As Spike's boot soles plushed into the wall-to-wall carpet of the second floor landing, he paused.

He could hear the shower running, down the hall to his right.

Grip tightening on the staircase banister, he tried to think this through.

He knew, oh, he knew he shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be coming at her beck and call; shouldn't be mowing down a path in the hopes of getting a glimpse of her... no, let's be honest, *more* than just a glimpse. Because this was no open invitation -- it couldn't be. Buffy was just toying with him, like she had been for days; getting just close enough to taste, then rabbiting away, underlining the fact that she was someone he could never have. He couldn't blame her, but still. Walking down that corridor and into that room could only lead to trouble -- or at the very least, another painful pair of blue balls.

Spike sighed.

Bugger it, I'm going.

He strode ahead, and slowed down as he reached the master bedroom. Daddy's bed. Pictures of Buffy and... guess she had a sister.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar.

Taking a breath, he pushed it wider, opening it to a full, clear vision of her, hands in her hair, arms raised, back arched. Water streaming down the curves and planes of her supple golden body, soap lather sliding along with it, exposing her flesh to him slowly, teasingly. Unlike the guesthouse's, this shower door was not translucent. And unlike the girl in the magazine, this was Buffy.

Fuck.

Lips parting, tongue touching his teeth, his breath caught in his throat. A hundred rapid-fire visions went through his mind: pushing her ass against that glass stall; throwing her on her father's bed, still wet and glistening; licking her wetter; two fingers inside her; fucking her doggy-style in front of the mirror...

Suddenly, she opened the stall door.

Turning off the water with her toes, she nodded at the towel he was holding over his groin. "Is that for me... or for you?"

Spike didn't answer, didn't look away. Head down, he took in every wet, naked inch of her with predatory bedroom eyes. Then his gaze met hers, saying in no uncertain terms: I want you. And I'm going to have you. Right now.

At that raw, hungry, uncensored stare, Buffy's eyes widened, and she shut the glass door. "Okay!"

He exhaled a feral, frustrated growl. What the hell is she trying to pull?

She was panting in the shower, sounded scared.

Scared? He frowned, momentarily shelved his lust, and forced his vocal chords to work. "--ffy."

She gulped. "I'm - I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking--"

He shut his eyes, opened them. "I'm a man. Try to remember--"

He could see her nod, heard her whisper, "Yeah."

"I'm going for a drive." He cast the towel down on the floor and walked out.

* * *

Heart still racing, hands shaking, Buffy slid open the guest house door. An hour had passed and he was still gone. But not for good, if his stuff everywhere was any indication.

God, she'd been such an idiot. She wanted him so much, but when... when he looked at her, really looked at her, she choked. Panicked. Couldn't handle it; couldn't handle him. All that was... him. Cocktease, thy name is Buffy.

She sat down on the bed, and something crunched. Pulling the crumpled piece of paper out from under her, she squinted at its scrawl, written under corresponding chords.

She said my name is Buffy
Leave me or love me
Think you're so tough she said

She said my name is Buffy
Leave me or love me
I'll turn you fluffy
As if that ain't enough, she said

I like to blow
I'll make it slow

With a gasp, she put the paper down.

Another page of sheet music caught her eye.

For Buffy

It looked like he'd figured out a whole orchestral arrangement for this one. Whee, a pornographic rock opera just for me.

Then she read the lyrics.

A lot of them were blacked out and rewritten, and it wasn't done, but what was there was... wow. Poetic, and heartfelt, and not at all pornographic and... wow.

On the back of the page were the words:

I was in a car crash or was it the war, still I never been quite the same

I'm in love with your name

With a shy smile, Buffy turned it over, read the half-written lyrics again, and again. And one more again. Impulsively, she brought the page to her lips, kissed it, and put it down.

It was then that she realized what was happening to her; what had been happening to her since the moment their eyes met on that mountain road.

"Oh, Spike..."

She looked around the room, rubbed her arms, and made a decision.

"You need to go."

* * *

Spike drove and drove and drove -- music blaring, windows open. He'd considered numerous action plans after leaving Buffy's house. Topping his list was finding any blonde bit o' fluff with a remote resemblance and shagging her senseless. Second was going home, bashing Girlyname's head in with his guitar, and setting fire to the apartment.

He didn't do either. Instead, he just kept driving, no direction, no plan.

London calling, to the zombies of death--

He sped down another steep, winding road.

I know this place.

Screeching to a halt, he pulled over and got out.

Yeah, this was the spot. There was still a crackle of her headlight on the ground. He picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and stood up.

As he strolled to the cliff's edge, it occurred to him -- he was really gonna do it. He was going to die to prove his eternal love to Dru.

And Buffy... Shiny, bouncy Buffy Summers came along and saved him. From all of it. With one chance meeting, she turned his world upside down -- dug him out of the darkness and transplanted him into her sunny back yard.

Where he didn't belong... Where he'd never belong.

"This," he chucked the jagged plastic over the edge, "has got to end."

* * *

They were in her car. The top was down.

She was in his lap, riding him, feeling him deep inside. His hands were coasting up and down her back. The sun shone down, bathing them in warm light. The wind moved her hair.

"Spike," she whispered into his ear.

"Buffy..."

"I love you, I love you," she said.

"Are we... going somewhere?"

She noticed with vague curiosity that they were rolling backward down the mountain road, no one at the wheel.

"It doesn't matter," she said, and held on, burying her face in his neck. All that worried her was that when she looked up, he wouldn't be Spike anymore.

The car tipped back and dove down.

"Don't worry baby, I'm still here," he said, gently touching her hair.

She wasn't afraid. She was warm. Content. His.

Right before they impacted and burned to cinders, Buffy woke up.