Night. Quiet. But the sky wasn't bottomless night-black, like a long-forgotten well; it was the color of crushed violets mixed with watered down India ink: soft and rich and dark but still not quite black. The color of the sky when the sun is just about to rise... but that was still hours away, yet.

A black-clad figure vaulted up onto the porch railing, using it to boost himself up onto the small ledge created by the roof of the second story of the house. He moved carefully, quietly, knowing that even the slightest sound might rouse the occupant of the room he was looking to sneak into.

And that just wouldn't do.

He tested the window and found that it had been left unlocked. He shook his head - even knowing what could be out roaming at night in this town, the kind of badness that could come from carelessness such as this - she'd left the window unlocked.

The pads of his fingers gripping the painted wood frame, he eased the window up, inordinately grateful that it didn't squeak.

He squeezed through once there was a big enough gap to accommodate him. Even the finest feline or cat burglar couldn't have asked for a setup this tasty. This easy.

Reaching into the pocket of his duster, he pulled out the items he'd carried along with him for the deed.

He twisted the cap off of the brown chemist's bottle as he approached the bed, withdrawing a white cloth from his other pocket. He'd have to be careful with the dose.

As the Slayer, her recuperative powers were greater than that of a normal human being, so he'd have to be careful - he'd have to almost overdose her just to keep her under long enough to do what needed to be done.

He wanted her out, but not dead...

Not yet, anyway.

Just a few drops would do the trick.

He'd never been one for chemicals or magic or anything of that sort - too easy.

No, that night and what he was about to do was all about the symbolism.

She lay in bed, head turned to face him, her entire body angled toward him, almost as though she could sense somewhere within herself that he was there. Drawn to him, even in sleep. One hand curled on the pillow where her head lay, her blond hair curling in misty soft waves.

Yet another thing she'd done to spite him, to hurt him.

His fingers twitched of their own volition, longing to touch, but he immediately tamped down the impulse.

Placing the cap back on the bottle and cupping the cloth in the hollow of his hand, he leaned down over her, casting shadows on her sweetly sleeping face.

His hand smoothed up over her chin, the anesthetic laden cloth fitting over her nose and mouth. No need to press or get rough. The stuff would do the trick all on its own. Sweet lady Ether winding her arms around his sleeping lover, drawing her down deep.

Satisfied that the dose was sufficient, he removed the cloth and put it on the bedside table along with the bottle, making sure to place it far enough away that he wouldn't get a whiff of the noxious fumes, himself.

As it was, he'd had to be careful not to let them get the better of him, even though he'd made sure to keep the cloth at arm's length.

Reaching into his pocket once more, he pulled out two more items. One, he set on the bedside table, close to hand, the other he held on to as he slipped out of his jacket, boots and t-shirt. Leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor, he climbed up into the bed and kneeled beside the sleeping woman.

The fingers of his right hand skimmed over her shoulder and down the length of her arm, lovingly... fingertips just barely touching, worshipping the sun-kissed flesh. She'd grown far too thin, but there was nothing for it, now.

Fingers curling around her wrist, he drew her arm up to him as he thumbed the straight razor open with his left hand.

He knew it was cowardly, doing it this way - especially considering the way he'd dispatched his other two slayers - but this... she... She had been special, from the very first. Different. Always different. It only stood to reason that such a unique slayer meet her end in a way that honored the way in which she'd lived... and lived... and lived.

Bought new, the straight razor was clean and shiny and bright and it cut her so smoothly, he could have cried from the sheer simplicity and beauty of it.

You were born to slash... and bash... and... ohh, bleed... like beautiful poetry...

His Dru always did have a knack for putting things in the way she knew would appeal to him the most.

Carefully, carefully, following the dark blue vein that ran the length of her arm, clean up to the crook of her elbow. Blood welled to the surface of the cut instantly and ruby red drops trickled away all along the incision, pattering onto the summery yellow and white sheets.

Sinking in, staining, blemishing, ruining.

So clean, the skin at the edges of the wound didn't even so much as pucker or turn red.

Good.

He could sense that she was starting to come to, so he placed her right arm back onto the bed, resting with the forearm facing the ceiling.

He wouldn't drink. Wouldn't taste - not even a drop. It was what he'd been dreaming of, hoping for ever since he'd first set eyes on her at the Bronze, what he had more recently been hoping that she would one day give to him of her own free will.

If he'd been a good boy - a better boy - and been what she'd needed, then none of this would have happened.

If she'd been a kind woman, she would have put him out of his misery the day she'd discovered that he'd been chipped and could no longer work his wicked poetry on fragile human bodies.

Before he'd been drawn in to her, before he had taken her into himself without his knowing and every bit without his consent. Inviting in the one house guest that could ever have held sway over his beast. The only one who ever could have conceivably tamed it.

But no more.

All she'd ever wanted from him was the beast, the monster - would have nothing to do with the slivers of the man he'd been that still remained in him.

She wanted the monster... and the monster she would have. If there was anything he could give her, anything that she might accept from him, it would be that.

Settling onto his side, he curled up next to her, body fitted to her side, switching the blade to his right hand for a moment so that he could slide his arm under her head and shoulders.

Taking up the razor in his left hand again, he drew her left arm to him with his right hand, crooking it, her skin gleaming in the light shining through the window. Resting his head on top of hers, he drew another clean, crimson line down the inside of her forearm, nose and mouth nestled in her warm hair.

No sooner had he completed his task did he feel her begin to stir. Her breathing had become shallower, softer than before.

With great care, he closed up the razor blade and let it drop to the floor, where it landed on the rug with an ineffectual, muted thump.

She mumbled in her sleep, the effects of the drug having not yet worn off, as she slowly turned over onto her side, folding both of her ruined arms up toward herself, hands resting limply on the pillow, leaving smudges of red which quickly dried away to rust.

Moving closer, he molded himself to her back, right arm draping around her waist as his lips brushed her ear.

"Buffy," he whispered.

"Mmmm... mm..." She hummed. The sound was absent and blissful and just what he'd been hoping for.

It would make the shock of what she would wake up to all the more severe.

Good.

"Buffy..." he said again, the end of his nose brushing against the shell of her ear. By that time, blood from the first cut had dripped all over the bed, filling his nostrils with the rich scent of it.

Slayer blood; nothing else like it in the entire world.

"Mmm... wh... wha? Spike?" Buffy murmured as she slowly came awake. She sounded perfectly calm. He couldn't see her eyes so chances were good that either she hadn't opened her eyes yet or she thought she was dreaming.

"Yeah, it's me, pet," he whispered. "I'm right here." His right hand slid down along her side and he gently gripped her hip, letting her feel him, giving her something to let her know that she was no longer dreaming.

"What's... happening? Feel all groggy," she replied. She sounded muddled and her speech was slurred - he silently congratulated himself on his estimation abilities.

Her gasp was loud and ragged and unmistakable and he had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing.

"Something wrong, luv?" He said, feigning concern.

"My... a-arms... my arms, Spike, what --" she began, lifting both of them up from the pillow to examine them in the light, eyes wide as she glanced over her shoulder at him.

"Oh, I did that," he said simply.

"You..." Her reaction was immediate, if unspoken - the light of confusion in her eyes went out like a candle in a sharp wind - replaced with disbelief and no small amount of affront at his audacity. "Why."

"I've got plans for you and me, baby... and I know what you're thinkin'. Don't even bother askin'... this next part's a surprise... and it's the best part," Spike promised, eyes agleam with a fierce, hollow light she had never seen in them before.

He pulled away from her, carefully depositing her head back onto the pillow as he removed his left arm from underneath her, and slipped off of the bed. Without him there to support her, Buffy fell like a sandbag onto her back, eyes pained and accusing as she watched him.

Standing at the foot of the bed, he didn't bother to turn his back to her... and when he reached for the buckle of his belt, her eyes went wide again. With short, practiced movements, he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly and shucked his jeans down to his ankles. He kicked them aside and crawled back up onto the bed and, as he did, he could see her trying to struggle against the ballast of her own sluggish limbs.

"Now, now... don't bother trying. Gave you a pretty good shot of that stuff, there," he said, nodding towards the brown glass bottle sitting on the nightstand. "Probably won't come out of it for some time... which is lucky for me, 'cause otherwise I wouldn't be able to show you my surprise."

There was fear in her eyes, for possibly the first time ever, as she looked at him, then, but it was immediately replaced by what he had come to know as her mask of stony slayer resolve. She had already lost a great deal of blood and that, paired with the ether, had left her weak and unable to defend herself, which was just what he wanted.

Spike climbed out of the bed and drew the covers down to the foot of the bed. With oddly gentle hands, he settled Buffy down onto her back completely. He positioned her pliant limbs to his satisfaction and then crawled back into the bed again and spread her legs.

Her mouth bobbed open in horror, eyes round as she watched him watching her as he slid his hands along her bare legs. She was clad only in a pair of flimsy underwear and a cotton chemise top and he could see that her legs had begun shaking. Whether it was from fear or the ether, he didn't know for sure.

His fingers hooked in to the thin waistband of her panties and he drew them down off of her hips and down her legs, tossing them aside. He reached for and grabbed up the straight razor again, catching the hem of her top in his right hand as he held the razor with his left. He slipped the cool metal underneath her top and he could feel as well as see her start when it touched her skin.

Pretending that he hadn't seen that, he pressed the edge of the blade against the hem of the top, slicing through it cleanly and up, right to the hem at the low-slung collar of the shirt. The blade made easy work of that hem as well and he took great pleasure in smoothing both halves of the ruined garment open, revealing her quivering upper body to him.

"You shouldn't be surprised at this, luv... it was all your idea, this," he murmured, closing the razor once more and placing it on the nightstand. "You took from me and you took from me and you took from me... now it's my turn to do the taking. Now... it's time for my surprise."

Buffy's eyes were suspiciously bright and that hard, determined expression had yet to fade, even in the face of her fear.

"If you try anything, I'll kill them all," he whispered almost sweetly. "The Bit... Red... her girl. Then I'll go to floppy boy's place and pay him and his lady friend a visit. Even though the chip still works on them, I'd find a way to do it... and you know I would... and you don't want that, do you?"

The traitorous gleam in her eyes guttered out. She pursed her lips, tears forming in her eyes in earnest, now, as she shook her head.

"Good. Now that that's settled, we can get on to other things," he said with a ferociously bright smile. Leaning over, he reached for the other item he'd placed on the nightstand.

Settling back on his haunches, he held it between both of his hands, in the light, so that she would be sure to see it.

The item he turned over in his hands looked very much like one of her very own stakes, only there was something very wrong about it. It was shorter, thicker around than one of hers, and the wood was old and gnarled and black, dotted with hardy thorns all along the length of it.

He held it by each end between his thumb and forefingers... and that's when she noticed the other thing that made it different from her stakes.

Each end had been sharpened in to fine, needle-sharp points.

"A friend of mine made this for me... nice, huh? Yeah, I guess it's what you'd call a custom job," Spike said. He lifted his eyes from the stake and gazed into Buffy's eyes, glad to see that he hadn't lost her, yet. "Only the very best for you, baby."

"What... what are you...? You're not... you're not,” she said, as firmly as she could manage even as her voice broke.

"I hardly think you're in a position to be givin' me orders, here, Slayer," Spike replied, eyes glittering like chips of broken glass. "Anyway, that's not what I had planned. Well, I suppose it's about time that I unveiled the big surprise for you, then, since you're being so impatient. Not that that's a new thing for me, mind you. You always were in such a hurry to get off and then leave me."

"This -- that's why you're doing this? Because I dumped you?!" Buffy hissed at him, regaining her fire for just a brief moment.

"No, I'm doin' this because you used me, you egomaniacal cunt," he gritted out. "You treated me like a toy, like a plaything - like my only reason for existing was to make you come and not make you feel shitty about yourself like everyone else in your life was doing. I loved you."

"And I didn't love you," she snapped back, obviously struggling to keep her voice down. "I never did."

Before she had a chance to say even one more word, Spike had gripped the stake in his left hand and slammed it down into the center of her chest - the hard wood penetrating her sternum, sliding through as easily as a hot brand through skin.

"And that's enough," he replied evenly over her shallow gasps for breath. Her hands flexed and shook frantically, trying to grip the covers as a runner of blood trickled from her mouth.

Knowing that time was short, Spike slipped his hands under her knees and pushed her legs up and out, resting the soles of her feet flat on the mattress. He braced his right hand on the pillow beside her head and reached between their bodies with his left.

He gripped his cock, which had been hard from the moment he'd set out from his ruined crypt, fitted it into her and drove himself in to the hilt, forcing the breath from her lungs. Glancing down at the stake rooted firmly in Buffy's chest, Spike remained poised over it for just a moment before he lowered himself down.

A painful snarl fell from his lips as the dry wood pierced his skin. He could feel it inching its way through skin and muscle and sinew, but he remained propped up on his elbow. He had to wait until the right moment.

Bringing his left hand up, he studied it, the palm dotted with puncture wounds from the thorns. Blood covered his palm like sweat would have slicked the palms of his human self at the mere thought of touching a woman.

"Did you want...?" He asked, moving his dripping hand toward her mouth. With the last of her strength, she turned her head away and stared out the window. "No, I suppose you wouldn't, would you? You never did. I tried to give you everything of me. Everything you wanted, I gave to you; everything I tried to give, you wouldn't take."

Placing his hand on the pillow beside her head - her eyes fluttering closed as it came in to view - he gripped the pillow and used it to give him a bit of leverage as he thrust in to her again, hard and deep.

He had to give it to her... she took each punishing thrust with barely a whimper, even though she bit her bottom lip bloody to hold in her cries of pain. Gouts of blood burbled freely from her mouth, then, trickling over her cheek and onto the pillow, soaking in to it.

"You and me? We're the same, baby... we always were. It fits, this way. Nobody else could ever have taken us out. This is right... this is how it should have been all along," he said, pressing himself closer to her and feeling the thorns catch on his skin as the stake was driven further into his chest, tearing his skin to ragged shreds as he continued to move over her.

Her eyes lingered on the window; they had taken on a glassy sheen and she no longer bit her lip. No longer made any sounds of distress or pain. She was close.

"Just the way it should be," he muttered as he slipped his arms beneath her.

When the light finally went from her eyes, he pulled her up sharply against him, driving the stake deeply into both of their chests. With a soft groan, he crumbled to dust and her body fell back on to the bed to receive it, the fine gray flecks dusting her body like snow.

And the sun rose.