely.

The look on his face made her throat tighten —something hot and electric simmering beneath the surface. She felt it too, the same flicker of adrenaline running through her veins.

For a moment, they just stared at each other — the world shrinking down to that one charged silence — until a nervous cough from one of the girls broke it. The Potentials had drifted back, wide-eyed.

“Right, let’s leave it there,” Buffy said, keeping her tone as neutral as possible while avoiding Spike’s gaze entirely. “Kennedy, you can take the girls back while Spike and I do one final sweep.”

Kennedy nodded and the group headed out, each saying their goodbyes.

As the last of the Potentials disappeared beyond the gate, the quiet of the graveyard pressed in around them. The air was cool, thick with the lingering scent of dust and earth. Buffy turned, meaning to say something but the words never made it out.

In a heartbeat, she was in his arms, his lips on hers, the world falling away. There was no hesitation, no need for explanation—just the heat of the moment.

The kiss hit like a spark in dry grass — sudden, fierce, inevitable. All the air rushed out of her lungs, all the noise in her head vanished. There was no Hellmouth, no house full of frightened girls, no apocalypse looming on the edge of dawn. Just him.

Spike’s hands framed her face, rough palms against her skin, grounding her even as everything else spun away. She clutched at his coat, pulling him closer, tasting the faint trace of smoke and something darker, familiar.

Her back hit the nearest headstone, cold marble against her spine, and still she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Every thought, every rule, every reason to walk away dissolved until all that was left was the heat of his mouth and the way he whispered her name like a prayer he shouldn’t believe in.

When they finally broke apart, the night rushed back — wind through the trees, the far-off hum of the city. Buffy’s pulse was wild, her lips swollen, and for a long, unsteady moment neither of them spoke.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, his tone husky with longing and all Buffy could do was nod, not quite trusting her voice or her ability to move.

A short walk later and Buffy found herself outside of Spike’s old crypt.

It stood eerily quiet. Buffy paused at the threshold, a dozen memories crowding in—nights she’d sworn she’d never come back, words they’d both meant and didn’t.

Spike watched her with a small, uncertain smile. “Thought maybe we could take a walk down memory lane… The good bits, yeah? Before it all went to hell.”

“The good bits being?” Buffy teased.

“Mostly you. Mostly naked. In a variety of positions,” he retorted, unable to stop the hungry smile.

For a moment, neither moved, just breathed each other in, the world outside the crypt fading entirely. Spike’s hand slid to her waist, Buffy leaning into the contact, their closeness electric, a charged silence where words were unnecessary.

Finally, Buffy closed the distance fully, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was slow, lingering, full of every fight, every laugh, every near miss and shared danger between them.

Her hand moved slowly across Spike’s chest, feeling the taut strength beneath, her palm lingering over his heart as thought expecting to feel it beating as fast as hers.

Spike’s fingers traced her jawline, brushing over her cheek with deliberate care, letting the gentleness of his touch linger longer than necessary.

Her hands drifted to his neck, fingertips grazing the nape, and he leaned into the contact, tilting his head just enough to meet hers. The slightest brush of lips—soft, exploratory—sent a shiver down her spine. Spike responded by resting his forehead against hers, the press of their bodies taut with tension, yet unhurried, savouring the closeness.

“You seem better,” Buffy said lightly. “Guess my patented ‘punching things’ method actually works.”

“It’s you, Slayer,” Spike responded sincerely. “You’re what keeps me standing when everything else goes to hell.”

He caught her mouth with his and kissed her softly, but something about his demeanour shifted again as though too many ghosts were descending.

An idea quickly formed and she took him by the hand and led him to the sarcophagus, lightly pushing him till he sat down.

His breath hitched when she positioned herself between his legs, tracing her fingers along his inner thighs.

When she reached for his belt, he suddenly realised what she had in mind. “Buffy…”

“Consider this an alternative therapy,” she said with a teasing smile and he groaned.

Buffy leaned in to kiss him, forcefully slipping her tongue into his mouth as though claiming it as her own. All the while her hand slipped below his waistband and Spike gasped.

She pulled out his throbbing erection and stroked it forcefully causing him to moan, her fingers flexing around his girth.

“Buffy...” Spike managed to get out just before she lowered her head and took all of him in her mouth.

Spike couldn’t help the sound that escaped him and Buffy looked up through her lashes, happily watching him lose his mind over her.

She began to move her head up and down, swirling her tongue around his penis as she sucked around it.

“Slayer...” he moaned, his voice thick with lust, and couldn’t help but thrust into her. She scraped her teeth gently only his length as she replaced her mouth with her eager hand.

Spike caught her eye, mesmerised by the sight of her reddened lips glistening with saliva.

“Guess this works even better,” she teased.

“Get here, now,” Spike managed to growl as he pulled against her.

Buffy laughed as she had just enough time to remove her pants before Spike forcefully pull her into his lap.

He crashed his mouth against hers and lined himself up to her centre, both of them groaning when she slid onto his slick erection and began riding him almost immediately.

Her hands braced against his chest, his name slipping from her lips as she found a rhythm—fast, rolling, letting them both feel every inch.

Spike’s hands gripped her hips and drove into her, acutely aware he wouldn’t be lasting long and wanting Buffy to reach a climax along with him.

He whispered her name like a prayer, burying his face in her shoulder as her pace faltered, and he could feel her walls start to convulse around him.

Their movements turned desperate, perfectly in sync, their breath coming faster as the sensations started to build—

“Spike,” she gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, her body beginning to tremble.

He caught her mouth with his as he felt her come, finally allowing himself to give in and plant himself deep within her.

Spike wrapped his arms around her as the last of the sensations died down along with his movements. He felt something loosen in his chest — like he could finally breathe again, even without the need for air.

Buffy met his gaze and laughed — soft, unguarded — and for a fleeting moment, Spike almost believed they could still be alright.

Chapter Text

Spike lay on his cot in the basement, the air thick with damp and dust. The candle beside him guttered, its flame licking shadows across the walls. He stared at the low ceiling and thought of her—Buffy.

The way she moved, the way she breathed, the way her heartbeat used to sound beneath his touch. He’d never get that sound out of his skull. It was burned into him like holy fire.

He closed his eyes. Thought he could almost smell her—warm skin and rain.

The mattress dipped.

He froze.

Then—her voice, soft and teasing, brushing against his ear:

“Can’t sleep, Spike?”

His eyes snapped open. She was there. Buffy. Hair loose, eyes shining like dawn after the apocalypse. She smiled, that small, secret smile that used to break him.

“Buffy…” he breathed.

“Miss me?”

“Only always,” he said sweetly.

Buffy’s smile faltered — not much, but enough. She looked down, fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest, like she was drawing up courage from his skin.

“I missed you too…” she began softly, voice trembling around the edges. “I keep… pretending it doesn’t mean anything,” she whispered. “You. Us. I couldn’t be more wrong if I tried.”

Spike blinked, the words sinking in slow, like sunlight seeping through blinds.

“What’re you saying, love?”

Buffy’s breath hitched. She met his gaze — really met it — and the ache there almost undid him.

“I’m trying to say,” she went on, her voice barely above a whisper, “I feel something. For you. I don’t even know what it is, but it’s real.”

The words landed like holy water — burning and beautiful.

Spike swallowed hard, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Buffy… you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” She leaned in, forehead against his. “You think you’re the only one haunted? You’re not. You’re in my head. My dreams. My… everything.”

He stared at her, speechless, until finally he laughed — a low, broken sound that wasn’t really laughter at all.

“Bloody hell, Slayer… you’re gonna kill me.”

Buffy smiled faintly, eyes wet. “I’ve come close before...”

And then she kissed him — slow and deep, nothing like the fights they used to have, nothing like the desperate collisions of before. This was real, warm, human.

For the first time in forever, Spike let himself believe it.

He reached out, fingers trembling, and she leaned into him. Her lips found his, slow at first, then hungrier, more desperate. The world fell away. It was only her. Only Buffy.

Then—movement.

From the far corner of the room, a shape stepped forward. Another Buffy. Eyes red and wet.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

Spike froze. The Buffy in his arms didn’t stop kissing him—didn’t even look up. The other Buffy’s tears tracked down her cheeks, her face twisted with grief.

“How could you?” she said. “After everything?”

“No—love, it’s not—” Spike’s throat clenched. He looked between them, panic rising like bile.

The crying Buffy came closer, and the one in his bed smiled against his mouth. Too cold. Too cruel.

Something inside him snapped.

He grabbed the Buffy beside him by the throat, forcing her down into the mattress. Her eyes went wide, startled, then darkened with something bewildered.

“You think I don’t know?” Spike snarled. “You think I don’t see you? You’ve been haunting me, playing your games—”

The crying Buffy stopped. Her tears vanished. She smiled—slow, vindictive.

“Go on then,” she whispered. “Show me what loving me really means.”

Spike’s grip tightened. The Buffy beneath him stopped struggling. Her lips parted soundlessly. Her eyes—soft now, terrified—met his.

And in that instant, he saw it. The truth.

The Buffy he was choking wasn’t a ghost. Wasn’t a trick.

It was her.

The real Buffy.

Her head lolled to the side. Her hair spread out like a halo. And she was gone.

Spike stumbled back, hands slick with the feel of her. His chest heaved; his mouth opened on a soundless scream.

“Buffy?” he whispered.

The other Buffy was gone.

Only the dark remained.

He gasped—sat bolt upright in his bed, eyes wild. The candle had burned out. The basement was empty. His hands were shaking.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, voice raw.

He looked at the bed beside him. Still cold. Still empty.

But he could swear—he could swear—he smelled her on the sheets.

Spike jolted upright, heart pounding like it had remembered how to beat. The room felt smaller somehow, the shadows crowding in, pressing close. He scrubbed a hand down his face, half expecting blood on his fingers. Nothing. Just cold sweat.

“Just a dream,” he muttered, though the words didn’t sound true.

He threw on his shirt, fingers fumbling over the buttons, then snatched his duster from the chair. The leather was grounding—real, solid—but his chest still felt hollow. He needed to see her. Needed proof.

The stairs groaned under his boots as he took them two at a time. He burst through the door into the kitchen above.

And there she was, walking through the door to the hallway.

Buffy.

Standing in the half-light, hair pulled back, jacket slung over one shoulder. Alive. Breathing. Real.

For a second he just stared, unable to move. Then—he did.

He crossed the space in two strides and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest. She gasped, startled, hands braced against him.

“Spike—?”

He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in. The scent of sunlight, shampoo, life. His throat worked, but no words came.

“Spike, what—?” She glanced around, nerves sparking behind her eyes. The Summers house wasn’t the place for this. If Dawn or anyone walked in—

She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the cupboard under the stairs. They slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind them. The space was small, close, filled with the scent of dust and old wood and her.

Buffy looked up at him, eyes wide in the dark.

“Spike? What’s happened—?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He cupped her face in his hands, rough palms trembling, and kissed her—hard.

The kind of kiss that begged, that needed, that said I thought you were gone.

Buffy stiffened for half a heartbeat, then melted into him. She felt it—whatever storm was tearing through him—and matched it, met it, fed it.

Her hands fisted in his shirt. His lips pressed desperate apologies into her mouth, though he never said a word.

Without either of them making a conscious decision, Spike pushed her against the closed door as she desperately kissed him back.

Frantically, Spike hitched her skirt up as Buffy's hands moved to his zipper, releasing his hard erection and guiding it to her already wet pussy.

He moved the material of her panties to one side as he slowly slid into her, both of them crying out at the contact.

Without hesitating, Spike pulled her legs around him and began to move.

He stifled their cries with a kiss, very aware of noises on the other side of the door as he slammed into her relentlessly.

Buffy moaned in pleasure which only spurred Spike on further, burrowing his face in her neck where he began to kiss and suck her delicate flesh.

Buffy sighed and gripped at the shelves behind her, not caring when things started to fall down around them.

Before she knew what was happening, her walls began to tighten and engulf his cock as she started to convulse around him when her orgasm took over.

Feeling her come, Spike could only let out a growl from deep within his chest before following her, continuing to move as the last of their orgasms left them.

Spike crashed his mouth into hers, putting everything he had into the kiss and leaving her breathless.

“Spike,” she began as they finally drew apart. “…what’s happening?”

“Don’t know what you mean, love,” he said as he lowered her and went to fasten his trousers. “Just a bit of secret shagging,” he added with a forced wolfish grin.

The memory of her lifeless body entered his thoughts and clouded his smile.

As he turned to sneak out of the door behind them, Buffy was left feeling as uncertain as ever.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Spike stopped sleeping.

It wasn’t gradual — one day he just… didn’t. He’d lie on his cot staring at the ceiling, waiting for his eyes to shut, but every time they did he saw her face: Buffy’s face, soft and dead beneath his hands.

He told himself he didn’t need sleep. Never really did, not properly. But the truth was uglier — he was afraid of it. Afraid of what he’d see when he closed his eyes.

And worse — afraid of her.

He started timing his visits to the Summers kitchen for when he knew she’d be gone. Slipping in through the door to check on Dawn, to make sure the wards were holding, then slipping out again before Buffy came home.

He told himself it was for her safety. Told himself that if he kept away, the dreams couldn’t bleed into daylight.

But she noticed. Of course she did.

☆☆☆

He was in the basement when she came down. The place smelled of dust and damp stone. He’d been pacing, half-muttered words under his breath, when her voice cut through the dark.

“Spike?”

He froze.

Buffy stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded, trying for calm but looking worried.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said.

He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Got a lot on, Slayer.”

“Yeah? Like what, hiding in a basement and talking to yourself?” She stepped closer. “You think I don’t notice when you disappear?”

“Best you do,” he muttered.

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t do that thing where you push people away because you think you’re protecting them. I wrote the book on it, never ends well.”

That made him look up. Her eyes were fierce, but there was something else there too — warmth, hurt, something that twisted in his chest.

“Buffy…”

“You think I don’t get it?” she went on. “You think I don’t feel things too? You’re not the only one who—”

He stiffened. Her words hit too close, echoing the dream.

“You’re not the only one who what?” he asked, voice low.

She frowned, thrown by his tone. “I’m saying—”

“Don’t say it. Don’t do this again,” he interrupted. “The way you said it.”

“Spike, what—”

He moved before he could stop himself — grabbed her arm, too tight.

“Spike, let go—”

“She wouldn’t say that,” he growled, eyes wild. “You’re not her.”

“Spike—you’re hurting me. Stop!”

Her fist came up fast, slamming into his chest. He didn’t move. She hit him again, harder — the sound cracked through the air.

This time he let go, stumbling back, blinking like he’d just surfaced from drowning.

Buffy clutched her arm, breathing hard. “What the hell was that?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The basement was too quiet now, every sound ringing in his skull.

Buffy rubbed her arm, jaw tight. “You need help,” she said quietly. “And I can’t be the one to fix you if you won’t even talk to me.”

Then she turned and left him there, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the dark.

Spike stared after her, the place where she’d stood already feeling like another ghost.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Buffy sat on the edge of the couch in the Summers’ front room, her bruised forearm pressed lightly against her side. Giles stood near the doorway, arms folded, concern etched across his face.

“I’m worried about him,” Buffy admitted, voice low. “I trust him… when he’s himself. But not when he’s under the influence of someone else.”

Giles’s brow furrowed. “The First?”

“It must be,” Buffy said, swallowing hard. “Giles… it sounded like… he was talking about me. I think he’s trying to protect me.”

Giles’s gaze dropped to the darkening bruise on her arm. “And clearly he’s not doing a very good job of it,” he said noted quietly.

Buffy’s jaw tightened. “He’s losing himself.”

“I’ll talk to Willow—maybe there’s something magical we can do. You… go and get him,” Giles instructed. “The last thing he needs to be is alone right now.”

He gave a solemn nod and left, his coat brushing the doorway. Buffy exhaled and ran a hand through her hair, rising from the couch.

She went to the basement, hope and worry coiling in her chest, but the room was empty. Candlelight flickered low on the stone floor. “Spike?” she called softly.

No answer.

Her stomach knotted. He wasn’t there.

Sighing, she climbed the stairs back to the front room. Willow and Giles were already there — Giles returning briefly, Willow now fully informed.

Willow’s eyes widened with concern as Buffy approached. “So… what happened?”

Buffy quickly filled her in—the basement confrontation, the bruises, the way Spike had looked at her, haunted and desperate. Willow nodded grimly, already formulating plans.

“Only problem,” Buffy said, voice tight, “he’s not here. But I… I think I know where he’ll be.”

She grabbed her jacket, heart racing, determination mingling with fear. Spike was out there somewhere—lost, haunted, dangerous, but still him. And she would find him before anything worse happened.

☆☆☆

The crypt was quiet except for the drip of water echoing off stone walls. Moonlight bleached the cold floor, casting long, thick shadows. Spike sat on the edge of the cot, hunched forward, hands clasped, staring at the ground. Buffy stepped into the faint glow, hesitating, one hand wrapped protectively around her injured arm.

“Spike…you need to come back to the house,” Buffy said softly, feeling unease around him for the first time in a long time.

“And why’s that then, love? We after a round two?” He joked humourlessly. “I hurt you,” he said, his voice sounding small.

Buffy shifted slightly, pressing her bruised arm to her side. “Yeah. You did.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t do that anymore,” he added, voice low, a sad smile brushing his lips. “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”

“And how are you going to manage that? Because ignoring me and locking yourself in the basement hasn’t been working out too well for you,” Buffy said, allowing some of the hurt into her voice she had been pretending wasn’t there.

“I’m leaving,” he said evenly despite how much it pained him. “I don’t want to risk hurting you again.”

“And you think leaving me wouldn’t hurt?” she asked, sharp with frustration and fear.

“Maybe for a little while… but it’ll be for the best in the long run,” he murmured, voice cracking, the words tasting bitter.

“What exactly did the First say to you?” Buffy demanded, catching him off guard for a moment.

Spike composed himself before answering, realisation set in that he could finally be honest with her. “That you’d leave me or hurt me so bad… I’d kill you.” He shook his head.

“And you believed that?”

Spike’s eyes softened with pain. “She’s convincing.”

“It. Not her,” Buffy reminded him. “Not me.”

Buffy took a step closer and his eyes widened.

“It wants you to believe those lies to mess with you. Because you matter, Spike…you matter to me. And it knows how broken I’d be if you suddenly left.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe her, the icy grip of fear and doubt loosening just enough to let hope flicker in its place.

“Please…come back with me. We can sort all of this out together. You’re not alone in it anymore,” she added, reaching out to stroke his cheek gently.

And just like that, the temperature in the crypt shifted. A whisper skated across Spike’s ear, smooth and chilling. He froze.

“She’s here now, isn’t she? Spike—”

Buffy’s jaw tightened as the figure stepped into view behind her, a pale mockery of her own face. “What’s she telling you? That I don’t want to be with you? That what’s between us isn’t real?” she asked, voice rising slightly.

The real Buffy fixed him with a steady, unwavering stare, the kind only she could give. “Well, it is real, Spike,” she said firmly, stepping closer, grounding him.

Spike’s hands shook as he looked at the thing behind her, guilt and fear clawing up his throat. “How could it be? With what I am? With what I’ve done?”

“She’s just trying to break you because you’re important,” Buffy said urgently. “Spike, don’t listen to her. Listen to me.”

“I want this to work—” her voice faltered, raw and vulnerable. “I want to be with you—”

His eyes softened as she shifted closer, stepping into his warmth. “…I—I love you,” she whispered, voice cracking slightly, exposed, trembling.

Spike’s world tilted. “…What?”

From the shadow at the edge of the crypt, the First hissed, venomous and cold: “Please tell me you’re not buying this?”

Buffy didn’t flinch. Her gaze stayed fixed on him, unwavering. “I tried to tell myself it wasn’t real,” she said, voice low but steady. “That what we had was a mistake, a need, something I could walk away from. But I can’t. I love you, Spike. I think I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve been brave enough to admit.”

Spike swallowed hard, the shadow’s whispers gnawing at the edges of his mind, but her words anchored him. For the first time in forever, he let himself believe, and the thing at the edge of the crypt felt powerless against the gravity of their truth.

Spike’s chest tightened. Everything else—the whispers, the shadows, the fear—seemed to fade. All he could see was her.

“I—I love you, too,” he finally breathed, words thick with relief and awe, a smile breaking across his face, shaky but real.

Buffy’s lips parted slightly, soft disbelief etched across her features. “You do?”

Spike reached for her, voice rough but tender. “You didn’t know?”

“I’d hoped,” she admitted, a faint blush rising, taking a small step closer, heart hammering against her ribs.

For a long moment, the crypt held only the two of them, the shadows shrinking away as everything else—fear, guilt, manipulation—vanished in the gravity of truth: they were here, and they were real.

Spike pulled her closer.

When their lips met, it was nothing like before. Before, it had been desperate, frantic, a collision of need and fear, like two magnets rattling toward each other in a storm. But now… now it was steady, grounding, a soft certainty that wrapped around them both. Every brush of lips, every press of hand against skin, carried the weight of truth and promise. It wasn’t just hunger or longing anymore—it was recognition, a shared confession made real. The kiss was a quiet explosion, a soft surrender, and for the first time, neither of them had to fight to believe in it.