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Everything makes sense when she sees the blood on the toilet paper. Her periods were always crazy irregular, something Faith once theorised had to do with Slayer metabolism, but this is the first one Buffy's gotten since her second Second Coming. She totally knows from Anya's spontaneous lectures and also some pamphlet passed out by Willow's old wicca group she'd read one time that most of that stuff about PMS is a myth invented by the patriarchy, of course. And yet, she can't help but feel like everything about the past, God, she can't believe it's both only and already been, two weeks has a sudden logic to it now. If she stretches the myth back a few days.
Now she's un-invisible, Buffy seizes the excuse of pain to spend the next few days at home. She doesn't let herself off from anything major, though. Not now Dawn's social worker has lit this fire under their asses. She runs through the motions of housekeeping, mostly cleaning, but also squaring away everything they need to for the whole magic detox. She confronts the load of laundry she's been avoiding, finally taking stock of all her recently ripped clothing to see what's worth salvaging. She crouches there in the basement, running her hands through the mix of fabrics, ignoring the impulse to just burn it all and every house on their street with it.
She sits at the dining table with pen and paper, quietly seething while she pores over newspapers and even the phonebook for places she can call up to ask for a job. Willow comes down to sit with her around noon each day to place a hand over hers, which she accepts in silence. Dawn relaxes around them both again and starts drafting increasingly ridiculous petitions to the mayor's office, asking them to create the position Head of Security At All Twelve Sunnydale Cemeteries and hire her on ("It's literally already your job! Gimme some time to work on 'em and I'll get us through all that bureaucratic red tape!"). It's been fruitless for the most part, but Buffy's clinging to the fruitful fact that at least she's making a real effort to be an alive and responsible adult. She is not letting herself slip away.
Unfortunately, she's also out-of-her-mind bored and horny. She keeps the water cold when she showers so she doesn't have to stress too bad over the utility bill while she deals with it. Another positive she's clinging to is that at least she's not too sad to make herself come anymore. She'd gotten good at pleasuring herself during senior year, spending the better part of it wishing she could do it in front of, and with, Angel. To show how much she wanted him. That was the fantasy she'd kept coming back to more often than others because it was the safest and most realistic. But it had still felt so forbidden and so stupid, so she'd never allowed herself to ask, scared that it might not work anyways, embarrassed that he could've just said no.
Now she's just mad that she'd touched herself way too much during her last time with Spike. He'd known what she was doing of course, but she had felt freer when he couldn't see the urgency of her hands or how badly he'd made her want him on her face. She shuts her eyes beneath the cold spray now, her breaths shallow amidst the streaming water, working her fingers between her legs. Picturing, begrudgingly, the way his desperate teeth and eyes had found her over and over again in her nothingness.
After that whole invisible-disintegration scare, she knows she doesn't want to die anymore. But this is getting a little sad. The frustration she's been feeling is a different flavour to last week's, sure, it must be, has to be, but it's still only a few degrees off from a death wish. All the bites, bruises and other cuts he'd left on her body have already healed. The only thing wrong with her had been him. She should be over it, but instead she's spent three days touching herself to the dumbest vampire she's ever met.
You really should get a girlfriend, she'd heard Xander tell Spike when he'd thought he was just jerking off. Maybe that's what she should do. Find someone a little less convenient. Who she actually likes. To do this with on purpose in a normal, non-violent way. Someone she isn't afraid to ask. She was so spaced last week that the idea had scared her, but it's Saturday now and the Bronze will be open and she's a hot girl who shouldn't have any difficulty with this and never fucking mind she's still on her period.
Patrolling is the only responsibility she's been avoiding. The Hellmouth does seem quiet, based on the lack of mysterious death mentions in the papers, but it's been three days, so she should probably go out and kill something tonight. After her stupid, horny, invisible self had exposed so much, the thought of Spike being able to see her again is embarrassing. He was already like a stray puppy, nuzzling into her way too hard after being shown too much affection, but now he'll be even more insufferable. Hungrier, more attentive, more familiar with her body, probably better at giving what it so badly craves and this is exactly the line of thinking she needs to cut it out with. Blowing off her Slayer duties just to keep her distance from one single vampire is actually wrong. It's basically letting evil win. Literally, even. She's so much stronger than this, and you know what, she deserves to go out and kill something tonight.
In a week full of regret, though, it has been extremely satisfying to towel-dry her hair now it's so short. The ponytail she tries tonight can't contain most of her locks at the front so she shoves some pins in. She shimmies into a white top and a long leather skirt she'd determined still wearable, slipping a stake into the inner lining of her jacket and a spare tampon into the pocket opposite her keys. She calls to Willow as she passes her closed bedroom door and waves to Dawn who's curled up in front of the TV downstairs as she skips out of the house.
She wanders through the cemeteries for like an hour. It's been all vampires tonight, all of them fledgelings, and there's only so many easy stakings she can drag out before she starts getting bored, mad and fidgety again. Her feet meander towards Restfield while she tries not to think about the evil bloodsucking fiend. She stalks between the graves, twirling her stake in her hand and taking mental stock of what's in the fridge at home, and which bill could afford to be late, and where does Sunnydale get off making its residents pay 'council taxes' anyway? and the likelihood of Anya charging for ink if she asked to use the magic shop's copier to print out resumes. Her head feels like it might explode this way, but the alternative line of thinking is worse.
She finds herself at the centre of the cemetery, and when Spike's crypt looms in the distance she stops and turns around, pushing herself up onto an above-ground sarcophagus. Sitting on the edge of the stone slab cover, she swings her legs back and forth. The back of Buffy's neck starts to tingle as she looks up at the moon, and she's thinking about anything and everything but the evil, bloodsucking, convenient fiend when a strong hand reaches from behind to grip her hair and wrench her backwards.
Spike has spent the last three days working to earn his unliving, and avoid Buffy Summers, with decent success. He's been shaking down almost every demon he's come across before delivering their timely demises and pawning the spoils off. Mostly jewellery and trinkets, but some weapons along with hard cash, too. Plus some magical artefacts he'll slide Anya's way when he can be arsed to deal with that group again.
The Slayer has kept herself scarce. Maybe she's still invisible, he doesn't know, but by the looks of the number of beasties he's slain since he last never saw her, she's not been patrolling at all. Even with the money and adrenaline he's raking in, it's making him sick that he's out here doing her sacred bloody duty while she pretends to have some modesty, letting her use him in this way from a distance.
It's been shit going back to regular demon-on-demon violence now he's tasted her, but he has a point to prove. Buffy craves him as much as he craves her and making himself a little less convenient will make her see. It has to. In the meantime, he's spent his nights hustling then headed back to his crypt each morning to wank over memories of her bloodied mouth stretching impossibly wide as he'd made her come, and all the euphoric little smiles she'd tried to hide afterwards.
Everyone on the Hellmouth, except Buffy and her little gang somehow, knows the cemeteries are properly dead on Saturdays, so he steals a litter of kittens from the pound that were probably due for a put-down anyway and rides them over to the demon bar to dump them on a poker table. He isn't that lucky tonight, just drunk and mostly itchy with boredom after passing on some coke, which is how Spike finds himself in the woods behind the poker joint with a particularly fetching incubus demon who didn't even have to hypnotise him, thinking of how hot Buffy's invisible mouth had felt around his cock.
No doubt he'll cave before she does, but she'll be just as hungry as he is when it happens. Still, part of him believes in the girl. Perhaps kicking her out of his crypt really did give her enough resolve to stay away this time. Which only means he has to go back to loving her the hard way. The prospect of returning to his fool's crusade to convince Buffy he can be one of the good guys and getting caught up in Scooby shenanigans just to be near her makes Spike slump. It's just easier, and sexier, being a threat to her again, coaxing that darkness out of her until she realises it's one and the same with passion. Getting both their bodies what they need while he waits for her heart to catch up with his.
He doesn't notice straight away when the demon stands up to leave.
“Sorry, fanger. I guess I just prefer my men more… present.”
Spike bangs his head back into the tree behind him and then rummages his coat pockets to light up a cig. He should be running after the bloke and killing him for the rush of ultraviolence that would surely fix him up for the night, and also so he can't go blabbing to the entire Hellmouth that his prick doesn't work. But that feels like it might be a bit of a hate crime now.
In his hundred-plus years, nothing Spike's heard about how vampiric soullessness is supposed to work has made a lick of sense. All he knows for certain about his unlife is that it just feels better to do something bad than it does to contribute anything to the world that might be considered good. There are some objectively evil things simply not worth it to him. Ending the entire planet, for instance. But most actions he can reliably classify as 'bad', guaranteeing that demonic rush, are usually criminal and usually violent. They'd involve someone else screaming and would be deemed ungodly by the religion he was raised in. The chip put a damper on things, but in general he's never had to think about it much. It's just an instinct. It's evil because it's him doing it.
There's still grey area, though. A fair few 'bad' things that conflict inside him. Killing a fellow deviant after being a shit lay for him is one. Making the woman he loves mad so she'll fuck him harder is another. And true to the inconsistency of it all, the guilt doesn't always stop him.
He's also fairly certain that love has fuck-all to do with his soullessness, or any other vampires' he's ever met. Except for one, apparently.
Spike finishes his smoke, lights another, finishes half of it, then tosses it into the trees. He watches the ember land aglow on the dark soil and pictures the fire growing into an all-consuming flame that destroys the whole woods. Then he does up his fly and belt before staggering half-drunk down to the car park for his motorcycle.
He rides over to the butchers for blood then hits up the gas station to buy more cigarettes and nick more booze.
Back at Restfield, he stops at the gate when he catches a trace of Buffy in the air. Grinning, he starts to jog towards the source, his groceries clanking about in their paper bag. He turns a path corner and groans as her scent gets stronger, sinking to his knees on the grass.
She's caved before him and now she's gonna get it. He gets to his feet and breaks into a run.
Buffy feels herself being dragged across the stone before she's slammed to the ground. The following kick to her ribs makes her roll over on the grass, and when she comes to a stop on her back, she looks up at the vampire staring down at her.
She's tall, with long dark hair obscuring her face at first, but as she steps closer she tosses it out of the way and Buffy sees that her mouth is dark with blood, dripping down her pale chin and throat and into her neckline. Her black leather jacket and pants are glistening with flecks of red.
“Here for my dessert, Slayer?” she growls, shifting into vampface to leer down at her with yellow eyes. Most vampires as old as this one in this town know to stay away from her, but clearly she's feeling audacious after a feed.
“No one taught you table manners?” Buffy says through gritted teeth as she kicks out at the woman's shins, “Messy eaters don't get any!”
While the vampire stumbles, Buffy uses the opportunity to jump back to her feet, landing a turning kick to her stomach that spins her around. From behind, she locks her arms around the woman's shoulders but loses her grip when the vampire uses the back of her head to butt against her nose. Twisting her arms free, the woman elbows her back into a nearby headstone, but instead of tripping over it, Buffy does a rebound kick to send herself flying back with a downwards punch into her face.
“That all you got, blondie?” her opponent spits, staggering a few steps back and squaring her shoulders before taking another run at her.
The two women collide again in an assault of fists, teeth and leather, hurling each other across the grass, graves, and trees, and soon Buffy's breathing hard from all insults, grunts, screams and clawing. She loses track of the minutes as they drag out. The vamp is always too close or too far away to stake, never losing momentum long enough after a blow.
She is totally not getting her ass kicked right now at all, but besides Spike, Buffy can't remember the last time she'd fought a vampire this intense. And this rude. Going bra-less tonight had been a huge mistake, her chest has never been this sore, and her hair's come loose, clinging to her sweaty forehead. There's blood in her mouth and her heart is beating so hard even she can feel it pulsing in her ears. It's been ages since she's ever felt this riled up on a routine patrol. And she's all out of puns about it.
They end up back at the sarcophagus, where Buffy climbs up onto the stone slab to pin the vampire on her back, skirt riding up her thighs while she squeezes both hands around her throat and the woman tears at her sleeves.
“You know we don't need to breathe, right?” the vamp says hoarsely, glaring as she thrashes beneath her.
“Maybe I just like it,” Buffy snarls down at her with rage, tightening her grip with one hand so she can reach with the other into her jacket to pull out her stake.
“Could smell your little cunt bleeding a mile away,” the woman manages to laugh, shifting her knee to thrust hard between Buffy's legs.
“Bitch!” Buffy screams in pain, and her weapon slips from her hand, clattering away to the ground.
Spike leans against one of Restfield's trees watching Buffy, holding his arms around his groceries and trying to resist the urge to run to her. He's not that far away, about twenty yards or so, and he isn't even particularly hidden, but in all her glory, Buffy hasn't noticed him, too caught up in the adrenaline. The vampire she's currently fighting, whom he vaguely remembers seeing at the demon bar earlier, is giving her a hell of a time. He can taste on the air how wet she is, mixed with her blood, and he's torn between jealousy and the desire to just watch her dance like this under the moon forever. He's not afraid for her at all.
“Enough!” Spike hears her yell, sooner than he would've liked.
Buffy's still on top of her but now the vampire's fangs are in her shoulder. She leans closer to grab her dark hair in her fist, wrenching her away and slamming her skull back against the stone so hard there's a crack. She climbs off then, winded and feral and slightly dizzy, feeling along the ground until she finds her stake again. The vampire slides down in a crumpled heap and growls, crawling after her. Buffy yanks her by the hair again and bangs her into the side of the stone with another resounding crack.
“You did it…” the vampire heaves, sitting up on her knees, “Fucking bitch.”
Buffy twirls the stake in her hand the way she does then plunges it into her, and it takes Spike a few seconds to realise why the vampire hasn't burst into ashes. She'd fucking missed.
Buffy shoves the weapon deeper into the woman's guts and twists while they both scream into each other's faces. Then she pulls it out and finally pierces her in the chest.
Spike tosses his shopping to the ground and starts running.
Buffy's still catching her breath and fanning away the vamp dust when she hears a clattering thud then footsteps from somewhere behind and turns, which is when Spike jumps her.
Like a dog who hasn't seen his master in decades, he crashes both of them to the ground and starts to tear at her with his teeth, hands and eyes, and she's so fucking exhausted that she just lies there, breathing her victory in deep.
Her shirt's already ruined with three different types of blood so he rips it open, pulling back the shoulder of her jacket on the side of her bite wound. Tonguing the puncture marks, he moans against her bleeding flesh, tasting gold and fire. He doesn't have enough self-control to savour it so he moves on quickly, licking up the sweat between her breasts, touching everywhere he can reach so she'll keep making those pretty little gasps. None of the marks he'd left on her last time remain, replaced now by fresh cuts and still-forming bruises from her battle. As he works across her ribcage, he digs his fingers and sucks deeper into every one of those new marks to make her his again.
She doesn't know how long she's spent looking up at the open sky, but through her daze she eventually realises the sounds of his mouth against her skin aren't just those of a devouring animal, but actual words.
“I can see you,” Spike whispers, dragging his lips between bruises, “I can see you see you missed you missed you so much I can fucking see you see you see you...”
“Don't,” Buffy says, because that's the last thing she wants. She tries to move out from under him, but it's like he's everywhere.
“Don't,” she tries again, “Stop... Stop it...” but Spike's tongue in her ear turns her pleas into sighs.
“You don't want me to stop,” he says, rearing back to catch both her wrists when she tries to hit him away, pinning them to the ground on each side of her head. She holds the dark glare in her eyes, but when he shifts their legs to press his thigh against her core, a shudder of want escapes her lips.
“Can smell how turned on you are,” he continues, snickering, “She was your type, after all.”
“Fuck you.”
“There she is! Naughty girl...”
He laughs, and she headbutts him, throwing him off her and scrambling free. She makes it three steps away before his hand digs painfully into her shoulder wound to wrench her back, shoving her forward against the sarcophagus.
“Couldn't keep away long, could you, Slayer?” he says, bending her over and dropping to his knees, “Know exactly what you came here for. Nice seeing this convenient little skirt again…” Shucking the leather hem up to around her waist, he drags her panties down to her knees and plucks her tampon out, tossing it to the grass behind them. He then spreads her folds apart and spits, which makes her let out a sharp little whimper.
“Nice being able to see this pretty pussy again, too.”
Lying on her stomach over the cool stone, Buffy hears the grin in Spike's voice then the sound of his belt and zipper then groans when he takes hold of her hips and buries his cock inside her at last. He doesn't wait, it's been forever and three fucking days, starting at a fast pace before she can adjust. She's so tight around him, it burns them both. Her legs struggle awkwardly between his to slip her underwear all the way down, but eventually she manages to free one of her ankles and open herself wider. The fresh scars across her skin scream deliciously as they scrape against the rough surface with each thrust.
“Christ, love, I missed that smile,” he pants when he catches the flash of enjoyment from her teeth. She's kept her cheek pressed sideways as she grunted into the stone, but when he says this she turns to face forward so he can't see, moving the hands that had been clinging to sides of the slab to rest flat beneath her chin. She stares at the blood spilled from her previous fight drying across the stone and Spike slows, reaches a fist into her hair and pulls, arching her spine towards him and bringing her ear close to his mouth.
“Thought you were done hiding,” he says, in frustration and near-disgust, smacking her ass with his other hand then snaking it around to dig into the bruises on her ribcage. Buffy's breathing so hard she can't respond.
“What was that, pet?” he smiles against her ear, his voice cruel and sweet.
“Harder,” she whispers. And of course he can't help but obey at first. Buffy had only let him fuck her like this when she was invisible before, and having the complete image from her now is everything. She's everything. He's hanging on by a thread to not just come inside her now like he deserves, losing himself in her wetness and the sound of her guttural moans and the slapping of their flesh until he realises she's speaking again, pouting between cries of pleasure, “Don't… please… don't look at me…” and decides to take his selfishness out on her another way.
He pulls out and flips her over to face him, laughing again as she curses the sudden emptiness and pushing her down when she tries to lunge at him. Buffy glares up at Spike, watching him run his tongue along the back of his teeth. Her gaze drops to eye his dick, obscene with her blood, and she's sickened by her own desire.
“Don't be such a fucking coward,” Spike growls, “Always waiting for me to be the monster. Say what you want.”
She seethes for they don't know how long. The words have to fight their way out of her clenched jaw, “Inside… I need it.”
Spike grabs the back of her legs to draw her closer, spreading her wider, and when she feels him enter her again she closes her eyes and relaxes. Her contentment lasts about five seconds.
He's placed the head of his cock just inside her, but he won't push any deeper. Rolling her eyes, Buffy reaches forward to pull him into her but he catches her hands again and pins them to her knees hanging at the edge of the stone, holding them both completely still.
“What are you gonna do?” Spike asks.
Buffy whines, shifting her hips upwards to suck more of him into her, but he's too far away, still too shallow, it isn't enough. She could easily just kick him, shove him to the ground and start riding him the way they both like, but right now she needs it like this too badly. Her cunt throbs around him with rage.
“Get. The fuck. In me. Spike.”
“Right, so we've established what you want,” Spike says, releasing her hands and placing his on her hips, “Now you're gonna show me how much. Touch yourself.”
“What?”
“Touch yourself.”
“Go to hell!”
“I'm not moving an inch until you stop being a coward and let me fucking see you,” he spits, “Go on, Buffy, show me how bad you want it.”
She stares at him for what seems like forever. Then, without breaking their gaze, she cups one of her breasts, then brings her other hand up to her mouth in silence, sucks the ends of two fingers and lowers them, sliding through her curls and to her clit. Losing control quick, she starts rubbing fast while he teases her with his tip, her frantic hand almost slipping when he drips a long strand of spit down from his mouth to the place they're joined.
“I hate you,” she hisses up at him.
“But you love this,” he says, slamming his cock all the way into her.
“Oh, God!” she cries, wrapping her legs around his waist so he won't leave her again, cradling him through each movement.
“Keep touching yourself, baby,” he says, drunk off her desperation, “Know you love your own fingers… Know you love thinking of me while you fuck yourself... Hey, don't close your eyes, pet. Keep looking at me.”
A fresh rush of moisture seeps between them and her following sob sounds like a yes to everything.
“I love thinking of you fucking yourself to me,” he continues, his voice growing more strained with each thrust, “Love those pretty little fingers as much as you do, love feeling you taking what you need from right under me… Feed them to me, love.”
He leans lower, and Buffy slides her hand out to bring her glistening fingers to his lips. Spike sucks them down to the knuckles, his eyes rolling up when her blood and juices mingle on his tongue.
“Love how your cum tastes,” he moans, wrapping his hand around her wrist and guiding it back towards her mouth, because they've fucked enough times now to both know she loves it too, her tongue always chasing after the slickness on his chin or hands or cock. Tonight though, she purses her lips together, eyeing his fingers with an adorable uncertainty.
“Oh, blood too far?” he chuckles, “It's better from the vein, anyway.”
“Gross,” she says a few seconds later, like it's something she forgot she was supposed to say. She's too close now to be mean to him. He lowers his mouth back to her shoulder, lapping at the bite wound that's started bleeding again then moving up her neck to tongue at her ear.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” Spike begs.
Her gasps are getting higher and shallower, and her voice is so small when she says, “I want to come.”
“How bad?”
Panting as well, he raises his face over hers, and she's never felt more seen. She reaches into his shining eyes through hers and finds her own heartbeat there, racing with need. This isn't something she can keep lying about. There's no strength left in her to pretend he hasn't carved her open. Softly, she reaches to traces his lips with her fingertips, then she slides her hand down back between them and tells him, “I want you. I want you to make me come.”
He freezes for a half-second that feels like an eternity and they both think they might be dead until he chokes, “Oh, love,” and she starts screaming because he's lifted both her legs to hook over his shoulders and is driving into her so hard and so fast there's nothing else she can do while the world falls away. She throws her head back against the stone and howls in ecstasy as the orgasm rips through her body, his hand replacing her own to keep circling her clit while she loses control, drenching them both.
His starving mouth dives down to hers to swallow her wails and neither of them can believe it's the first time they've kissed tonight. Moaning, she tangles her fingers through his hair, and he pushes hers back from her brow. He moves to lick the tears from her cheeks, but she pulls him back to her lips, and it's her soft whimper into his mouth that finishes him.
Spike cries out then because God, he loves her, remembering at the last second to tear himself away and pull out to come over her tits, because he didn't get to see it last time. He collapses forwards, leaning against the stone on either side of her thighs, drinking in the sight of Buffy all covered in him. She only stares back with dark eyes, still awed and breathless, licking her lips.
She thinks she's dirty. He thinks she's glowing.
“Give you a minute,” he sighs, bending down to kiss her knees before pulling her skirt down over them. Spike turns from her then, tucking his cock away but otherwise leaving his trousers undone while he staggers back to the tree he'd been watching her slay from. There, he picks up his fallen paper bag of blood and drink, carrying it with him as he stalks back up the hill to his crypt. Knowing what's to come, he's careful not to be too slow about it. Inside, he places his shopping on the top of his little fridge, stepping back just as the door slams.
A grip on his arm spins him around and Buffy is there before him with a stake pointed at his chest. She glares at Spike for a moment before twirling the weapon in her hand the way she does and backhanding him across the face with the blunt end. And then she's on him, tearing off his clothes in pure fury. After so much capitulation she says barely a word, taking revenge on him for daring to be the thing she wanted. And he fights back, because he is what she wants. And she wins, not because he lets it happen, but because she is her.
She pins him to the floor and rides his face so hard his nose actually breaks. She picks him up and throws him down the hole to the lower level, where she digs through his chest he'd shown her and fucks him back until his vision whites out, twisting his arms behind him so tightly they have to relocate his shoulder after. The pain she inflicts is just so intentional like the way Dru had loved him, and he could die like this, knowing that she cares to make him feel all of it. All of her.
It's 2:00am or something, and they're worn out on the floor, miles away from his bed. Spike's lying on his side, using Buffy's stomach as a pillow, and she's petting her fingers through his hair.
“Why do you think...?” she starts but her voice is so hoarse. She has to clear her throat several more times and it's so excessive they both have to laugh a bit. They're still so dazed and mindless off each other that everything comes in fragments.
“That woman before,” Buffy says finally, “That was weird, right? Why was she like that?”
“Coke,” Spike answers, plainly.
“As in…?”
“Cocaine. But only maybe. Saw some at the demon bar. Saw her at the demon bar. She might've ate someone who had some, I don’t know. Tasted something odd on your shirt.”
“Huh.”
"You should get a test tomorrow."
She sits up on her elbows, puzzled.
“Tasted nothing actually in you, mind,” he says, lifting his head to look at her, “But… humans and blood… hasn't been all that safe for you these past few years, has it? And I'm no doc.”
“Oh… That makes sense. Thanks…?” she says, lying back down to stare up at the rocky ceiling again, mostly because she just noticed all the red around his mouth and feels embarrassed about it.
Spike turns his face back and sighs deeply, watching little goosebumps form on her belly.
Buffy continues in her small voice, “So why do you breathe so much? When you don't need to?”
“All the better to smell you with, my dear.”
“Okay, Grandma, I guess that makes sense, too. In a gross, you kind of way…”
Spike feels her reach down and trace her fingers along the marks she'd made around his throat.
“And this?” she asks, “You don't actually feel it? Like it?”
“Don't get the same sort of rush from it the living do, but I feel the pain. And I like the pain. And I like that you like it... Probably because I… like you…? Or something.”
“Or… or something.”
Buffy stills, and Spike can't see her face, but he can feel her pulse panicking through her skin.
“Also it shuts me up, don't it?” he adds, slinging an arm over her hip in a silent plea, “Which I know you like, too. Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” she concedes, exhaling at last.
Buffy's hands move back to his hair, and she drifts off to sleep stroking her fingers through it.