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The crypt was destroyed—every shattered stone a piece of what he’d thought they might have shared.

Her words echoed in his mind: "I’m sorry, William”. His given name hit hard, a reminder of the man he once was, the one he could never seem to escape. She’d left him all the same.

As he sat amid the rubble, grief clawing at his chest, he spotted a faint glimmer beneath what was once his record player. A small, glowing stone. At his touch, the stone surged with power. The crypt twisted around him, the world vanishing into a vortex of light and shadow.

Then, darkness.

—*—

The night hummed, low and heavy, sinking deep into his bones. Spike leaned against the tree outside Buffy’s house, cigarette in hand, though he couldn’t recall lighting it—or even coming here. Jack Daniels had likely led the way.

His mind was a mess—fragmented flashes of rubble, her voice cold and final.

Of course even when he lost himself, he found her.

Then, there she was.

Buffy appeared at the end of the path, her golden hair dulled by the fluorescent haze spilling out from the streetlamp. She looked tired—bone-weary in a way that made him ache—and yet familiar. He could have sworn this was the same way she’d looked the other night. Spike blinked, the déjà vu settling in his chest like a lead weight.

Before he had more time to process exactly how familiar the sight was, she’d spotted him.

“Oh, for pete's sake. Spike?”

“Buffy.” He stepped out of the shadows. He didn’t know what she’d make of him appearing so soon after she’d drawn her line in the sand, but he’d see it through.

“Look, I—” he began speaking before really knowing what he was going to say. Some sort of justification for being here, needing to see her, that didn’t sound too pathetic.

Instead, she cut him off with a tired smile. “Spike, not tonight. I had a horrible shift, and I stink like fake-meat-pretending-to-be-meat, and I’m honestly surprised you’re not running away at the stench. And I’m too tired for…whatever this is.”

Spike frowned, her reaction softer than he expected. But maybe she wasn’t as firm in ending things as he’d thought? He stepped closer, his voice dipping into that low, teasing register. “Come on, love. You know I’ve got a knack for brightening your evenings.”

She laughed in one of those brief ways she did now, where it sounded like she wasn’t quite used to the sensation but couldn’t stop it from happening. She recovered quickly and shook her head. “No, Spike.”

“No? I haven't even asked you anything yet.”

“You don't have to,” she sighed but barely hid her smirk. “We both know what you're thinking.”

This was starting to feel too familiar. He paused. She'd used this snarky response before and she wasn't one for repeats—insults, outfits, or otherwise. But maybe the alcohol had hit him harder than he expected.

“You have no idea what I'm thinking.”

Buffy gave him a knowing glare. “As if you aren't thinking about convincing me to drop everything and go ‘knock boots’ or whatever British euphemism you'd use.”

That caught him off guard. He wasn’t expecting her to talk so casually—so presently—about what she had assuredly deemed as something to never happen again. But she was talking as if the only issue preventing them from knocking boots was her plans for the evening and not that she’d ended things. Regardless, he wasn’t going to talk her out of it.

“Well, the crypt’s off the venue list…”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed slightly before he saw her piece together something else entirely. “We are not having sex here,” she gestured to the yard. “Where we can be seen.”

“So it’s the fear of getting caught then is it?” he asked, suspicion and confusion merging. “That’s still the issue?”

“Still?”

“We’ve already found a solution for that.”

“What do—”

Taking her by the hand, Spike pulled her toward the tree in her front yard.

“Become quite fond of this tree.” He lovingly patted the bark.

To his shock, Buffy didn’t snap at him or roll her eyes. Instead, she smirked and closed the distance, her hand brushing his chest. “You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“And it gets you hot.”

She stared at him, not denying him. Instead she wrapped her fingers tighter around his coat and he leaned in toward her lips.

“I…need to go inside.”

They were so close that the words formed on her lips brushed against his own.

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll be sure to get you inside with a smile on your face before anyone even realizes.”

She hesitated but he could see he’d already won. With a small sigh, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

Not even a full day since she’d ended things was she back on his lips. Knew she couldn’t leave him so easily. He melted into the kiss, his hands gripping her waist.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Bet your former never had you panting on the front lawn.”

The moment shattered. Buffy stiffened. “And there it is,” she said, stepping back sharply. “Why do you always have to ruin it?”

“Wait—Buffy, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t.” Her tone was clipped, and she turned on her heel, leaving him alone under the tree. His hands flexed at his sides, fists forming and releasing as if they could crush the frustration building inside him.

Glancing once at the house, he caught the faint flicker of her shadow in the window. It burned, sharp and final. With a frustrated growl, he turned on his heel and left.

Back at the crypt, he avoided the wreckage below, grabbing the nearest bottle and dropped onto a stone slab. The first swig burned, but it wasn’t enough to drown the echo of her voice. Why do you always have to ruin it?

“Good question,” he muttered, tipping the bottle again. The alcohol blurred the edges, but not enough. It never was.

—°—

A bottle of whiskey dangled precariously from his fingers. He’d been drinking for hours now, the sun had risen and set again and all he’d managed to do was find his way to the bottom of various bottles.

Maybe he’d find the stones to track her down on patrol—she was working the night shift but she’d still do a lap. If she was willing to go as far as she had on her front lawn the night after trying to end things, it didn’t seem impossible that she’d cave again tonight.

Or she was just fucking with him.

Either way he was drunk enough to go for it.

When the door creaked open, he groaned. “Not in the mood for poker, Clem.”

No response, but the sound of boots crossing the crypt floor made him glance up. Buffy stood over him, black tactical gear hugging her frame, hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Her face was a mask of grim determination, though there was a hint of something else—a vulnerability buried deep.

Spike blinked, trying to focus. “Slayer? Come to marvel at your destruction?” He waved the bottle vaguely.

Buffy crossed her arms, her stance rigid. “I need information.”

“Do you now?” Spike let his head loll back, staring at her through half-lidded eyes. “Didn’t think you were much for asking these days.”

“I’m looking for someone. A dealer. Goes by The Doctor.”

Spike froze for a moment, then snorted. He was drunk, but not that drunk. “The Doctor? You having a laugh?”

Buffy’s jaw tightened. “Spike, I don’t have time for this. If you know anything—”

“Oh, I know plenty.” He dragged himself to his feet, swaying slightly but managing to keep upright. “What I don’t know is why you’re asking me all over again. What is this?”

“You’re drunk,” she said flatly, brushing off his words.

“Well, yeah,” he muttered, his annoyance bubbling to the surface. But if she was going to go down this path, he’d make her play her part. He stepped closer, gesturing between them with the bottle. “But you know, if we’re gonna act this out again for some unknown reason, the last time you wanted information in this getup, you weren’t in a huge rush. Have a bit of time to really work me over, don’t you?”

Her eyes darkened, and for a moment, he thought she might hit him—or worse, leave. He braced himself for her anger as her expression shifted.

Sadness. That same loneliness she’d worn the last time. He didn’t expect her to want to relive this moment, but maybe she needed an excuse, a pretense to reconnect.

“Tell me you love me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Spike’s brow furrowed. “We’re doing the full dance again? You know I love you.”

“Tell me you want me.”

“I always want you, in fact—” he started, but whatever words he’d been about to say were lost as she stepped pulled his lips back down to hers.

It wasn’t angry or desperate. It was achingly tender, sending shockwaves through his drunken haze. His free hand fell to her waist, pulling her closer, the whiskey bottle forgotten as it thudded to the floor.

He didn’t want to overthink this. For some reason Buffy was back in his arms, asking for his love and his desire and everything she swore she couldn’t do anymore.

—*—

Spike stirred, blinking into the dim light of the crypt, a nagging sense of familiarity prickling at him. Something wasn’t right. His head throbbed, but it wasn’t the hangover twisting in his gut—it was this moment. The sound of Buffy’s soft breathing beside him, the thin sheet they’d pulled over them, even the faint smell of damp stone and lingering regret.

He’d been here before.

His gaze drifted to Buffy, her face softened in sleep. He swallowed, his throat dry. It felt like a bad memory.

The sound of the crypt door opening shattered his thoughts, just as it had—what? Yesterday?

Spike stiffened, his head snapping toward the door. Riley bloody Finn in all righteous fury and oversized weaponry. Spike swore under his breath.

“Spike?” Buffy murmured, stirring. She blinked blearily at the doorway, her eyes going wide. “Oh my god.” She clutched the blanket to her chest.

Spike groaned inwardly. Of course they weren’t lucky enough to get a single night to themselves. Of course her former would return the next day to ensure his ex was crumbling in his leaving.

"I thought you left town, Wonder Bread," he drawled, forcing his voice into a casual tone as he pushed himself up on his elbows. "It’s what you’re good at from what I remember.”

Buffy left the makeshift bed, scooping up her scattered clothes, remaining silent.

He pushed himself up to a seated position, still naked. Spike knew his confidence made the other man uncomfortable, and Spike needed any shots he could win. Riley stood rigid as if carved from stone and awkwardly flickered his eyes to the side, clearly determined not to look anywhere below Spike’s collarbone.

"That's not why I'm here, Doctor," Riley said.

Spike froze at the word. He tilted his head, studying Riley’s face for some hint of recognition, of explanation. But all he saw was that cold, soldier-boy determination.

"Doctor?" Spike repeated, voice dripping with confusion and mockery. “Did everyone hit their heads today? Or...” He straightened, waving a hand lazily between himself and Riley, “...does seeing me and your former really just do it for you? Because, mate, if so, you’ve got issues.”

Riley’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for roleplay, as Buffy can well attest.” Sike gestured vaguely toward where she’d been in bed. “But this? Not exactly the scene I’d start with, if we’re getting creative.”

Riley’s glare sharpened, and he took a deliberate step forward, the weapon in his hands shifting just enough to make a point.

Spike stepped back slightly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Touchy. But I’ve gotta say—this whole bit feels like a bad rerun.”

Riley’s expression didn’t flicker, but there was a dangerous edge in his tone as he repeated, “Where are the eggs, Doctor?”

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Spike grumbled as he put on his pants.

Buffy reappeared beside him, fully clothed bristling with tension. “Spike, what is he talking about?”

Spike threw his hands up, exasperation bleeding into his voice. “Alright, I call uncle—what’s the bloody game here, Slayer? Why are we doing this again?”

Buffy’s brow furrowed. “Doing what again?”

Riley stepped forward, jaw set. “He’s just trying to distract you, Buffy. He’s the Doctor, and he has the demon eggs we’re looking for.”

Spike groaned, rubbing his temples like he could massage sense back into the situation. “Look, I’m not the bloody Doctor! I’ve already told you that. Not that either of you listened.” He paused, his gaze darting between their identical looks of mistrust. “Alright, sure, I had the eggs downstairs, but it was for a business deal. Had no idea they were dangerous—”

He barely got the words out before Buffy and Riley started walking in unison to the lower level.

Spike stood frozen, watching their retreating backs. “Yeah, sure, go see the mess you made.”

Then it hit him. They were heading downstairs with the confidence that there was a downstairs to go to. As if they hadn't blown it to nothing the night prior.

A sick realization curled in his gut as he listened to their hurried footsteps echo below. He could hear their muffled conversation easily. “Spike screwed up—he didn’t keep them frozen.”

The eggs—they shouldn’t be there.

Spike rushed to the ladder. He dropped below just in time to see Riley pull off a hatchling from his shoulder.

His eyes darted to the cache of demon eggs, their pulsating glow sickeningly familiar. The realization hit him like a sledgehammer. They were back. Somehow, impossibly, he’d been thrown backward in time. Why or how, he had no idea but all he knew was that he’d lived this before and he knew what Buffy intended to do.

“Buffy, wait—”

But it was too late.

Buffy and Riley were escaping up the ladder and Spike had no option but to follow suit. The second he cleared the door, Buffy threw the grenades down. The explosion was deafening. His belongings—the carefully curated collection of scraps that made this place home— obliterated for the second time.

His crypt was gone. Again.

—*—

Spike stood in the wreckage, nudging a charred plank with his boot, familiarity gnawing at him. The place was a ruin—so was he. He sighed, not bothering to turn when the sound of footsteps hit his ears.

“So, she’s back,” he muttered. “You’re not one to miss a curtain call.”

Buffy stopped a few paces away. “Spike—”

Spike turned, arching a brow. “Right, you’re not here for cold comfort or even to bust my chops about the scheme. That’s just me being me, yeah?” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Let’s skip to the end, shall we? This is the part where you tell me—”

“It’s over,” she said.

Spike smirked, stepping closer. “Predictable as sunrise, pet. But go on, let’s hear it. Doesn’t change what you really want, though, does it?”‘

Buffy faltered, her expression pained. “I do want you,” she admitted softly. “Being with you—”

“Makes things simpler,” he finished for her, voice mocking. “For a little while.”

Buffy blinked at him, her jaw tightening. “Yes.”

“Sure, if ‘simpler’ means a five-hour shag and a quick regret. But let me guess—you’re using me. Can’t love me. Too weak, too selfish, too—”

“Spike,” she cut in, her tone sharp, breaking the rhythm. “It’s killing me.”

That stopped him. The words hit harder than they should’ve, especially since he’d heard them before. But they still stung nonetheless.

“I have to be strong about this,” she said, stepping back, her face tight with resolve.

“And that’s my cue, is it?” His voice was quiet now, the fight drained out of him.

“I’m sorry... William.”

The name hung in the air like a final blow. Spike froze, watching her leave without another word.

He stood in the ruins of his crypt, fists clenched, the gnawing sense of repetition deepening. This wasn’t the first time. He knew it wasn’t. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he’d repeated this horrid day just to end up at the same spot. Pathetic.

He opened his mouth to call after her, but the world shifted beneath his feet.

The air around him grew thick, the crypt walls blurring, and then swirling into nothing. Then, just as suddenly, the world snapped back into place.

Spike blinked, disoriented, his back pressed against the tree in Buffy’s front yard once more. The unlit cigarette back in his hand.

And there she was again, walking toward him in that same coat and sweater combo, her step heavy with exhaustion, the streetlamp throwing the same dull halo around her frame.

Spike stared, the truth sinking in slowly, painfully.

“Oh, for pete's sake. Spike?”

Now this was interesting.

—*—

It was official: Spike was stuck in a time loop. He’d tested it, letting the day play out exactly as it had the first time—Buffy shagging his brains out only to break his heart the following morning. At first, he didn’t mind, not really. If he had to relive a twenty-four hour period of his unlife over and over again, there were worse choices. Sure the ending was shit, but getting there was a decent ride.

But hell had a way of making itself known.

It grew old quickly. The same heated looks, the same whispered pleas for his love that she never intended to actually accept, the same pang in his chest when she pulled away. No matter what, it always ended the same.

He’d tried everything. He let the day unfold naturally at first, biting his tongue and following her lead. Then he tried hiding the blasted eggs, burying them, even hauling them halfway across town. Somehow, they always came to light—Riley sniffing them out like a bloodhound, or Buffy stumbling onto them at the worst possible moment.

Then he got creative. One loop, he tried blaming them on Riley, spinning a tale so elaborate Spike almost convinced himself. Another time, he played dumb, claiming the eggs were some exotic demon delicacy. “Bloody brunch, Slayer. Ever heard of a bloke eating his eggs sunny-side up?” She hadn’t bought it.

When deception failed, he tried being earnest—spilling his guts, telling her everything about why he’d accepted the damn job and how he wasn’t some underground demon kingpin but just a bloke trying to make a few dollars. How he’d meant to give her money so she wouldn’t have to work at the damn burger joint and she’d see him as more than just a way to blow off steam. But Buffy was Buffy. That spark in her eyes would flare, then fade into something distant, and the outcome never changed.

After so many failed attempts, Spike started to wonder if the loop wasn’t just some cosmic joke but a punishment. He was a monster, wasn’t he? Maybe this was his penance—to hold her for one sublime night where she asked for his love, only to lose her again and again.

He steadied himself and prepared for another go.

—*—

Spike blinked into the dim light of the crypt, that nagging, repetitive sensation digging into his skull like an itch he couldn’t scratch and it was getting old. The twist in his gut was preparing him for this moment. Buffy had come to him as she had every night—dressed in her secret agent getup and looking for answers. He’d distracted her as he always did—soft words and harder kisses, the type that made her moan so sweetly as he brought her over the edge again and again.

It was all so familiar—Buffy’s soft breathing beside him, her hair spilling across his pillow, the sheet doing a piss-poor job of covering them both. He closed his eyes briefly. The first half of this loop was divine—filled with delicious moments with Buffy all to himself. He was addicted enough that it made the second half worth it. Maybe he’d be okay stuck in this time prison forever.

Right on cue, the crypt door opened.

Riley’s boots thundered on the stone floor as he strode in, his self-righteous fury practically radiating off him.

Spike groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Oh, come on. I swear you’re getting here earlier each time.”

Buffy stirred beside him, “Spike? What—” Her eyes locked onto the new figure in the room. “Oh my god.”

She shot upright, clutching the sheet to her chest as if it could shield her from the awkwardness. Crimson-faced, she crouched to gather her scattered clothes.

Riley, meanwhile, stood frozen, his jaw clenching so hard Spike was half-convinced the bloke would crack a molar. “Where are the eggs, Doctor?”

Spike’s smirk faded, his expression hardening. “You know what? I think I’ve had just about enough of you.”

And then, Spike swung. His fist connected with Riley’s jaw, the impact reverberating up his arm with satisfying force. Pain shot through his skull as the chip fired, white-hot agony blinding him for a moment. But he didn’t care.

Riley staggered back, clutching his jaw, his eyes wide with shock. He wiped at the corner of his mouth, spotting a smear of blood on his fingers. His expression darkened. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Spike laughed through gritted teeth, clutching his head as he fought through the agony. “Oh, I should have done that a long time ago. Reckon it was worth the bloody migraine.”

“Spike, what are you doing?” Buffy’s voice cut through the haze of pain. She stepped in the middle of them, her eyes darting between the two men.

“Giving a long-overdue reality check,” Spike muttered, hauling himself to stand straight.

“Buffy, stay out of this,” Riley said, his voice hard.

“Stay out of—are you serious?” Buffy glared at him, then turned to Spike. “And you. What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with your boy here? Ran out of town and came back swinging his big moral compass like anyone missed it.”

Riley lunged forward, his movements all military precision as he grabbed Spike by the neck and shoved him against the crypt wall. The impact rattled through Spike’s already aching skull, but he just laughed.

“Come on, soldier boy, show her how tough you are,” Spike taunted.

Spike’s eyes flicked to the movement in Riley’s hand—a stake. And most likely a real one this time.

The wood pierced Spike’s chest, a hot, sharp burst of agony that stole his breath. He gasped, quickly looking at Buffy, needing to see her one last time.

“Riley, no!” Buffy’s scream rang out, raw and horrified.

Through the haze of pain, Spike thought briefly: Oh. She really does care.

Then darkness took him.

—*—

Spike blinked, disoriented, the bark of the familiar tree rough against his back.

His hands flew to his chest—no wound, no blood, no ash. Whole again.

The house loomed in front of him, porch light steady and indifferent, as though none of it had happened. But it had. Buffy’s scream still echoed in his ears, the stake’s impact a phantom ache.

He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.”

Riley-fucking-boring-Finn wasn’t supposed to take him out. Should be Buffy, if anyone. Or at least someone interesting. Fuck, even Angel would be preferable. Somehow Riley had staked him twice now.

The sound of Buffy’s voice came around the tree, “Oh, for pete's sake. Spike?”

Looking at the house, he muttered under his breath: “All right. Let’s try this my way.”

But with this looping day, Spike had a unique opportunity—he was going to kill Riley Finn.

Even if it killed him.

—*—

Spike leaned casually against the wall of the Doublemeat Palace, his eyes flicking to the door as Buffy stepped out, an annoyed furrow in her brow.

“Spike, my break’s only fifteen minutes.”

He grinned, pushing off the wall to meet her. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you off your break in time.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner. “I don’t think that’s the expression.”

“Hmm,” he mused, tilting his head. “Agree to disagree.”

Before she could retort, he took her hand and pulled her toward the alley.

“You’ve been stuck in customer service—time you experienced some service in return.”

“Spike, the double entendres aren’t needed.” It lacked her usual annoyance and she didn’t resist as he guided her to the brick wall.

“Come on, love. Service with a smile.” He grinned as he fell to his knees in front of her.

He slid his hands over her waist, his fingers pressing into her hips. With a sudden tug, he pulled her pants down alongside her underwear, exposing her to the night air.

Her legs trembled as he hooked one leg over his shoulder, sitting himself between her thighs. He looked up at her, taking in her flushed cheeks, how even under the streetlights she looked like a goddess.

His tongue met her clit, licking softly, teasingly, before he suckled it gently. Buffy moaned, her back arched against the wall behind her.

Spike growled against her heat, sucking harder, slipping two fingers inside. She bucked against him, clutching handfuls of his hair.

He leaned back, feeling cold air hit the moisture on his chin but with no desire to wipe it away. A small whimper escaped her lips and he revelled in it. “Now, Slayer, did you ever imagine me on my knees like this? Before, when we bruised each other without kissing to make it burn even sweeter?”

Buffy remained silent. Her fingers dug into his skull, pulling him closer and trying to direct him exactly where she wanted him.

“Uh uh, not until you say it, Slayer,” he taunted, holding his head back against her guidance and instead circling her clit with his thumb.

She exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. “With the Initiative surgeon. You thought you had the chip out and had me pinned, fangs at my throat. I thought you were going to take me out.”

“A delicious memory,” Spike agreed, increasing the pressure of his thumb.

“Later—” she gasped. “I wondered what if you had—taken me.”

“And am I living up to the fantasies?

He dipped to continue to stroke her clit with the tip of his tongue, circling it slowly, just enough to keep her on the edge.

She moaned loudly, writhing against the unforgiving wall. He let another finger join her heat, curling upward.

“Spike…” she gasped as her hips moved in rhythm with him.

Her nails raked through his hair, digging into his scalp. He hoped she made him bleed. His tongue flicked faster, lapping at her, hungry for more.

“Tell me have you ever come so fucking hard in your life before me?” Wickedness dripping from each word.

He could tell she was fighting it, but ultimately shook her head no.

“Good girl.” He rewarded her with a slight nip with his blunt teeth. “Now, who is eating this perfect cunt the way it deserves?”

“Fuck you,” Buffy panted out with a fierceness that made him even harder.

He laughed. “You first.” He curled his fingers toward himself, seeking out that bundle of nerves he knew would make her see stars. Her thighs started quivering around his face and he knew she was close. “Fine, be stubborn. But you’re still going to scream my name.”

Spike lowered his mouth back to her pussy, swirling his tongue around her clit before delicately kissing it. He parted his lips to deepen the kiss, feeling her clit pulse and savouring her taste. Rolling his tongue and keeping the pace with his fingers inside her, he heard the quick increase of her heartbeat and knew she was close. He smirked into her dripping pussy knowing that neither of them had ever had it this good before.

With a gasp of his name, he felt her come like a summer storm—sudden and relentless. He lapped hungrily, swallowing every drop of her release and almost wishing he could spend eternity right here. If he’d been a luckier man, the loops would have stuck him alongside Buffy as they discovered new levels of pleasure, building with each passing reset. But he was still damn lucky he got at least this.

Spike straightened, raising her pants up for her and letting his hands rest on her hips for a moment longer than he should. This was borrowed time, relaxed into the afterglow. But he could see the moment she settled back into herself, adjusting her uniform and brushing her hair back into place.

“Perfect timing, as promised, love.”

Buffy glanced at him, her gaze softer than it had been when she’d first joined him in the alley. A small lazy smile curved her lips, and she leaned into him. Her hand found his chest briefly, fingers curling into his jacket as she leaned up.

The kiss was quick, but nothing casual. A brief, electric spark—more than just a goodbye, more than just the routine.

She pulled away before either of them could do anything more, her breath still warm against his skin. “See you later,” she whispered, giving him a look that made him want to confess all his sins.

“Can’t wait, pet,” he murmured. Even though he knew later wouldn’t come.

Buffy disappeared inside.

With a deep breath, he stepped away from the door. A slow creeping smirk grew on his lips. He knew he was there; the air practically crackled with the other man’s rage.

Spike turned the corner to find Riley, standing stiff as a statue, fists clenched at his sides. His face was a mask of fury, but his eyes gave him away: raw, humiliated, broken.

Spike wiped his thumb casually across his lips, before licking it clean, “Enjoy the show?”

Riley didn’t move, his nostrils flaring as he struggled for composure.

Spike tilted his head, “Come on, mate. You always knew you were never enough for her.” He shoulder-checked Riley as he passed, the chip sparking in his skull like fireworks. He swallowed the pain, forcing himself to keep walking, his laughter low and taunting.

He didn’t make it three steps before Riley’s hand clamped down on his arm, yanking him back.

Spike turned slowly, pretending to be surprised. “Oh, go on,” he said, leaning in, his voice dripping with challenge. “Make it hurt. Maybe this time you’ll do something worth remembering.”

The words barely left his mouth before Riley moved, his fist swinging and connecting squarely with Spike’s jaw, sending him reeling back into the wall.

Spike laughed, the sound dark and wild. “That all you’ve got?”

Riley didn’t answer. He charged again, and this time, Spike met him head-on. The chip fired as Spike’s fist collided with Riley’s ribs, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

This wasn’t about winning—it was about taking every ounce of Riley’s anger, of his bitterness, and throwing it right back in his face. Because for all his posturing, all his righteous fury, Riley had lost. And Spike? He’d already won.

Spike leaned against the wall for a moment, tasting blood on his split lip, his laughter fading into a low, menacing chuckle. Riley stood a few feet away, fists clenched, panting like an animal ready to charge again. But Spike didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, he stepped to the side, reaching for the bag he’d stashed in the shadows earlier. He crouched, pulling it into view with deliberate care. The faint glow of the contents inside lit up his smirk.

Riley’s brow furrowed, his stance shifting. “What the hell is that?”

Spike ignored the question, unwrapping the bundle with theatrical precision. Inside was the unmistakable shape of a Suvolte egg, its surface gleaming with a sickly, iridescent sheen.

“Heard you were looking for these?” Spike drawled, holding it up like a prize. “This is the only one that remains. A little insurance policy—or maybe just a party trick.”

Riley’s expression twisted in shock and fury. “You’re the Doctor? You’re insane.”

Spike chuckled, stepping forward. “Oh, no, I’m no Doctor. Just a vamp with a grudge.” With a sudden, vicious movement, he cracked the egg against his knee like it was a rotten melon, the slick, alien insides oozing out, and he held it out toward Riley.

The creature inside erupted instantly, a mass of writhing limbs and gleaming, razor-sharp appendages. It moved with terrifying speed, latching onto Riley’s face before he could react.

Riley screamed, the sound guttural and animalistic, the Suvolte hatchling tightening its grip, its claws digging into his flesh. Blood sprayed, dark and vivid against the dim alley light, as the creature’s limbs wrapped around his throat, cutting off his cries with a sickening gurgle.

Spike stepped back, feeling cold, detached, as if he were watching a particularly violent play unfold. “Poetic, really,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette.

Riley thrashed against the wall, his cries muffled as the Suvolte hatchling dug deeper, locking tight around his face. His desperate movements slowed, jerking into spasms before his body went still. One final, weak shudder rolled through him before he collapsed onto the ground, lifeless.

The hatchling hissed triumphantly, unlatching from Riley’s bruised face, and retreated to the shadows. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint rustle of wind and the distant hum of the cash register inside the restaurant.

Spike stood rooted, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers as he stared at the crumpled body. “Guess you won’t be telling tales, Finn,” he muttered, voice low, bitter. “But this... this won’t bloody stick, will it?”

He glanced around the alley, searching the darkness. He knew how this would go: the loop would snap back soon enough, yanking him back to square one. Riley would be alive, full of righteous indignation, and this grim scene would vanish like smoke in the wind.

Spike stood there for a moment, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Can’t even enjoy the win, can I?” he said to the empty air. “What’s the point, when none of it stays real?”

He glanced back at Riley’s body, the blood pooling beneath it a stark reminder of what Buffy would find on her next break if he left things as they were. Yes, the loop would reset, but he didn’t want her to see this—he didn’t want to cause her any moment of pain, even if she’d forget it.

Spike placed the cigarette between his lips before crouching down and grabbing Riley by the shoulders, dragging the dead weight toward the deeper shadows of the alley.

“No sense in her finding you like this,” he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. “Bad enough you’ll be back tomorrow to piss me off all over again.”

Once he’d shoved the body into a dark corner, far from where Buffy might wander, Spike straightened and relit his cigarette. He exhaled a stream of smoke, glancing up at the night sky. “Clock’s ticking,” he murmured, turning toward the street. “Let’s see how many mistakes I can make before sunrise.”

—*—

She still left him.

No Riley. No eggs. Nothing to force her hand and she still called it quits. His crypt might have stayed intact this time but his heart was still broken.

And he still woke up back at the tree.

Fuck it.

—*—

It had been decades since Spike had felt this type of freedom; he’d used it poorly, brilliantly, and catastrophically.

Of course, he continually killed Riley—once, for old time’s sake, using a railroad spike. He’d bathed in sensation of sliding it through the git’s temple before the chip activated and sent shockwaves through Spike’s own brain over and over until he blacked out and woke back up at the start of the loop.

He’d stolen cars, broken into shops, even hijacked the mic at the Bronze for an impromptu serenade that ended with security hauling him out by his collar. Nothing was off limits.

One loop, he crashed Buffy and Riley’s intense-and-yet-full-of-shit initial meeting. “Let’s talk strategy,” Spike announced, pulling a Suvolte egg out of his coat like a magician producing a rabbit. Their horrified expressions had been priceless—until Buffy shattered his glee with a punch that left his jaw aching for hours.

Another time, he spent the night pickpocketing demons in Willy’s bar, gathering an absurd collection of mismatched trinkets: a shrunken skull, a glowing amulet that burned his fingers, and a key he never found the lock for. “A regular magpie, I am,” he muttered, grinning like a lunatic as the loop reset and the spoils vanished.

Once, for a month’s worth of loops straight, he followed Buffy around the entire day—crouching in the shadows and under his blanket to witness her routine, if you could even call it that. Every loop played out the same depressing scenes starting with her missing the garbage truck and her dragging the bags back with a defeated slump to her shoulders. Then came breakfast—a "meal" that consisted of a few scraps of cheese eaten while she leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the wall. There was no joy, no flavour, just sustenance. It wasn’t hard to see the pattern: Buffy wasn’t living. She was surviving, barely.

He hated it. Hated seeing her like this, this shadow of the vibrant, sharp-tongued woman he’d fought and loved. Her fire was still there—he’d witnessed it firsthand when she’d come to him seeking release—but otherwise it was buried beneath exhaustion, grief, and the crushing weight of responsibility. She was threadbare and no one seemed to notice. Her friends bustled about, caught up in their own shit, oblivious to the fact that Buffy was drowning right in front of them. Maybe they were all drowning. They didn't see the slump in her walk, the forced smiles, the brittle edge to her words when she joked about things that weren’t funny.

And it ate at him, the knowledge that he was no better. She needed something real, something good, and he was none of those things.

He couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop seeing her—the way she hurried out the door, her eyes flicking toward the clock with tiny panic. She’d arrive at her shift at the Doublemeat Palace just on time—or a minute late, depending on how fast she’d jogged—and throw herself into the grind. All shift, she’d endure the endless grease-slick smell and the same robotic customer pleasantries until Riley would arrive and she’d drown in shame.

But every time he watched her push herself to the brink, every time he saw her sit alone at the break room table, poking at whatever free employee meal she could stomach, her eyes distant, he felt it all over again. That ache in his chest, that pull to her that he knew wasn’t natural.

It was almost unbearable to watch her cycle through the days without being able to save her from it. But he didn’t know how—even if he did, she’d never let him.

So instead, he leaned into the only relief he understood. When the pull became too much, he sought the solace of chaos. Violence came easy, sharp and clean in a way emotions never were. It numbed the edges, dulled the need to fix things he had no way to fix.

The darker nights crept up on him when he wasn’t paying attention. He’d pick a fight with a pack of vamps, reveling in the blood only to wake up intact the next evening. Once, he’d let Riley catch him in the act of hiding the eggs just to see what the soldier boy would do. Riley’s right hook packed more righteousness than punch, though Spike didn’t mind.

But it never lasted. Each fight ended, and he was still standing, still aching, still thinking of her.

He kept filling his nights.

Once he broke into the library and read poetry. Another, he set the poetry section on fire.

He’d told Buffy about the loop countless times—sometimes she accused him of lying, other times she believed him. Once, she even asked Willow to research, hoping to find a way to break the cycle. They didn’t uncover anything useful before the day reset, but Buffy’s willingness to help had caught him off guard. For a moment, it felt like she actually cared, and that fleeting glimpse of concern was enough to keep him trying, even as she kept ending things with him.

One night he took Dawn for ice cream, playing the part of big bad babysitter. “Sometimes it feels like Buffy’s not even back cause she’s never home,” Dawn had said too casually, the hurt tucked beneath her words like a splinter she didn’t want to acknowledge. Spike nodded, unsure of what to even say in return. Dawn moved quickly on, sticking her spoon in his sundae and stealing a bite.

They’d spent the rest of the evening laughing at tales of vampiric escapades until Buffy burst through the parlour door, eyes blazing, dragging him out by his ear. He hadn’t minded that either.

But no matter how wild or mundane, every loop ended the same—with her walking away, leaving him to wonder if the next day could ever be different.

It never was.

—*—

Spike paced the narrow confines of his crypt, the air thick with dust and decay—a fitting tomb for a life stuck on repeat. He’d tried everything, wrung every possibility dry, but the result never changed.

Frustration coiled tight in his chest as he kicked a chunk of debris across the floor. The echo rang out, mocking him, a reminder of his impotence. She turned her back on him every time, leaving him standing in the rubble of what could never be.

He slammed his fist against the wall, pain flaring in his knuckles, grounding him for a moment before the ache returned, heavier than before. Another failure. Another reset. He laughed bitterly.

The door creaked, and he didn’t need to look. Buffy. Of course.

“Spike,” she started, her voice tight, rehearsed. “We need to talk.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “Talk? What’s the point, love? We both know how this ends.”

Her eyes softened, and it only made his frustration burn hotter. She still cared—he could see it—but not enough. Never enough.

“I’ve tried,” he said, his voice cracking as he took a step toward her. “Tried to make it right. It doesn’t matter. You always leave.”

“Spike—”

“No,” he cut her off, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace. “Don’t. I’m tired of your words. Tired of this bloody farce. Nothing changes. Every. Damn. Time.”

Her silence was sharper than her words could ever be. She looked like she wanted to speak, but what could she say that she hadn’t already a hundred times?

“I just want you to stay.” The words felt raw on his tongue.

Buffy’s eyes glistened, but he knew she didn’t understand. She looked at him with sympathy, but it only made the bitterness burn deeper. He didn’t need her pity; he needed her. But she was never his to have.

Buffy moved to leave, hesitating just long enough to twist the knife. “I’m sorry, William.”

And then she was gone.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Me too.”

—*—

He no longer bothered with elaborate plans or smooth words. When Buffy approached the tree, he simply stood there, shoulders hunched.

"Buffy," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "I don’t know how to make this right."

She paused, startled by the raw honesty. But the hurt in her eyes didn’t waver. "Neither do I."

—*—

He’d lost count of the loops by now, every reset blurring into the next.

The novelty had worn off long ago. Even Riley’s demise, which once sparked a bitter sense of satisfaction, had become dull. Spike was desperate to move forward, to escape this cycle of failure and heartbreak.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing before giving the door a sharp knock. He wasn’t sure why he’d come here, except that Tara seemed to know about him and Buffy and hadn’t tattled. She opened the door, blinking in confusion.

“Spike?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Need your help.”

She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in.”

Once inside, he paced. “Right, so...I’m stuck. Time loop. Same bloody day over and over. Ever hear of that?”

“Like Groundhog Day?”

He scowled. “If that’s the one with the Sonny and Cher diddy and the clock, yeah. Except it’s not funny. I’m not making this up.”

She studied him, her gaze softening. “I believe you.”

That stopped him short. “Just like that?”

She nodded. “Your aura… it’s fractured, disconnected. Like pieces that don’t fit anymore.” She grabbed a book from her desk. “If this is a time loop, there’s probably something you’re meant to fix.”

He snorted. “Fix. Destroyed the eggs, hid ‘em, even ran halfway across the continent. Still end up under that sodding tree.”

“Maybe it’s not about what you’re doing,” Tara said gently. “Maybe it’s about why.”

Spike frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“If it’s about fixing something, maybe it’s not the external stuff. Maybe it’s you.”

He scoffed. “That’s bollocks. I know what I want—Buffy. I’m trying to keep her, yeah? Keep her from walking away every bloody time.”

Tara’s expression softened further. “And why does she walk away?”

The question hit harder than he liked. He wanted to dismiss it, but her face flashed in his mind—disappointed, resolute.

“Maybe that’s what you need to figure out,” Tara said. “Not just how to stop her, but why it keeps happening. What’s really going on between you two?”

He had no answer, and the silence stretched between them.

“I’ll look into it,” Tara offered. “But think about it, Spike. Maybe the solution isn’t about her. Maybe it’s about you.”

He left with her words gnawing at him, lighting a cigarette as he stepped into the night. “Bloody hell.”

If Tara was right, breaking the cycle wouldn’t be about clever plans or schemes. It would mean confronting the part of him that kept driving Buffy away. If he wanted to break the cycle, he’d have to do more than win her back.

He’d have to change.

—*—

Every loop since his conversation with Tara, he worried over the question like a dog with a bone. Why was Buffy leaving him? It wasn’t a lack of passion, a lack of want, or need.

She’d told him she couldn’t trust him. That his schemes and lies had left their mark, had made her second-guess everything he said and did.

He knew he didn’t deserve her warmth, her trust, or her love. But that didn’t stop the desperate longing that twisted inside him, a yearning he couldn’t shake no matter how much he tried to bury it.

He was still trying, though. He was trying to change, to prove that he could be better, that he could be worthy. Would it ever be enough? Or would she always leave, slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving him questioning if he could ever be the man she deserved?

He thought back to the loops he’d spent watching her sad routine. The cycles of missing garbage runs, nothing breakfasts, and late shifts. He’d seen it all. Every missed connection, every moment when someone could have stepped in to lighten her load and didn’t. He certainly never did.

She needed someone to see her, to really see her. To help shoulder the weight, to bring back some of the light she’d lost.

What could he do? He wasn’t her white knight, wasn’t some bloke with shining armour and a clean slate. He was a vampire with more sins than he could count and a love for her that he had no right to feel.

But maybe he could try.

—*—

The cool night air settled heavy on Spike’s shoulders as he waited beneath the tree. He hated this vigil he kept at the outskirts of her life, balanced between welcome and unwelcome. He could see her approaching, the fast-food bag swinging from one hand, her shoulders slumped with the weight of too many hours worked and too little rest.

"Evening, pet. How was the shift?"

Buffy glanced at him, brow raised. "Why, planning to steal my minimum wage gig?"

He shrugged. "Genuinely curious.”

She stopped, thrown by his sincerity. Her posture loosened slightly, and she sighed. "Some guy spilled his soda and made me clean it up while lecturing about customer service. But hey, free burgers at the end of the night." She lifted the bag, her attempt at optimism faltering.

He stepped closer, his gaze steady. "You’re working really hard, Slayer. I know it’s not easy. Damn sure it’s not right, but I get that you need the cash.”

Buffy tilted her head, studying him. "What’s with you?"

"Hmm?"

"You’re...I don’t know. Listening. Not immediately trying to make it dirty."

Spike chuckled. "Reckon I’ve always been listening, love. Just wasn’t always good at showing it." He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. When she didn’t flinch away, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her lips. Soft, unhurried, without demand.

Buffy melted into it for a brief moment before pulling back, her hand lingering on his chest as if to hold him in place. "Spike, I can’t...not tonight."

He nodded, "Course not. You’ve got to get inside, see to Dawn."

"Yeah," she said, seemingly relieved that she didn’t have to explain further.

Spike’s gaze dropped to the bag in her hand. "That’s what’s for dinner then?"

She shrugged. "It’s free, which is what we can afford right now. Not like I have time or skills to cook.”

"Tomorrow," he said suddenly, "Let me make you both breakfast tomorrow."

Buffy blinked, clearly weary of his offer. "If this is some sort of cheesy pickup line about asking how I like my eggs.”

"Funny," he deadpanned, though a grin tugged at his lips. "But the less I say about eggs, the better—trust me on that. Just thought maybe you could use a proper meal. I’ll come by before Niblet goes off to school and before your shift, whip up something decent.”

Buffy hesitated, "You’re serious?"

"Deadly."

"And you’re not going to... do something weird?"

"Define weird."

"Spike," she said, her tone warning but soft.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Scout’s honour. No schemes. Just a decent meal.”

She sighed, finally nodding. "Okay. Fine. But if you set anything on fire—"

"The only thing I plan to burn is your skepticism about my cooking," he interrupted with a wink.

Buffy shook her head, exasperated but smiling faintly. She turned toward the door.

"One more thing," he said, stepping closer. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin as he kissed her again. This time, the kiss was more certain, more deliberate, but still gentle. When he pulled back, his gaze held hers. "Goodnight, Slayer."

As Spike moved down the porch, he noticed the garbage bags piled at the side of the house. Without a word, he grabbed them, beginning to carry them to the curb with ease.

Buffy called out: "You don’t have to do that, I was going to do it in the morning."

He shrugged. "I know. But I reckon you deserve a break now and then."

For once, she didn’t argue. As the door closed behind her, Spike lit a cigarette and leaned back against his tree, a strange sense of purpose warming the coldness in his chest. Tomorrow, he’d try again—this time, by giving her something she actually needed.

As he finished his cigarette, he heard a window open. He turned, expecting to see Dawn sneaking out, but instead saw Buffy leaning out of her bedroom.

“Doesn’t make sense for you to leave just to come back in a few hours,” she said softly.

Spike was climbing the tree with a stupid grin on his face before she’d even finished speaking. He eased himself through the window, landing soundlessly on her carpet. As he straightened, his eyes scanned the room—the small space of her private sanctuary. He tried not to linger too long on the little touches of her: a book on her nightstand, the clothes thrown over the chair, the scent of her lingering in the air, soft and intoxicating.

“No sister time tonight?”

“Bronze with Willow,” Buffy said, standing near her bed, arms crossed tightly, looking a little out of place even in her own room.

Spike tilted his head as he stepped closer. “Didn’t feel like dancing, love? Not that I’m not thrilled about this rare invitation to your boudoir.”

Her eyes flickered to his, her posture stiff, and for a moment, Spike thought maybe he’d pushed it too far. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, grounding himself, willing the quiet thrill of being here—invited—to settle. He didn’t want to ruin this. Didn’t want to ruin her.

Buffy shifted, her gaze dropping to the floor before finding his again. “I don’t have the whole ‘being perceived in public’ thing in me tonight—I guess I just wanted something…quieter. And closer.”

“Not sure about the first half, but I can do closer.” He reached for her, his hand brushing her cheek, and when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, like they were testing the edges of something fragile. Her lips were warm, inviting, and for a moment, the whole world fell away. He deepened the kiss, careful but hungry, pouring every bit of the man he was trying to be into it. For her. Because she was worth it—worth every bloody effort, every step toward being better, even if he’d never be enough.

Buffy's hands slid up his chest, sliding under the lapels of his coat as she pushed it off his shoulders, the garment falling to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

Spike's fingers found the hem of her sweater, toying with the soft fabric. He traced the edge, barely grazing her skin. Buffy broke the kiss, her breath coming in short gasps, and raised her arms above her head. Taking the cue, Spike slowly lifted the sweater and it soon joined his coat on the floor.

His hands skimmed her arms, reverent, before resting on her waist.

“More than I deserve to touch,” he whispered.

Buffy swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing, but she didn’t look away. Instead, her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt and slipped it off his shoulders.

In turn, he worked the button and zipper of her jeans carefully, sliding the denim down her legs. She mirrored his actions, fingers dipping to the waistband of his jeans, hesitating for just a moment before she undid the button and pushed them down.

He stepped forward, and in a dance step, she moved backward. He watched the way her throat worked, her breath catching slightly as she moved back until the bed frame pressed against her calves. She stopped abruptly, her balance shifting.

Spike tilted his head, his gaze flicking down to her parted lips, her flushed skin, then back up to her wide eyes. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t pushing him away. Something inside him stirred—an ache that wasn’t hunger but something deeper—a fragile hope.

Buffy’s knees bent slowly, her body sinking onto the edge of her bed. She watched him, her gaze flitting between his eyes and his mouth as if unsure where to rest. Spike stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting her choose.

Then, carefully, he lifted one knee, placing it on the mattress beside her. It was a slow, deliberate motion, one meant to bracket her space without crowding it. His hands rested lightly on either side of her, his weight balanced and his body close but not pressing.

She tilted her head up toward him, and he grinned at the sight. He lowered his lips, hovering just slightly above hers, but not kissing her.

“You’re allowed to want this, you know,” he said, every word making his lips brush against hers. “To want me.”

She paused, her eyes refocusing from the lusty haze as she whispered, “Wanting you is easy. It’s everything else that’s impossible.”

He leaned back a bit, to be able to see her face fully. “You think I care about impossible? You think I’d fight this hard if you weren’t worth it?”

She looked down, but he reached out to lift her chin back up toward him.

“Impossible’s what you do best, Buffy. And you’re worth all of it—every impossible moment.”

She didn’t resist when he leaned down again, crushing his lips into hers.

—*—

The sizzle of eggs on the skillet filled the kitchen, mingling with the rich scent of coffee. Spike shifted awkwardly, bare feet scuffing against the linoleum, his fingers tight around the spatula. Domesticity didn’t come naturally to him—hadn’t had much use for it in over a century—but he was giving it a go.

Buffy shuffled into the room, her hair still damp from the shower, a worn robe tied loosely around her waist. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him at the stove, but she didn’t comment and instead silently sat down at the island.

“Morning, pet,” Spike said, walking over to place a cup of coffee—milk and sugar—into her hand and boldly plant a light kiss on her temple before returning to the stovetop.

Buffy blinked, the faintest flicker of gratitude crossing her face. “Thanks.” He could hear her take a sip while feeling her eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.

Dawn barreled in next, her school bag slung over one shoulder. “Whoa. Spike’s making breakfast?”

“Oi, don’t act so shocked,” he grumbled, sliding scrambled eggs onto a plate he handed to her. “I’ve cooked for you before.”

“Pretty sure soup from a can doesn't count as cooking.”

“Then explain why it said 'cooking instructions' on the label, hmm?"

Dawn grinned, grabbing a fork and digging in without hesitation. “Not bad. Could use more salt, though.”

“Bloody ungrateful,” Spike muttered, but there was no real heat in his response.

Buffy’s plate was next. He placed it in front of her carefully, resisting the urge to gauge her reaction too closely. “Nothing fancy, but it’s hot,” he offered.

She looked at the plate—scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Spike wondered if he should use the next few time loops to actually learn how to cook. Make something with more substance and skill.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, and he felt an odd flicker of pride.

The sound of footsteps down the stairs flowed into the kitchen. “Is there... breakfast?" Willow’s voice had that confused but hopeful edge to it. She stepped into the room, eyes widening when she saw Spike. "Spike? You’re...making breakfast?"

Spike barely spared her a glance as he put the butter away. "Thought I’d give it a go," he muttered, his voice colder than it had been all morning. He still hadn’t come back round on Willow after she’d risked Dawn for a chance to get magically high.

“It’s good!” Dawn said, her words muffled as she tried to speak with a mouth filled with scrambled eggs.

"Okay—I’m not complaining. I mean, breakfast made for me? Awesome," Willow said, a small grin tugging at her lips. Spike shot her a look as he turned away to clean the counter.

He had a good mind to toss Willow out of the kitchen, but he’d learned that making enemies of Buffy’s friends didn’t win him any favours. Willow, for her part, didn’t seem to notice the tension, humming cheerfully as she fiddled with the saltshaker.

He rolled his eyes, preparing to snap something back, but then he caught Buffy’s eye—one of those looks she gave when she wanted to smooth things over. The “Be Nice, Spike” look. It made him huff in resignation but also, reluctantly, feel something warm curl in his chest.

"Fine," he sighed, his tone still sulky. "But only because the pan’s still hot.” He cracked another egg.

Dawn finished her breakfast quickly, barely pausing to take a breath. "Gotta go," she said, grabbing her bag. "Can’t be late again or I get detention. Later!" After a brief hug around Buffy’s shoulders, Dawn bolted out the door.

Willow, standing at the island with a mug of coffee in front of her, glanced up at Spike as he passed her a full plate. Her smile was genuine, though her eyes held a quiet curiosity, as though she was still trying to figure out why he was here in the first place. "I still have readings to do," she said, carefully taking the plate from him. "So I’ll eat in my room. Thanks, Spike."

Spike nodded before turning back to Buffy. She was picking at her food, her expression thoughtful. Trying to delay ruining a perfect morning, he busied himself by washing Dawn’s plate and the frying pan. After placing them in the drying rack, he turned around to lean against the counter, folding his arms.

“Listen,” he started, his voice low. “Need to talk to you about something.”

Buffy looked up, already wary. “I knew there’d be a string attached to my breakfast.”

He shifted, the weight of what he had to say sitting heavy on his chest. “It’s not a string. It’s… an update. Made a deal a while back. Some demon bloke needed a place to stash a few things—eggs. Didn’t think much of it at the time. Needed the cash, figured it’d help out with—”

Her fork froze midair, her expression hardening. “Demon eggs? Spike—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He held up a hand, cutting her off before the lecture could start. “Thought it’d be harmless, but turns out they’re not just any eggs. Found out they’re... dangerous. More than I’d been led to believe.”

Buffy’s jaw tightened, disappointment flickering across her face. “You thought holding onto demon eggs was a good idea?”

Spike winced. “I thought it was a way to help. Didn’t realize what I was getting into, and now I do. I know I messed up and I’m going to deal with it. Destroy the lot of them before they hatch into something nasty.”

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t want to hide things from you. Figured you’d want to know—your business being Chosen One and all that. But...I needed to tell you. Wanted you to know I’m trying to be better. Trying to do right by you.”

Buffy exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “You’re right. I do want to know. It’s my job to know these things. And yeah, I’m disappointed. Demon eggs? Not one of your better plans, Spike. But...I…I appreciate that you told me…before it got out of hand.”

“You’re right to be disappointed,” he added, his voice losing its usual flippancy. “Was a stupid plan. Not my first, won’t be my last. But…I didn’t go through with it. Told you instead. That’s got to count for something.”

Buffy studied him, her expression guarded yet softer than he’d expected. She looked like she wanted to argue, to tell him he was still a screw-up—but she didn’t. Instead, she just nodded, barely, her exhaustion breaking through.

“It does. It counts.”

He nodded, a strange relief washing over him. This felt right. Then with new energy, he excitedly rubbed his hands together. “So, you want to help destroy them?”

“Darn right,” she said, standing and taking one last sip of her coffee. “Let me get dressed.”

—*—

Spike lingered in the back of the Doublemeat Palace, wedged next to the breakroom and watched the inevitable unfold. Riley walked through the door, and Buffy’s reaction was everything Spike expected and dreaded. Her breath hitched. Her shoulders stiffened. She looked like she’d been sucker-punched; frozen like a deer caught in headlights, and for a moment, he thought she might bolt.

But instead of fawning over Riley’s reappearance and running off into the night with him, as she had so many loops now, she held her ground once she’d found her footing. There was something different this time. Maybe it was because she’d already dealt with the Suvolte eggs—they’d dealt with them. Maybe that was just enough of a difference to change the way this turned out.

Spike’s mind flickered to earlier when they’d taken care of the eggs together. He’d gone in expecting an argument, but instead, they’d moved as a unit, no hesitation between them. Buffy’s strength had been relentless, smashing through shells with a sledgehammer, her resolve as sharp as the edge of his axe. He could still smell the foul stench of the eggs, the acidic tang clinging to the back of his throat, and hear the demon’s screech as Buffy dealt the final blow. It wasn’t the first time they’d fought together, but this time had felt different. It wasn’t just about survival or necessity. It felt like trust.

Now, at the Doublemeat Palace, Spike stayed back, watching Buffy and Riley’s conversation. Riley’s awkward pleasantries grated on his nerves, but it was Buffy’s forced smile, that flicker of shame and uncertainty, that twisted the knife. He hated it—hated the way the former soldier’s presence still unsettled her, even after all this time. She was just a girl, blindsided by her past showing up unannounced in her painfully average present.

The moment Riley gestured toward the door, Buffy hesitated but ultimately stepped outside with him, calling to her coworkers that she needed a few minutes. Spike followed, moving silently through the side exit and keeping a safe distance in the alley.

“I need your help,” Riley said. “Suvolte demon is in town. Rare. Lethal. Nearly extinct but not nearly enough.”

“Oh,” Buffy said, shaking her head with confusion. Spike could tell this was the exact moment when she realized Riley wasn’t here for her. It wasn’t about them, or what they’d shared—it was about a damn demon Riley was chasing.

"You’re here for a demon?” Buffy said, her voice thick with confusion. “You came all the way here for that?”

Spike watched Buffy try to wrap her head around it.

Buffy continued, "Wait—big scaly thing, giant snout? With the eggs? Riley, I already took care of it. The eggs are gone. The demon’s dead."

Riley’s disbelief was clear. "Buffy, I know you think you handled it, but this thing—" he started, and Spike wanted to cut him off right then, tell him to shut the hell up, but he bit his tongue.

Buffy didn’t give him the chance to finish. “Well, I did handle it. Maybe you should’ve checked before you made the trip all the way here if you’re just here for that.”

Spike couldn’t help it—he chuckled softly, even though he knew it wasn’t the time. Buffy’s dry, irritated tone was a relief in this mess of past hurts. She wasn’t flinching anymore.

Riley looked like a man who’d just been told the Earth wasn’t round. “You… killed it?” he asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

Buffy shrugged, her face hardening, that familiar steel edge to her. “Yeah, Riley. I killed it. That’s what I do.”

There was a beat of silence before Riley’s voice dropped, “Buffy, those were valuable—”

“Lethal,” she interrupted. “Your word. So yeah, I destroyed them. I’m the Slayer—kinda in the job description.”

"You destroyed my entire operation.”

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, the military operation I didn’t know about? You’re mad at me for doing my job? Shouldn’t you want them destroyed too, Riley? Or are you still in the business of weaponizing demons?"

Riley, flustered and now getting genuinely frustrated, tried to regroup. "You don’t get it, Buffy—this was bigger than you. Bigger than anything you could’ve understood."

Buffy didn’t flinch, just stared at him, her gaze unwavering. "No, Riley," she said, her voice low and firm. "You don’t get it. I’m not one of your soldiers, and I’m not here to follow your orders. You just show up out of nowhere, after no communication for over a year, looking all GI Joe, and you’re expecting...what? That I’ll just drop everything and fall in line?”

“I didn’t come here to dredge up the past,” Riley said, his tone even. “I honestly didn’t think I’d see you when I got rerouted to California—I should’ve known all paths lead to the Hellmouth.”

“Lucky me—the surprise guest on your military tour."

“I didn’t come here to argue,” Riley said. “I came here because I thought you’d want to help. That you’d see the bigger picture.”

Buffy faltered, her posture stiffening again. Spike could see the gears turning in her head, the way she was trying to reconcile the Riley she remembered with the man standing in front of her now.

“And it didn’t occur to you to call? Give me a heads-up?” she asked, her voice quieter. “It’s been a year, Riley, and I had no idea where you were or if you were even alive.”

Riley hesitated. “This wasn’t planned. We’ve been tracking this thing for weeks, and when it landed here—”

“‘We?’” Buffy’s tone sharpened.

As if on cue, a new voice joined the conversation. “Riley! There you are!”

Spike’s eyes darted to the source: a brunette woman approaching with a confident stride and a bright smile that seemed completely out of place.

“This is Sam,” Riley said, his tone softening. “My wife.”

Buffy blinked, the word hanging in the air like a live wire. “Wife?”

Spike felt the air shift, a subtle crack in Buffy’s armor. He could see it in the way her jaw tightened, her arms dropping to her sides as if the wind had been knocked out of her.

“You must be Buffy. Riley’s told me so much about you.” Sam said warmly, stepping closer to Riley.

Buffy’s lips curved into something resembling a polite smile, but Spike could see the strain in her expression. “Hope it was the highlights reel.”

Spike didn’t know what annoyed him more—the ease with which Riley had moved on or the way Buffy was swallowing her own discomfort, masking her emotions with that practiced stoicism. Spike knew better. Knew her better.

As the conversation moved into awkward pleasantries, Spike couldn’t take it anymore. He stopped listening, but he couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, caught between her past and her present, trying to keep it together.

When Buffy returned to the restaurant, her steps were slower, heavier. Spike watched her from a distance, feeling the weight of her disappointment settle over him like a secondhand ache. She’d gotten through it, sure, but at what cost?

And him? He stayed in the shadows, knowing there was nothing he could do to make this easier for her.

—*—

The crypt door creaked open, and Spike looked up from his chair. He hadn’t even heard her approach—odd, considering how he’d been attuned to every shift in the air, waiting to see if she’d still visit him without the military mission.

"Hey," Buffy said, her voice soft.

Spike stood and stepped toward her. "Shift end without any disasters?"

"Yeah. Just your average soul-crushing minimum wage fun." She paused, her eyes scanning the room before landing on him. "I was going to patrol and thought maybe you’d want to join?"

He straightened slightly, caught off guard by the invitation. "Already done the rounds," he said casually, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. "Quiet night. You should give it a miss, Slayer. Spend some time with the Niblet instead."

Buffy sighed and shrugged out of her coat. "Dawn’s at a sleepover at Tara’s."

He studied her carefully, noting the way her arms stayed wrapped around herself even after shedding her coat. "Well, in that case, maybe you could use a night off yourself."

Buffy hesitated, her gaze darting to the floor. Spike’s jaw tensed as he waited, knowing what was coming but still unsure of how it would play out now that the eggs were gone.

"Riley stopped by the Doublemeat Palace," she said finally, her voice measured, like she was testing how the words felt out loud.

Spike exhaled a slow plume of smoke, leaning against the back of his chair, forcing himself to sound indifferent. "That so? Hoped Sunnydale had seen the last of him when he scampered off last."

She shrugged, lifting her eyes to his. "He was here for work. Apparently, those eggs were even on the special ops radar. Wasn’t too thrilled when I told him we’d already handled it. The military wanted them alive for science or whatever."

Spike furrowed his brow. “The military, always so hell-bent on controlling things and it never ends well for anyone.”

Buffy tilted her head. "That’s what I said. He didn’t stick around long after that. Just said goodbye and left."

Spike grunted, dropping his cigarette into a nearby empty beer can. "Bloke’s got his priorities, I suppose—you all right about it? Seeing him again?"

Buffy shrugged, but the gesture seemed heavier than she intended. "It was…weird.” She shifted, her hands slipping into the pockets of her jeans as she moved a little closer.

"Seeing him again threw me," she continued, her brow slightly scrunched. "It’s not that I want him back—because I don’t. I’m not that girl anymore, and looking back, that relationship wasn’t as strong as I’d thought. But it’s not even about him. It’s about me. About my life now." She sighed, glancing down at her scuffed boots before meeting Spike’s gaze again.

"When someone from your past shows up, you start measuring where you are against where you thought you’d be. And, honestly?" She gave a dry, humourless laugh. "I’m not exactly in the best place for an ex to pop back into the picture. Working at the Doublemeat Palace, dropping out of college, barely holding it all together…It’s not exactly the life I’d imagined for myself. Seeing him standing there, all put-together and on some kind of big important mission—it just reminded me how far off track I am."

Spike’s throat tightened, but he kept his expression neutral, waiting for her to continue.

Her voice softened, her words slowing as she let herself sink into the moment. "I think that’s what really got to me. Not Riley, but the reminder of what my life isn’t right now.”

Spike leaned against his chair, his arms loosely crossed as he watched her. "Buffy," he began, his voice low but steady, "Your life’s not some shameful mess, no matter what that ponce showing up made you feel. You’re not standing still, love—you’re holding everything together.

“You’re taking care of Dawn, for starters. She’s not just some bratty teenager; she’s a kid who started out as some mythical energy, who lost her mum, and then her sister. But you’re here for her. You’re keeping the house running, making sure she’s got what she needs. That’s no small thing."

Spike paused, tilting his head as he looked at her more closely. "And college? Yeah, maybe that’s on pause for now, but it’s not gone, Buffy. You’ll get back to it when you’re ready. Doesn’t have to happen on anyone else’s timeline but yours."

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders slumping. "It’s not that simple."

"Doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”.

Buffy stayed silent.

"Big deal, you missed the deadline,” he continued, waving his hand like it was nothing. “Reapply next round."

She shot him a sharp look. "You’ve been snooping through my mail?"

"It was lying there plain as day on the counter," he replied, keeping his tone casual. "Said you missed the due date or some bureaucratic nonsense."

She sighed. "It’s not just that. College isn’t for me. It never was."

"Bollocks," he said without missing a beat. "You’ve got the brains for it, and then some. You could go next term. Or hell, take a class or two at the community college."

"And do what, exactly?" she asked, throwing her hands up. "Take pottery? Advanced slaying? I don’t have time for that. I’ve got work, patrol, Dawn."

Spike breathed in deeply. "But maybe... Maybe it doesn’t all have to fall on your shoulders."

Buffy huffed, crossing her arms, her guard rising.

He shifted slightly. “You’re always taking care of everyone else, love, but who’s looking out for you?"

Her eyes darted away, a flicker of something unspoken passing across her face.

He leaned closer. "Because while you’re doing all that, you’re still saving the bloody world every night. That hasn’t changed, even when no one knows. Don’t care if that git’s working for some military group with all their gadgets and questionable missions. You’re the one out there making a real difference."

Spike let the words settle for a moment before adding, "So what if your life doesn’t look the way you pictured it? It’s yours, and it’s still bloody important. Riley may have left, but he couldn’t have done what you’ve done, are doing now. Not a chance."

He felt almost embarrassed with how much he’d revealed but knew he had to tell it all. "Look, I’m not great at all this, but, love, you’re the damn hero, Buffy. Always have been, always will be. Don’t let some bloke showing up in shiny boots make you forget that."

He thought she might brush it off—maybe make some quip or roll her eyes at his attempt at sentiment. Instead, she stepped toward him, her movements deliberate, like she’d made a decision she couldn’t take back.

Spike’s breath hitched as she touched his face, her fingers soft against his cheek. Then her lips were on his, and nothing else mattered.

There was no urgency, no hunger laced with anger or desperation like every other time. This kiss was something else entirely. Slow, steady, like she was giving him a piece of herself she’d been holding back. His hands hovered for a moment, unsure, before settling lightly on her waist, as if he might wake up to find himself back in another loop, losing her all over again.

But this wasn’t a dream. Her warmth pressed against him, her lips soft and certain, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Spike let himself hope that maybe this loop wasn’t about endings at all.

When she finally pulled back, she stayed close, her forehead resting lightly against his.

“Stay here with me, love— we could even try out the bed for a change.”

He dragged his fingers up her sides, tracing the curves and dips of her body with a firm touch.

“A bed? That’s twice for us now. New record.” She laughed, recapturing his lips.

—*—

The lower level of the crypt was quiet, bathed in the muted glow of a candle that had burned overnight. Spike crouched beside his record player, sifting through albums. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as if the fragile peace could shatter if he so much as breathed wrong.

Buffy was still asleep in his bed.

He cast a glance over his shoulder at her, nestled in his rumpled sheets, her golden hair spilling over the pillow. She’d stayed. The whole night. Spike felt the weight of it settle in his chest—not heavy, but warm, grounding him in a way he hadn’t known he could be.

He slid a record from its sleeve, the old vinyl whispering under his fingers. He placed it on the turntable, the needle hovering just above the surface. It had been ages since he’d let himself get sentimental about these relics, but after seeing them destroyed so many times, it felt like the least he could do.

The record spun under the needle, a soft crackle filling the crypt before the music began, low and steady. It wasn’t the kind of song to wake her outright, but maybe enough to tease her from the edges of her dreams.

Spike leaned against the wall, letting the tune wrap around him like an old, familiar coat. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt good—like he hadn’t just survived the day but actually lived it.

He wasn’t plagued by the sting of failure or the weight of frustration. This loop had been different. He’d tried. Really tried. And it had mattered.

Buffy had seen it.

That thought alone made him grin. He wasn’t just surviving the loops anymore; he was learning. Changing. Not just for her—but for himself too. It was strange, this thing that felt like hope.

The faint sound of sheets shifting pulled his attention. He glanced up just as Buffy stirred, her face half-buried in the pillow as her eyes fluttered open. She blinked slowly, taking in her surroundings before her gaze landed on him.

“Hi,” she murmured, her voice soft and a little raspy from sleep.

Spike smiled, his heart giving a traitorous little leap. “Hi.”

Buffy stretched, the movement languid, her body relaxing back against the bed. “What are you doing?” she asked, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

He gestured to the record player. “Just putting on a bit of music. Thought I’d make the most of it.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, a sleepy curiosity in her gaze. “Make the most of what?”

Spike hesitated, then gave her a shrug. “Of a good night, pet. And a better morning.”

He climbed back into bed with her, the blankets cool against his skin until he slipped under them and found her warmth. Spike wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, her back fitting snugly against his chest. His nose brushed against her hair, catching the faint scent of shampoo and something indefinably her.

Buffy nestled into his embrace, tucking the blanket up under her chin, her eyes drifting shut again as the music filled the crypt. "Nice tune.”

"Figured I'd treat myself. Not every day things go this smooth."

"I noticed," she said after a beat, her tone sounding reflective. "The past few days, they’ve felt…different."

"Mmm," he agreed, placing a kiss on her shoulder. "Tried to be less of a selfish git for once."

She huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. "That’s new."

"Hoped you’d like it," he said lightly, though the weight of her words settled deep in his chest.

Buffy shifted slowly, her movements gentle as if she didn’t want to entirely disrupt their peace. With a sigh she sat up, leaning against the headboard with the sheet wrapped around her and looking like a goddess. "I mean it," she said. "You tried. And I noticed. And I appreciated it."

Spike swallowed hard, the words catching him off guard. He wanted to brush it off with his usual bravado, but he couldn’t. Not this time.

Her expression softened, but there was still a shadow there, a heaviness she carried like armor.

"But the darkness we’ve been in..." She trailed off, glancing around the dim, cold space of his crypt. "It’s killing me. I can’t just live here, Spike. I can’t always be in the shadows, taking what I want regardless of the consequences. Regardless of who I hurt."

Spike remained silent, though every part of him wanted to reach for her, to tell her she was wrong, that the shadows weren’t all bad. That here, with him, she wasn’t alone in her fight. But he knew better.

Her eyes flicked away, as if ashamed of admitting it. "I’ve been trying so hard to bury what I feel, to ignore what’s wrong, and just keep moving. And you—you’ve been here, and you’ve made it easier sometimes, even when it’s messy and complicated. But I can’t keep pretending it’s enough."

She straightened, brushing her hands over her hair as if trying to smooth the weight of her thoughts. "I need more, Spike. I need to feel like I’m living, not just surviving."

For a moment, the silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint creak of a candle holder as the wax melted and shifted. Spike’s eyes never left her, his jaw tight, his chest aching in a way he couldn’t put into words.

"You’re not wrong, love," he said finally, his voice low and rough, but steady. "The shadows—they take their toll. And you—you’ve got a light in you that doesn’t deserve to be snuffed out."

She blinked at him, surprised, as though she hadn’t expected him to agree. A sad resigned smile graced her face but didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I don’t even know if I can get back there.”

"You can," Spike said, his voice firm but gentle, his gaze steady on hers. "And if you need someone to remind you where the light is, well, I’m bloody stubborn enough to keep pointing you toward it. Even if it means standing here in the shadows, watching you go."

Buffy’s eyes softened as she looked at him, her shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Thanks," she said, the word simple but sincere.

He nodded, his heart sinking even though he’d known this moment was coming. "I get it. Never was much good at the daytime thing, but…I want you to have what you need, Buffy. Even if it’s not me."

Buffy blinked, clearly surprised by his honesty. She sat up fully, turning her body toward him. "I’m not saying it’s not you.” She reached out, her fingers brushing against his before lacing their hands together.

“I do want you,” she admitted, her gaze flickering down, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks as if the words themselves startled her. “And I see the moments with you that show me there’s more. More than I expected. Parts of you that surprise me in ways I like.”

She paused, drawing in a breath before continuing. “But I don’t even know if I’m the person I’m supposed to be, Spike. There’s so much inside me I can’t make sense of, and sometimes… Sometimes I just want to hide from it all. And that’s what I’ve been doing here, with you. Hiding.”

Her eyes met his then, and for once, there was no mask, no walls between them. Instead, something softer and more vulnerable lingered in her gaze—warmth, a flicker of trust. It was so fragile, so honest that Spike almost couldn’t bear it.

“But I think I’m done hiding,” she whispered, the words coming out like a confession, like a secret she’d finally been brave enough to share.

A loud, unmistakable growl, emitting from Buffy’s stomach, cut through the seriousness in the room like an uninvited guest. She blinked in surprise before breaking into a laugh, the sound warm and carefree. “Wow, embarrassing. But I guess that’s my stomach’s way of reminding me I shouldn’t skip breakfast.”

Spike raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, she sat up slightly, as if an idea had just clicked into place.

"Come with me," she said suddenly.

He blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"

"Breakfast," she said, shrugging like it was the simplest thing in the world. "My turn after you made yesterday’s. Don’t worry, I am not going to subject you to my attempts with a frying pan, but there’s a decent place nearby that has a cheap early bird special if we get there soon."

For a moment, he could only stare at her, dumbfounded. Buffy Summers, inviting him out for bloody pancakes. It was so mundane, so human, that it almost didn’t seem real.

But it was.

“Why, Slayer, are you asking me out on a date?”

Buffy shrugged, her cheeks flushing faintly. “I’m asking you to breakfast. What you call it is up to you.”

“And if I wanted to call it a date?” His voice dipped, testing the waters.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

Spike’s chest tightened. Her easy answer shouldn’t have hit him so hard, but it did. This wasn’t just another clever comeback—it felt real, grounded. For a moment, he couldn’t decide whether to revel in it or panic. “This isn’t going to be simple,” he said, his tone softer than he intended.

She smiled, small but genuine, like he’d told a joke only she could appreciate. “That doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

A low chuckle escaped him as he shook his head. “You really do know how to twist a bloke’s words, don’t you?”

She smirked, her expression lighter now, almost teasing. “So that’s a yes to breakfast, then?”

—*—

They left the crypt, hand in hand, stepping out into the morning shadows together.

Something shifted as they walked side by side, their steps unhurried. For the first time in countless loops, the world didn’t feel stuck, didn’t feel suffocating.

As they slid into the booth at the diner, Spike realized something with startling clarity: he’d never gotten this far in the day before. By all accounts, he should be torn back into his place under the tree.

Somehow, the loop was over.

And for once, he wasn’t dreading what came next.