TITLE: Darkest before dawn pt 2- Vice

AUTHOR: Nmissi@aol.com

PART: 2/??

PAIRING: B/S

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and no one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I would share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it goes.

RATING: R, for sexual situations

SPOILERS:IWMTLY, The Body, pretty much everything else.

SUMMARY: The way the story would go, if I ran the Buffyverse.

NOTE- Special thanks to the list member who first suggested this opening scene. I loved your idea, so I ran with it. I'd love to see it on the show.

Darkest before dawn pt 2- Vice

"So, anyway, Timmy's taking notes on Charity's little foray into the netherworld, right? For his book- and his publisher calls, so while Tabitha's trying to hear what's going on upstairs, he's talking to this publisher. And then, upstairs, Charity's bloke and the priest are standin' in the closet, right? Calling her name. Standing there in the bleedin' coat-hangers, and there's a roomful of people watching, and all there is, is a closet- It was too funny."

He took another drag off his cigarette.

" I wish you could've seen it."

Footsteps interrupted his conversation with the new marble headstone. Someone was coming this way.

"Better make myself scarce, then. Wouldn't do for people to see me chattin' up the deceased, Joyce. Gives the living strange ideas."

He backtracked towards his car. This wasn't his cemetery. He'd been driving across town to pay his respects. Well, that's what they called it these days, anyway. He thought of it more as a long, drawn out, wake. It was odd, really. He felt a strange sort of kinship with Mrs. Summers now. They were both dead, after all. Oh, he might not be able to see her anymore- but he was still somehow certain she could see him. And hear him. So two or three times a week he came by, and talked to her. Just like before she died. He'd tell her what she was missing on her soaps, he'd talk to her about Dawn and Buffy, he'd tell her stupid, inconsequential things like what he was having done on his car. Just conversation, really. It wasn't like he had anyone else to talk to these days. Buffy had avoided him every since the incident at Glory's house, and the Scoobies had made it quite clear they had no use for him.

He'd long since alienated his own kind.

If it weren't for the Nibblet, he'd have no friends at all.

He pulled his long black Desoto around to the front gates, and turned his head for a final glimpse of Joyce's marble. Surprisingly, he could make out the thin figure of Buffy approaching it, in the moonlight.

She sat down in front of the headstone, and he saw that she had flowers in a bag on her arm. A quick glance behind her told him she hadn't taken the watcher's car, or her mother's. The bus then, he decided. He debated as to whether she might appreciate the offer of a ride home when she was through here.

She carefully arranged the flowers into the green foam. Red silk tulips, bright purple silk bluebells, sprigs of artificial baby's breath, and pieces of yellow silk jonquils. There had been live flowers three weeks ago, at the funeral. But these would last longer; look pretty well into the summer perhaps. It was important to Buffy that her mother's grave look pretty. And they didn't allow you to plant real flowers on the graves here in Sunnydale. Dawn had thought that was awful.

"Why can't we plant real flowers for Mom? Why do we have to have tacky fake flowers?"

Mom would've liked real flowers planted here, thought Buffy. She'd have liked the zinnias and the roses from the front yard to be planted here. Instead, she had a silk arrangement from the Frank's Crafts down the road. It didn't seem quite fair.

She placed her bouquet into the ugly little metal vase that pulled up out of the headstone base, and considered it.

"Hmm. Pretty. Didn't know I had so many skills, did you? I'm sorry Dawn didn't come along with. She's just not dealing with any of this very well yet."

She picked up the paper tags from the flowers, and the plastic wrapping from the flower foam, and returned it to the shopping bag. Restlessly, she wondered what she should do now.

"Joyce Summers 1960-2001"

It was there, solid, in black and white against pink marble.

She had thought that coming back here would help, somehow.

It didn't. The frenetic little monster in her head and her hands was still there. She'd been trying to still her nerves for weeks, trying to quiet the monster with noise and conversation, trying to wear it out with activity.

Her nails were bitten to the quick. She hadn't slept more than an hour at a time, and she'd been having headaches, which her doctor attributed to her newly acquired habit of grinding her teeth when she DID. She'd organized the basement, and packed up the things in her mother's bedroom. The attic was sparkling. When she wasn't patrolling at night, she was cleaning during the daylight. The house had never been tidier, or better organized, but still it was not enough, not enough to subdue the hands that absolutely NEEDED to work, or to shut off the flow of thoughts she didn't want to have.

Without warning the spring sky crackled, and rain fell down in thick sheets.

It was fitting, she thought.

"Heaven ought to cry for my mother."

It was pouring now, and she was sitting out there on the dirt, getting sopping wet.

"Silly bint's not even wearing a jacket," Spike grumbled.

He started the engine back up, and pulled out from behind the building next to the iron gates. "Monuments and Sales Office," it announced to the world from its white placard and gray writing. He pulled back down the graveled roadway through the cemetery, back over to Buffy.

"Get in, Slayer. S'raining."

She looked at him for a minute as if she didn't quite see him. Then she stood, and picked up the white plastic sack, and walked to the car.

"It's an hour until the bus comes back," she said, getting into the seat alongside him.

He turned up the heater. She was shivering slightly, and dripping all over the new seat covers. He reached behind her into the floorboard.

"Here."

He chucked a ratty green army blanket at her, as he pulled out of the cemetery and onto the main highway.

She tossed the sack behind him into the back and wrapped the blanket around her lap, burying her fingers into its scratchy warmth.

"They're nice flowers," he commented.

"They're fake. It's all the cemetery allows." She responded.

They rode along in companionable silence for a few miles, and Buffy finally stopped shivering. It was warmer in the car, and her clothes, while not dry yet, were no longer wet through. She still looked cold to him, though. Her hair hung in wet strings around her face. He turned in at a drive-thru place.

"Want a hot chocolate, love? Might warm you a bit."

Buffy nodded.

"Right then. 'Two small hot chocolates, please.'"

He looked back at her.

"You want anything else?"

She shook her head no, and in a few minutes he pulled up to the window.

"Be careful- It's hot. Here."

He handed her the Styrofoam, and she looked around for a place to sit it.

"Cup holder, Spike?"

He gave her a look, and she sat the cup between her knees as she pried the little triangle open so she could drink it.

"You don't want to do that," he motioned to her knees. "One good pothole and it's all over your legs."

"Nah. More like all over your blanket."

They drove and drank hot chocolate. Buffy fidgeted in her seat, uncomfortable in the absence of conversation. Spike glimpsed over at her several times. At the red light he finally addressed her.

"What is it, pet? You're squirming."

She cast her eyes about, looking for somewhere to settle them. They came to rest on a point fixed somewhere about an inch the other side of the windshield, straight ahead.

"Umm, - Are you, uh- Healed up okay?"

She'd been worried, but unwilling to go check him herself.

Things still weren't right between them, his "crush" hung in the air like an unanswered question. It colored every thing she said, and every thing he did.

He spared her another glance, as he tossed his empty cup out the window.

"Yeah."

She ignored the littering.

He fumbled a cigarette from his coat pocket, and tried to light it.

"Damn. This one's dead. Buffy, get me another lighter out of the glove box."

"Where is it?"

She had her hand in the glove compartment, but all she was pulling out were maps and papers. She laid the metal flask in the seat next to her, and went back to rummaging.

"I can't find it."

He leaned over, and she felt the cool hardness of his hand glide over hers as he felt about for the lighter. Just then her fingers closed over it.

"Here, I've got it." She shoved it at him.

A spark lit up the harsh planes of his face in the interior gloom. Then it was gone, and she found him in the darkness by his rough tones.

"Want one?"

His blue eyes were on her again, and now she could feel them, even if she couldn't see them. She thought for a minute, and then surprised him when she put her hand out.

"Yeah, sure."

He took the fag from between his lips and passed it to her, then lit himself another. She pulled the smoke between her lips, enjoying the warmth of it. It smelled bad; it WAS bad. But then, who was going to tell her she shouldn't? She inhaled deeply.

And choked.

She could practically Smell him Smirking at her in the blackness. She dropped the empty cup to the floorboard.

"Don't take such deep breaths, and hold your mouth open- take in the air with the smoke."

She did as he instructed, and found it much easier.

He addressed her with amused reproach.

"Tsk. Tsk…What would your mother say?"

Her voice was hard, cold.

"My Mother is Dead."

Damn. He'd stepped right into that one, he had. With both feet.

"I'm sorry, pet. Wasn't thinking."

"S'okay, Spike. I know."

He heard her hands, scrabbling in the seat between them.

"What's in the flask?"

What was she up to?

"Bourbon, pet. Same as the last time you saw it."

Ah. He understood.

She drew off the bottle. Her hiss of breath told him she didn't like it.

"Not to your taste, pet?"

She took another drink.

"S'fine."

They pulled up into her driveway. The house was dark, the porch light off. It must be odd, he mused. There'd be no Joyce there waiting up for her, now.

She opened the door, and hesitated. Then she turned back to him, leaning her head back into the car.

"You want to come in?"

He saw his bottle was still in her hand, but her cigarette was gone now.

"Yeah. I'll do that."

He turned off the engine.

She unlocked the front door, and then turned faced him across the threshold.

"Come on in, Spike."

He followed her, from the blackness without, to the blackness within. As she moved into the living room, he shut the door behind them.

"Where's the Bite-Sized One?" he asked.

Buffy was somewhere in the living room, but she'd yet to flick the lights. He moved toward the sound of her voice as she answered him.

"She's in L.A. with my Dad."

Oh.

Buffy was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, facing the sofa. STARING at the sofa, in fact.

He took a seat across from her.

"Can I have another cigarette?"

"Well now. That was about the last thing I expected to hear you say," he drawled, as he reached into his coat pocket and drew out the box. She was still sucking on the bottle; he could just make out the shape of her hand and her face in the darkness. He lit her a fag and passed it over to her.

"Here. Careful now, don't choke on this one."

She took it, then stood up, and stepped away from him. He could make out her figure in the dim light coming through the front door, as she considered the staircase. She tossed back another drink, and came back into the living room, and perched once more on the coffee table.

Her smoke wafted toward him, and he lit another cigarette for himself.

"An ashtray, love?"

She rose, and walked into the kitchen. Some minutes later, she returned, and handed him a saucer.

"Will this do?"

"Yeah. It'll do."

She sank back down before him, drawing on the flask and the fag. There was restlessness in her motions, she moved around uncomfortably.

And Spike wondered what the Hell was going on here?

Gently he asked her.

"Well, I'm here now. Not that I don't appreciate the re-invite, Pet, 'Cos I do. But really"-

His voice dropped even lower.

"What am I doing here?"

She tossed her head back, and from the way she swallowed he figured he'd have to refill that bottle when he got back home. It looked like she'd drained it.

"I just don't wanna be alone right now, Spike. Besides, it's not like you've got someplace else to be."

She had him dead to rights there.

They sat in the dark, smoking and not speaking. There was a current in the air, a sense of purpose. He was not gifted like Drusilla, but he had a sense of expectation, that something was about to happen-

She came at him unexpectedly. He flinched, only to find her mouth where he'd learned to anticipate her fists. She was in his lap, her mouth warm and hard against his. She tasted of his cigarettes and his booze, and smelled of warm things like vanilla and sunshine. He buried his hands in her hair, and dimly was aware of her hands upon him, moving. Like nervous animals her fingers searched him, digging hard into his shoulders and then down his chest, and up under his black t-shirt.

They stopped at one of the scars, and she ripped her mouth away from his.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, Slayer."

A short answer was all he had breath for. She was back at his mouth, and tugging his shirt up.

They broke apart to pull it over his head, and he turned to her soggy clothing. He ran his hands over the wet fabric of her shirt, pulling it taut against her nipples. She gasped, and lightly ran her nails over his scars.

He sought her face in the dark, but he couldn't see her expression.

"Slayer"-

"Ssh. Don't talk. I don't wanna talk."

The pain in her voice was wrenching. She kissed him with desperation, and he sensed the urgency within her. She needed this. Right or wrong, she needed him right now.

It was enough.

Hastily he tugged her blouse up, exposing her pert breasts to the cool air. He pulled his mouth away from hers, and took her nipple between his lips, suckling, as she pressed her center against his hardness.

In his haste and passion he ripped her blouse; she retaliated by breaking the zipper on his jeans. She freed his erection from the denim, and he knew a moment's misery when she pulled free of him and stood.

But she was back then, on her knees in front of him, and her mouth moving upon his length was glorious. Her untutored kiss exhilarated him. But he needed more than that, he needed her depths.

He dragged her up, and she understood. Quickly she peeled off the sodden suede pants and returned to his lap. He seized the back of her neck, and pulled her face to his for another frantic kiss. He could taste himself in her mouth now, and it excited him unbearably. His hand stole below, to caress her. She was all wetness and heat, gasping into his mouth as he plunged his fingers into her.

"Now, Spike. I need you, in me, now."

He would've carried her upstairs, but he knew he'd never make it. He was too wild with need of her. He slid his hands beneath the globes of her rump, lifting her slight weight. She was so deceptively fragile feeling in his arms.

She sank her nails into his shoulders as she plunged down upon his staff. Her head tilted back, he could hear the blood in her veins, the pounding of her heartbeat, the throbbing of her desire. He wanted to see her face, desperately needed to see her, but it was so dark.

She rose and fell atop him, in the human rhythm of passion. He tipped her hips with his hands, wanting to bury himself inside her, to be deep within her walls. She was fire, a conflagration igniting his dead heart and immolating him until he feared there'd be nothing left, just a heap of ashes when she'd finished with him.

Somewhere in their passion his demon surfaced, and her lips scraped against his fangs, drawing blood. It sang in his mouth, calling for more. She hissed painfully, rocking against him. Never breaking the rhythm, she tossed her head back, and called his name.

"Spike."

She wanted more, she wasn't there yet. Her breasts bounced before his eyes, as she rode him. He took one in his mouth, and sank his fangs in.

She came, in a scream, her nails in his back. Blood for blood. She didn't want him to stop. He could feel it. But he had to. The sweet taste of her blood in his throat, he retracted his fangs, and dragged her mouth back to his, in a forceful, almost angry kiss. He came inside her warm, wet heat.

She was sobbing quietly now, in his arms, and kissing the ridges of his forehead softly.

He regained control, shoving the demon within back down, as he held her and murmured soothing words to her.

"S'okay, pet. I'm here. Ssh, I'm here. I love you."

She sagged against him. For some minutes he just held her, listening to the hitches of her sobbing, until she was finally quiet, asleep on top of him.

He withdrew from her, sliding out, and cradled her head against his chest. He'd like nothing better than to sit here like this, with her, all night. Watch the sun rise with her. He wondered what her naked form would look like in warm sunlight, and knew a moment's bitter disappointment that he'd never see that sight.

Besides, it wouldn't do to have her awaken naked on her mother's couch. And what if one of her friends, or maybe her watcher, should come by?

He laid her on the sofa. The moonlight through the window could touch her now, now that he wasn't in its way.

"Jealous moonlight, that I touched her," he thought.

She was exquisite, her honeyed skin glowing before him. He'd never seen anything so lovely in his entire Unlife. His heart hurt just to look at her.

She still slept. He lifted her in his arms, and carried her up to her bed. Gently he placed her within the covers, and kissed her forehead.

"Sleep well, love."

Then he went back down after his clothes, and dressed. He left feeling more wretched than when she'd uninvited him a month ago. He loved her. And it was breaking his heart.