I storm into Spike's crypt, rage building rapidly in my chest, busting into the dim interior with one hard, booted kick to the door.

I'm greeted by the peroxided pest himself, all long and lean and glowering. The sour expression makes his cheekbones razor sharp, his jaw line more angular.

"Shoulda known it's you," he snarks, blue eyes fixing me with a cold disdain that I'm sure is mirrored on my own face. "Been nearly six hours."

I raise my eyebrows at him, posturing, anger in my chest rising like bile in the back of my throat. "Well, it would've been less if I wasn't busy cleaning up your mess."

"My mess?" A disgusted, disbelieving look passes over his face. "I just borrowed the Doc. The mess is yours, Slayer," he spits my title out like its poison. "Yours and the boy's."

That's it.

Taunting me over Riley's sickness was one thing.

Stealing the Initiative's doctor.

Attempting to get the stupid chip out.

Going for my throat.

Those were all one thing. Spike, being Spike.

But this. This. Him turning it all around on me, like it's my fault that none of his hare brained schemes ever work out. Like its Riley's fault that he almost died today because Spike was too busy trying to get his anti-serial killer handicap reversed.

So he could kill me.

For some reason, in this moment, it's the last straw.

I'm seeing red as I step toward him, moving further into the crypt. I'd told Spike last night that Riley wasn't the only one who could die.

He's about to find out how true that had been.

"I'm done." I pull the stake out of my back pocket, raising it into striking position.

Spike takes an involuntary step backwards. The look on his face gives me surge of satisfaction.

I raise my eyebrows at him, a cruel smile playing on my lips. "Spike, you're a killer. And I should've done this years ago."

Spike watches me approach him, indigo eyes gleaming, darting back and forth warily between my face and the piece of sharpened wood in my hands.

Then I see it.

The hard set of his lips as they form a thin line. The look of grudging acceptance that steals over his gaze.

Resignation.

When he speaks, his voice is low. A tense, growling whisper.

"You know what?" He raises his chin up, looking down at me. "Do it. Bloody just do it."

I pause mid-stride, fingers instinctively curling tighter around the stake. My hand falters just slightly as I blink up at him, stunned.

Do it?

Furrowing my brow, I ask, "What?"

"End my torment," he breathes, azure eyes narrowed as they search mine. "Seeing you every day, everywhere I go, every time I turn around. Take me out of a world that has you in it." He yanks the silky black button down off, letting it fall to the ground in a puddle at his feet. Bare chested, he gazes back at me, eyes wild, lungs heaving in and out with unneeded air. "Just kill me."

I pause for maybe half a second before I take the final step toward him, arm raised high again, stake poised to strike.

But I freeze.

I can't move. I can't bring the stake down. I can't get the wood any closer to his heart than I already have. My eyes go wide as I stare into his face, the realization hitting me like a sucker punch to the gut.

I can't do it.

After all these years, all the times he's tried to kill me, how much of a giant pain in my ass he's been…I can't do it.

I don't have time to think about why, what it could mean.

Spike wraps two strong hands around my upper arms and drags me toward him, capturing my lips with such bruising force that it takes my breath away.

My immediate instinct is to shove him away from me. Punch him the nose. Drive the stake into his heart and watch him disintegrate into a million dusty pieces.

I don't. I don't do any of these things.

I let the stake fall from my hand, dropping to the ground at my feet.

And I kiss him back.

Passionately.

I respond to his kisses, my hands falling to his hips, momentarily taken in by him. The suppleness of his lips over mine, the soft, cool skin beneath my fingers, the scent that surrounds me that is so undeniably him. So deliciously Spike.

Spike.

Oh, God.

Breaking the kiss with a wild, repulsed gasp, I stumble away from him. My hand flies to my mouth as I stare into his face, feeling at once completely shocked and disgusted. Both with him, and with myself.

And I'm more than a little confused. My body's buzzing, calling out to him. My lips tingle where his had covered them only seconds ago. My skin burns where he's touched it.

He's looking back at me with the same wild, confused expression I know he sees on my face.

This is wrong. Big, big wrong. Elephant sized wrong.

This is Spike. Slayer of Slayers. The same pain in the ass vamp who came to Sunnydale three years ago with express desire to kill me. The same one that's made it his personal mission to screw up my life and the lives of the people around me every chance he gets.

So why are my lips still tingling? Why does the lingering taste of him on my tongue only make me want more?

Why am I moving back toward him?

Unthinking, moving with blind, white hot desire, I place both hands on either side of his head. My fingers glide into the soft platinum curls at the nape of his neck, and I pull his lips back to mine.

They're so soft. Gentle and surprisingly sweet as they move against mine in sweeping, deep, open mouthed kisses. There's an urgency, the kisses almost manic as our lips claim one another, hands moving everywhere, seeking and finding and possessing each other.

He tastes incredible.

Cigarette smoke and whiskey and something else, something sweet.

I press my body closer to his, molding myself to him, inhaling him as our tongues move in hurried and battling strokes.

And then, much too soon, his lips part from mine, trailing over my jaw and down my neck.

"Spike," I exhale his name on a half gasp, eyes closed, digging my fingers into his back to pull him tighter against me. He's nibbling and sucking the tender skin of my throat. "I want you."

"Buffy," he murmurs hotly against my skin. "I love you."

I can't stop the gasping moan from escaping at his words, sparks shooting down my spine, opening into tiny butterfly wings in the pit of my stomach. His lips graze my throat again as he pulls back from me, and my eyes flutter open in time to see his, dark and glazed with lust, gazing back down at me.

And oh, God, the look on his face. All the torment and the anguish and the heady, exquisite need.

For me. All for me.

It steals the air from my lungs.

"God, I love you so much."

I sit bolt upright in bed with a scream, heart pounding, echoes of Spike's huskily whispered confession ringing in my ears.

A dream. It was just a dream.

An erotic dream.

About Spike.

I groan out loud, cover my face with my hands, digging the heels of my palms into my closed eyes.

"Not real, Buffy," I whisper, trying to calm my racing heart. "Wasn't real."

But it had seemed real. Really real.

So real that even now I feel like I can taste him, alcohol and smoke, on my tongue.

I slide my hands up into my hair, burying my fingers in the sweat-slick strands just above my forehead. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I will away the last remnants of the dream. Any second now, my lips will stop burning.

My door pops open, and mom sticks her head around the corner. Her eyes are wide, worry creasing her forehead.

"Buffy, sweetheart, is everything okay?" She takes a step into the room, leaning slightly on the door jamb. "I heard you screaming."

I'm the world's worst daughter.

"No, I'm fine, mom." I smile brightly at her. "I'm sorry I woke you."

Mom smiles at me. "You didn't wake me, honey. I can't seem to fall asleep." She shrugs, looking very tired. "Must be all the excitement from today."

I frown, immediately lifting the covers up and getting out of bed. "Speaking of which, you should be resting." I cross the room, reaching out to take one of her hands in mine. It feels clammy. "You heard what the doctors said."

"What's going on?"

It's Dawn. She's standing in the hallway just outside my bedroom, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Mom and I exchange a look, turning towards her.

"Nothing, sweetie," Mom reaches out, running her hand down a long strand of Dawn's chestnut hair. "Buffy had a bad dream."

Dawn nods, yawning widely. "Yeah, I heard her scream."

I look at my little sister sheepishly, feeling like the world's biggest . "Sorry, Dawnie."

After we'd gotten back from the hospital this afternoon, I'd volunteered to spend the night at home. Just in case anyone needed anything, or if mom started to feel bad again.

Kind of thought that everyone, including me, would feel better with the slayer sleeping in the house. Now, I've gone and woken everyone up. And why? Because I had some silly nightmare?

Because that's what it was, right? That's what it had to have been.

"Soooo everything's okay then?" Dawn asks, looking back and forth between Mom and I.

"Yep, everything's fine. Just me being Bad Dream Buffy." I smile, mimicking my mom's movement from a moment ago, running a strand of Dawn's hair through two of my fingers. "You should go back to sleep." I turn toward Mom, one eyebrow raised. "And so should you."

She gives me a sardonic smile, shaking her head. "I thought I was the parent here."

But she turns and starts padding down the hallways in the direction of her bedroom, anyway.

"You are," I say, falling in line behind her, waving Dawn back to bed with a glance over my shoulder. "And you can go back to parenting us around tomorrow, after you've gotten some rest."

We reach her open bedroom door, and she turns around to give me another serious look.

"I'll be fine, Buffy." She searches my eyes, reaching out and squeezing my hand again. "You don't have to worry."

I mock scoff.

"Worry? Who's worried?" I give her a reassuring smile, letting go of her hand. "I'm not worried."

Mom gives me a knowing look, the kind all moms seem to inherently know how to do when they know their kids are putting on a brave face. But she doesn't argue with me.

"I'll see you in the morning," she says lightly, turning to go into her bedroom. "You get some sleep, too."

"I will," I assure her, grinning as she slowly shuts the door behind her. "Right now, off to bed I go."

As soon as the door clicks shut, I race back to my bedroom and close the door behind me. I fly to my closet, digging through it until I find a basic pair of jeans and a loose fitting, long sleeved sweater. Tossing off my pajamas and replacing them with the sweater and jeans, I grab a stake out of my weapon's chest and tuck it into my waistband.

I cross the room and push open my window, feeling slightly silly for sneaking out this way again after years of being able to come and go through the front door. Still, I've already woken everyone up once. The last thing I need to do is cause mom any more stress, or keep her from getting the rest she needs.

But staying here, going back to sleep…well, that's a giant 'not' on the options list.

I've gotta get out of here.

I have an overwhelming desire to slay something.