He didn't know how she'd infected his system the way she had. That's what it was—an infection. Wasn't any other way to describe it. He'd fought against it, vehemently denying so much as the suggestion that the slayer was anything more to him than a snack. He knew it was wrong, was against all the bloody laws of nature and would come with a far higher cost than he ever wanted to pay. But even as the chit held death pressed against his heart—her strong little body pressed oh-so-delightfully against his—he knew that all the nonsense Dru had been spouting since they'd left Sunnydale was right; the slayer was in his blood.

What he didn't know was what he was gonna do about it.

Killing her was the best option; leastways that's what his brain said. Other parts of him had different ideas and as she leant closer to mouth some idle threat or another, he couldn't help but think his brain could go take a nice long hike.

He shifted his hips fractionally beneath her—a slight squirm like she was making him nervous with that bloody spoon—and was rewarded by the slight flush of red in her cheeks and barest hint of her arousal perfuming the air when his now-aching cock brushed against her warmth. She covered it up right smart, her face closing off as she murmured more threats. The poof must have scented it too ‘cause the permanent brood deepened—a flash of jealousy lighting his eyes as he glanced briefly at his former-paramour.

Thinking quickly, despite the lustful fog that threatened to overwhelm him, Spike played his trump card and watched in triumph as the cogs turned over in the slayer's mind. Knew she'd let him go; wouldn't sacrifice her friends, not even to rid the world of a renown killer—the girl was too soft, had too much heart. Was her weakness, that. And he knew that one day it would probably be her undoing—maybe even today if he played his cards right.

He allowed himself to be hauled roughly to his feet; her warm little hands sending jolts of electricity through the thin layer of black cloth as they curled into his t-shirt. Spike shot a soft apologetic smile to the slayer's mum as he was shoved through the door and out into the street. Right nice lady, Joyce; knew what he was but still treated him like a guest in her home, let him pour his heart out to her like she cared. Didn't imagine she'd treat him so well if she knew what he wanted to do to her daughter. Not that he was sure himself what he wanted to do to the girl; fucking her, and killing her each held a certain appeal—the problem was he didn't know which he wanted more. Maybe he could do both; that ought to get her out of his bloody system.

Her hand slid from its resting place on his shoulder, trailing tantalisingly down his arm before tightening once more just above his elbow and he caught another waft of her body's exquisite perfume. Spike swallowed hard, suppressing a groan as he allowed her to manhandle him, delighting in every touch of her warm little body. Maybe it was a little too soon to think of killing her? He needed some time to think, to regroup. He'd go along with her demands for now; maybe he could even milk it so he could spend a little more time with the chit. There was no doubt in his mind that the slayer was reacting to his presence just as much as he was to hers; if only he could get rid of captain forehead and get some time alone with the girl. It was pathetic the way the great lumbering git hovered around her like a lost puppy.

Peaches was weak—Spike could sense that—whatever had happened after he carried Dru out of the mansion had somehow returned his much-despised grandsire's soul, turning him once more into the woeful, brooding waste of space he had been when Spike had first arrived in Sunnydale. It had also sapped most of the older vampire's vitality leaving him seemingly weaker than the average fledgling. Why the Slayer was having anything to do with the erstwhile love of her life he would never know, and he suppressed a growl at the thought that Angelus might worm his way back into the girl's heart, and possibly even her pants.

When the attack came, he was quick to take advantage of the situation; waiting until the Slayer was occupied and accidentally knocking his weakened grandsire towards a group of three large vamps before rushing to help the girl with her fight.

He ripped his opponent's head off, and when the dust settled their attackers were history and Gramps was nowhere to be found. He offered Buffy a hand and, delighted when she took it, helped her up from where she'd landed only moments before on the hard ground. He made a show of helping her look for the poof before solemnly agreeing with her whispered assessment that Angel must have died during the fight. Gently brushing the slowly falling tears from her cheek, he mumbled that he'd take her to her friends. She'd been through enough for one night, he told her. And he didn't want to cast the spell anymore; if Dru didn't want him without magical interference, then he didn't really want her either, he confessed quietly and was rewarded with the slayer's sympathetic hand on his arm.

He could get used to this, he mused, walking quietly by the slayer's side. As long as he didn't do anything to cock it up, he reminded himself. Patience wasn't his strongest attribute, but in this case he figured the reward would be more than worth it. Just have to take it slow, he told himself. Play it by ear. Slayer's a skittish little thing, and no good would come from pushing her too soon. She offered him a weary smile, and he decided that maybe life was looking up after all.

the end