Title: "Saturday"
Author: Mala
Spoilers: From "School Hard" and up through hypothetical Season 4.
Rating/Classification: B/S. PG-13. Sorry, but no smut. If you want some, write it in yourself. :-)
Disclaimer: Grrr aaargh.
Summary: As Buffy dreams about the first time she met Spike, more than the past comes back to her.

She dusted the tall dark-haired vampire with the stake Xander had thrown her. And the alley echoed with soft, firm, clapping as footsteps came out of the shadows. . .making her jerk around and ready for another attack.

But it wasn't a vamp. Or at least it didn't look like one of the usual uglies. He was very, very, blond and very, very, pale. A scar cut across one dark eyebrow. Dressed in a long, black, leather duster. Black jeans. Thick, black Docs. He almost reminded her of her old boyfriend Pike. Except a little less grunge and a lot more punk.

"Nice work, Luv," he drawled in a slow, easy, British accent. Not clipped like Giles.

"Who are you?" she gasped breathlessly as Xander and Willow moved up behind her.

"You'll find out on Saturday," he said with a tiny but charming smile. A smile that made him seem like a threat and a hottie at the same time.

"What happens on Saturday?" she demanded, fingers curling around her stake.

His reply was polite, matter-of-fact, and infinitely promising.

"I shag you."

*

Buffy sat up, kicking aside her bedsheets, and gasped for breath.

Damn it. *Again*. She'd had the dream *again*. She'd hoped it was a fluke. A result of too much stress from mid-terms. Or too much slayage. Or even Xander's obsession with the Austin Powers movies. But this was the eighth night in a row.

She dragged both hands through her hair, nearly ripping out several dark blond strands by the roots. "Go away!!!!!" she yelled across the quiet and messy dorm room--Willow was at Oz's as usual, this time for wolf-sitting. "Bad dream! Bad things!" she muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and slipping her feet into her fluffy pig slippers.

She couldn't even tell Giles. It was too embarrassing. Re-living the first time she'd met Spike. . .with one little difference. "I *kill* you" was what he'd really said almost three years ago. "Kill". *Not* "shag".

Did this mean she was desperate or something? Or loony?

Spike had arrived back in Sunnydale a little over a week ago--plowing over yet another sign. He'd parked his big old car in front of her mom's house and gone in looking for hot chocolate. No threats. No explanations. And no Drusilla. Since then, he'd been popping up on patrols. *Helping* her slay. Shouting out warnings Being generally annoying. He wouldn't even tell *Giles* what was causing the burst of altruism, but Buffy figured it had something to do with Dru not taking him back last spring.

He'd left with the full intention of tying up the crazy vampiress and torturing her until she loved him again. It must not have worked.

But the Good Guy Act didn't explain why she was rewriting history in her sleep. He was still *Spike*. Still obnoxious-loud-killing-people-for-blood -kidnapping-her-friends -*Spike*.

Maybe it was because Riley's kisses left her. . .wanting. Because when he touched her with his warm and slightly sweaty hands, all she could remember was Angel's cool fingertips. Because he was quiet and mysterious and dark. But *human*.

"Great. I have a vampire fetish!" she grumbled, moving towards the room's single window and sitting down on the wide sill. *There* was a talk show topic for you. "Yes, Oprah. My first love was an undead babe and he's spoiled me for normal guys."

She dropped her face into her hands, sighing heavily. At least Spike hadn't shown up for patrol tonight. He'd spared her. And God only knew where he was hiding out. Which she was glad for. Because one more night of him whistling jauntily and walking along beside her as she ran those words through her head. . .would probably drive her crazy.

Suddenly, there was a soft knock at her door. Too soft to be one of the girls from down the hall. Or Emily. *Ugh*. As the knock came again, she realized that only someone with Slayer powers would hear it. "Come in," she murmured, not really paying attention. It was probably Giles. Or Xander. They'd gotten very good at sneaking into the building. And practically everybody left their doors unlocked anyway.

"'Come into my dorm room,' said the Slayer to the vampire." The misquote came smoothly from the doorway. . .

And Buffy jerked her eyes away from the moonlit sky. There he was. Leaning against the door as he toyed with the knob and locked it. His gray eyes were bright with humor. . .and she blinked. Did a double take. He wore khakis. And a forest green v-neck sweater with the sleeves pushed up. And a Rolex that gleamed gold against his white wrist. And his Doc Martens, she noted with some relief. "What'd you do? Mug a J. Crew catalog model?" she demanded, sliding off the sill and moving towards him.

"Shhh." He shook his head, raising a finger to his lips. "I'm undercover, Slayer. So if some harridan comes knocking and worrying about your virtue. . . you can say I'm a frat boy who's breaking visitation."

"Oh, and that's *so* much better than a vampire." She rolled her eyes, unable to stop from grinning. "What do you know about visitation anyway?"

"I know it gets broken. . .and that's invitation enough for the likes of me," he quipped, eyebrows dancing saucily.

"What do you *want*?" She wrapped her arms around her waist. God, his smile was even cuter in real life. She was pathetic. And only wearing a thin silk nightshirt. She stopped moving towards him and backed up towards her bed instead.

"What do I *want*?" Spike arched his scarred eyebrow and tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Free cable t.v. Fresh type B negative delivered to my doorstep every day. To play football for Manchester U. And lots of sex. What any normal bloke would want." He shrugged, going over to Willow's side of the room and sitting down on the edge of her neat and tidy bed.

"You're not normal," Buffy assured, trying vainly not to dwell on the way he drew out the word "sex" and made it sound more erotic than dirty. "Kill." *Not* "shag".

"Who wants normal???? Slayer, you know you like me just the way I am!" he teased boyishly as he bounced up and down on Willow's mattress.

"Why are you here again?" she asked instead of shouting, "Damn it, yes! I *do*!" She made a show of studying her chipped pink nail polish. "I've got to get my beauty sleep after all."

He cocked his head. Stared at her for a long instant. Until she started blushing and fidgeting. And he spoke so softly it was almost inaudible."You don't need the sleep."

"Y-you think I'm beautiful?" she sputtered, hands dropping limply into her lap.

"Every day. Every hour." He sounded hoarse. Like he'd just recovered from laryngitis. And he quit bouncing on Will's bed. Got up. "Slayer. I got eyes, don't I?"

Eyes and hair and a body and a mouth. She was numb. Frozen. Couldn't move even if the Hellmouth opened up right under her. "S-spike?"

He made a low growling sound. . .half-moan and half-sigh. "I should've known three years ago that I'd never kill you, Pet. Should've known I'd be no different than any other sod who meets you and gets knocked over by your smile. . *or* your fist." He chuckled, but it was full of the oddest kind of pain.

The same pain that was twisting inside the pit of her stomach. The same pain that had woken her from the dream. "Wh-what are you saying?"

He knelt in front of her. . .mortal face as pure as an ascending saint's. Eyes as blue and sincere as the ocean. "I'm saying. . .I'm Buffy-whipped. I'm saying I came back to Sunnyhell for. . .for *you*. You alive and kicking."

He didn't taste like blood when their lips met, but of mint and smoke and cold. All undead. All Spike. His hands moving up her shirt were self-assured and just barely warm. His mouth sliding down her throat wasn't intending violence. Just plunder. Sucking a hickey onto her pulse point before he kissed his way down to the silken vee of her night shirt.

And all she could do was wrap her hands in his short hair and indulge her vampire fetish.

Over his shoulder, she caught sight of Willow's wall calendar. Her roommate always circled the full moon days in red. Today was the last day. A Saturday. A *Saturday*.

"Shag." *Not* "kill".

--fin--





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