Lost

CSI belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer, and Buffy belongs to Joss Whedon. I don't own either, but crossing them over in this screwed up little thing was my idea.

"Don't move."

Greg Sanders froze, heart pounding so loud he swore the people inside the old warehouse bar he stood next to would be able to hear it over the pounding bass.

The hand pressed against his shoulder, pressing him tight against the wall.

Swallowing, he tried to look back at the potential assailant behind him. "Hey," he said, as non-threateningly as possible. Defuse the situation, make the assailant feel that you're not a threat. If you are not a threat, then they are less likely to react with violence. "What's up?"

"You're not from around here." The vaguely British voice behind him said, the hand on his back cool and insistent.

"Uh, no. Vegas." He grinned disarmingly. Give them the illusion that you're friendly, give him sparing personal details so he feels like he knows you. Assailants are statistically less likely to attack people they feel they know. "I'm on vacation, thought I'd check out the scene. I'm used to staying up all night, right?"

"Are you now?" the other purred, leaning closer and brushing his nose against Greg's hair as though he could smell him. Supremely creepy, but thus far harmless. A disturbing trend though, as it suggested either possible drug use, or a sexual perversion. Drugs means he can be stopped, through fear, intimidation, force, so on. Sexual perversion means he could either be shamed out, or he's unstoppable. If he thinks I can stop him...

"Yeah, I work the night shift. I'm a crime scene analyst."

"Oh yeah? Solving crimes, is that it? Playing with blood?"

Greg shrugged, telling himself that soon someone would be coming along, he'd be all right, he just had to keep this strange British man talking... If he keeps talking, he's not likely to attack, he'll be absorbed in his own conversation... "Yeah, pretty much. It's interesting work, solving crimes, that kind of stuff. It's a good job."

"You like it?" the other asked cheerfully, though his voice was dark, almost hypnotic.

"Yeah," Greg blinked, confused.

"Well, that's always good. One should like their work, yeah?" The hand on his back moved, then Greg yelped as he was spun around, and slammed back into the steel wall, facing his black clad, electric white haired, cheekbone of doom assailant.

"Hey!" Greg yelped, wishing he had his gun. This guy was nuts, and what kind of person attacks someone on their way to the most crowded spot in town? Definitely either drugs or perversion... probably drugs, unless part of his obsession is his victim looking at him, unlikely due to the aggression and anger shown, then this is more likely drugs...

The other guy smirked, slamming a hand against the wall on either side of Greg's head. "You're strangely cute, pet."

"I shall take that as a compliment, though I've never been called 'pet' before." Greg arched his brows. Scratch that, sexual perversion. I'm being hit on by a sexual predator! I think. "Are you coming on to me?"

"If I was, you'd know. I ain't exactly subtle, luv."

"And that's a 'yes'," Greg sighed, thunking his head back on the wall. Compliment him to throw him off guard and give him the illusion of power, so he feels at ease, but then pull the power away from him. "Great. Okay, look... you're cute and all, okay, fucking hot, but I'm not sticking around. I'm going home on Monday, because Vegas night life rocks, and..."

"You get lots of odd cases round those parts?" the other asked, frowning. He looked intrigued. "Weird deaths?"

"Well, it is Vegas," Greg laughed awkwardly, not sure he liked the strange twist this already bizarre conversation was taking. We're not in Vegas... this is disconcerting. A little creepy. "If it's weird, we've had it. Clowns found in trannie county, bodies with all the blood drained out, restaurant chefs shoved in meat grinders, you know, that kind of stuff."

"Huh." The other mused thoughtfully. "Cute little piece of tail, nice stomping ground... huh. I could use a change of scenery. The bitch's been riding my ass a little too much for my liking lately, anyway."

"Hookay," Greg said suspiciously. Shit. "And this means... what, then?"

The other just grinned, and darted his head forward to kiss Greg passionately, making him whimper as his head thunked back against the wall again. God damn it! Obvious sexual predator... I don't want to end up a body in a barrel with a hole in my head! Trailing kisses down Greg's jaw, he nibbled on his neck, then drew back and sunk his teeth deep into Greg's throat, making the young man cry out in shock and pain. What...!

Clutching at the other, Greg's fingers clenched half in pain and half in pleasure, writhing as blood was drained greedily from him. He scratched furiously at the other's skin, drawing blood and making sure that he had captured a good amount of epithelial and therefore DNA under his nails, and that he left identifying scratches. He would have tried to leave more evidence, but he was getting more and more lightheaded as his blood was greedily slurped up.

Drawing back at last, the blonde gasped, and slashed open his own wrist, pushing it against Greg's mouth, grinning widely, mouth bloody, when he swallowed desperately, instinctively.

At last, Greg slumped weakly against the other, body cooling as his heart stopped. Had he been more alive, he would have tried to find some way to indicate time of death for a coroner, but as he was dead and quickly cooling due to the lack of blood to maintain a blood temperature, that was swiftly becoming a non issue.

Spike grinned.

"A childe and a place in Vegas. Come on, then, time to go."

He hauled Greg's dead body into the backseat of his old De Sota, slamming the door and hopping into the front seat.

"Kay, Childe of Mine," he laughed, cranking on the engine and reaching back briefly, to pat the limp head behind him. "By the time you wake up, you'll be able to tell us where the new home is. And then we'll get you fed. You thought you liked Vegas before..." he laughed. "Luv, you are gonna adore it now!"