Summary: What does a pissed off vamp do when he's dragged to the Hellmouth when he'd rather be swanning around Europe? Why, he gets inventive in order to have fun with the Slayer of course.

Rating: I'll go for R at this time. Though knowing me, a change is possible.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I have merely manipulated his creation to make myself and hopefully you happy. I gain nothing but satisfaction mentally.

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Chapter Two

He didn't need to fake his amusement.  "Creepy stalker guy?  And who'd that be, luv?"

The Slayer shrugged.  "Just some random oddball that followed me into a dark alley and then gave me a mouthful of cryptic before slinking back into the shadows.  He gave me presents, though." 

Her voice was cute, in that bubblegum way that Spike normally hated but this time found...well...cute.  But not enough to forget the words that had passed those glossy lips.

Spike cocked a brow, trying and failing to adequately interpret that twisted explanation, though the modus operandi rang a bell or two in his subconscious.  "An' this generous soul didn't cough up with a name?"

"Nope.  But nothing to worry about, right. He's with the silver crosses; you're with the soul and the saving of my friends.  I know which Good Samaritan I'm backing."  And she blushed as her interested look froze upon his eyes and she quickly found the ground fascinating.

It was the redhead—obviously light-headed in her shock—that brought the subject back from the brink of awkwardness.  "I know I probably got hit in the head somewhere tonight, because dreams are kinda vivid in their oogyness, but soul?  Can someone explain that to my woozy brain?  And while you're at it...vampires?"

The Slayer's attention was back up from the thoroughly captivating grass and focused entirely back on him.  It made Spike tingle in an unexpected, and yet not entirely unwanted way.

"Cool."

It was just one word, but the gooey smile on the Slayer's face—the one that indicated that she thought Spike was the hottest puzzle in the shop—nearly succeeded in making him colder than being dead had done in the first place.  He was a bloody enigma now, and it scared him silly.  Right then, he could do this.  He could play this game and come out on top.  Sod having a plan.  He was a man—a bleeding master vampire for God's sake.  He didn't need a plan to make this work.

"So how'd you get it?"

Bugger!

Typical that his inspiration would have a blind spot.  What other vamp would have thought to fake a soul in order to play a little game of cat and mouse with the Slayer without preparing a story?  Spike felt a growl rumble low in his chest, cursing the thoughts and explanations that wouldn't flow through his brain fast enough to make sense.  There was only one possibility he could think of, and it was so bloody farfetched he felt like laughing right along with the delivery of his lies.  Except for the classic 'giving the game away' part of that action.

"Right," he desperately improvised.  "Gypsy curse.  Was a bad boy and the buggers stuck me with a soul and made me a good boy again.  Veritable White Hat now."  He preened, hoping his cocky confidence would get him through this even if the banality of his excuse didn't stand up.

The redhead looked at him with such a strong sense of respect that Spike almost felt guilty for the subterfuge along with his shock.  No one had looked at him like that without being violently encouraged since he'd had to leave Dalton in charge of the minions, his haste to get Dru where she screamed to go forcing him to leave the nest without a holiday plan.  He'd soon found that sucked all kinds of balls.

This was...nice.  A human looking at him with such faith and belief that he really didn't deserve.  If it weren't for Darla and his contrary nature to do anything the way she wanted, this little kiddy group would have already been slaughtered.  Well, all right, the brave nature of the boy might have stilled his fangs momentarily too.  But really, it was all Darla and Spike's juvenile urge to stick it in her eye.

"Man, you really saved our lives.  And gypsies.  How old are you, anyway?  I mean, vampire right?  Walking undead.  You must have a story or two to tell.  Oh oh," the brunette suddenly exclaimed, manners hitting him at full flight while he was steadily climbing the adrenaline rush that made him as gawky as he always appeared.  "My name's Xander."  And he thrust a hand out in Spike's face, overly eager to make the acquaintance of one who could easily kill him.

The non-existent soul inside Spike cringed.  He'd won this lot over remarkably easily, and while that had been his intention all along, the way they were treating him—as someone they could possibly like and be interested in hanging around for his own sake rather than due to the ferocity of his nature—niggled at something inside that craved that kind of acceptance.

He gave a brief nod, his voice almost raspy with unaccustomed emotion as he introduced himself.  "The name's Spike."

As his cooler hand clasped the warmth of human flesh, the other boy slumped with a weak smile.  Spike jerked his head at the wounded figure, reminding them of the close call they'd just avoided.

"I think your boy might need some medical attention."  They all followed his gaze and blinked, surprised, at the white pallor of their friend.

"Ohmygod, Jessie.  We have to get him to hospital."  The Slayer raced in to take an arm, her eyes briefly catching Spike's before darting away and another blush tinted her cheeks.  Spike smirked before moving in and taking the human—now unconscious—and slung him over his shoulder.

"Where to?"

And they were off, a strange group of humans and pseudo-souled vampire internally shaking his head at what was without doubt the most bizarre couple of hours he'd ever existed through.

The Slayer kept close to his side, risking shy yet curious glances every couple of steps even during the seriousness of their flight.  While every impulse in his body told him to toss his burden to the side and jump her, he wasn't quite decided on what he wanted to really penetrate her with.  It near did his head in that he even felt a response to those giddy girly looks she was shooting at him, never having wanted anything from a slayer before but blood and their timely death by his hands or fangs.

Right, this Spike was soulful.  And what the bugger did that mean anyway?   Well, cut to the obvious, don't let the chit or her mates see him feeding.  That would completely blow his story out of the water.  Would probably do to distance himself a bit from Dru and her gaggle of gooselike minions for a while too.  And why didn't that thought sit a little less easy with him?  Having a break from his manic sire actually sounded like a blessed relief.  One that he'd almost pay any price for.

"So how long have you had a soul for anyway?"

Spike could see the curiosity and interest flare to life in her eyes and almost got lost in the thrill of the sexual heat he was almost positive she didn't know she was creating.  Still, there was a question in there somewhere and his mind struggled to grasp it before he mucked the thing up before it got started.

His pretend soul—came from his Wheeties packet that very morning.  Should have come with a warning.  'Proceed with Caution or the Slayer will cut your balls off for lying'.

"Yeah, 's been awhile.  Back at the turn of the century."

He almost laughed as three pairs of eyes bugged. 

"Whoa.  You're like, really old, man.  That's kind of exciting and stuff.  You must know all kinds of things."  The boy who'd introduced himself as Xander—and what an unbelievably poncy name that was—looked at him in awe and Spike could feel another flush of pleasure shoot through his body.  This being liked for not having done anything much was kind of addictive.

Spike almost stumbled at finally recognising the look that these children were bestowing upon him.  They looked at him like he was some kind of hero—even the Slayer, who was a heroine in her own right.  It made him feel dizzy that, without doing anything but repressing his natural demon reaction to food, he'd managed to get a degree of respect he'd as yet not achieved amongst his own kin.  A faux soul could do all that—create miracles.  It became a struggle for him to remember that it was all make believe, that more than likely at the end of a few days he'd be snacking on this lot.  An image of their eyes staring at him in betrayal hit him hard and he could feel a lump rise in his throat.  It wasn't what he wanted.  Didn't want the naïve redhead looking at him any different to how she was now, seeing him as something other than the animal he was perpetually reminded he was by Dru's insane ramblings.

"I know enough.  More than enough in some cases."

Before they could quiz him more, before they could get too far inside his head and begin to pick him apart, the hospital loomed large.  They barely made it through the door before the body was liberated from his shoulders to a gurney and the Slayer had taken charge, informing the staff of a rabid dog out in the streets striking indiscriminately at the neck.  What was even funnier—they bought it. 

Only on the mouth of Hell.

The others had gathered in the waiting lounge, spending their time sharing out vendor machine goodies while they waited news of their pale friend.  Spike stood uncertainly at the entrance, unsure what would be the soulful thing for him to do now.  Retreat quietly and wait for the next opportunity, or go and sit amongst them and do his best to behave like he was one of the humans.  The itch on the back of his neck decided him and he saw the subtle lightening of the night through one of the few windows to the outside.

He was about to turn on his heel, casting one last longing glance at the surprising group he'd encountered, when he felt her arm at his elbow.  The soft crunch of his leather was almost sensual as her touch lingered and he slowly turned toward her.  She was smiling and it overwhelmed Spike in that second how truly gorgeous she was.

"I don't think I told you my name," she said earnestly, like she really wanted him to know that she wasn't just the Slayer.

When she didn't continue, Spike smiled, feeling the decided lack of need for his patented smirk.  This was information he wanted, and suddenly not just for the purpose of psyching her out and killing her.  He wanted to know the name that went with the face as badly as he wanted to stay in that room with a bunch of kids who'd appreciated him more in thirty minutes than his entire family had in a century.

"An' what's that, pet?"

"Oh," she startled, realising that maybe she'd given herself away by the way she'd been intently studying every gorgeous plane of his face.  "Buffy."  Her voice was a husky whisper, her hand still lightly resting against his forearm and Spike felt the automatic laugh die abruptly in his throat.

"Beautiful," he felt compelled to say, and then he turned and left them behind.