Title: A Good Day
Rating - PG-15 (for violence, allusions to sex, and one naughty word). Warning: Character’s  death.
Disclaimer- The characters are not mine, (like you didn’t know that!). I own nothing! I just play rough with them and then put them back where I found them.
Summary - Set roughly ten years after the series finale. Spike has lost his soul. Based on the episode “Fool for Love.” (If you didn’t watch the episode, this fic may not make much sense).
Note - * = character’s thoughts
Distribution - If you want it, ask nicely :)

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Shadows partially concealed the form of the lone vampire sitting at a corner table of the cantina. His icy blue glare swept the establishment and its patrons. *Bloody slim pickings.* He took a swig of his piss-warm beer and grimaced.

He felt her before he actually saw her. His preternatural senses perceived the slight change in the room and his eyes darted to the entrance. A woman stood near the door, her body turned slightly away from him. There was something familiar about her. Blonde long hair, black leather pants, tense, slightly predatory, stance. Her face slowly turned toward him as she surveyed the room.

His muscles coiled as she looked straight at him. Could she see him in the penumbra of the room? His glare narrowed as his thoughts took him back a decade, to another night, another bar. She had asked so many questions – but she had not been ready to know the answers then. *Is she ready now?*

Only the slight twitch of a facial muscle gave away his excitement, the rest of his body remained un-naturally still. He had been a bloody fool back then... the chip, the woman, his muddled mind ... and later the soul. Self-loathing and disgust left a bitter taste in his mouth and he swallowed hard, trying to dispel the feelings. Oh yes, she was ready. And even if she wasn’t – he was. The woman turned and walked out of the room. The vampire slid out of his chair, his muscles uncoiling. “Let’s dance,” he muttered under his breath as he followed her outside.

The parking lot was deserted and dark. A gentle, slightly crisp breeze rustled his black leather duster. He inhaled deeply, trying to locate her scent. He sensed when she stepped out of the shadows, directly behind him. “Got your weapon Slayer?” he asked without turning to face her. She rushed at him in response. *She is eager. Good.* He swiftly moved to the side, avoiding contact.

She quickly recovered and swung around, feet planted slightly apart, stake firmly in her grip. His predatory glare surveyed her face. “You look like Hell, Slayer. Bad day?” he drawled.

“Fuck you, Spike,” she spat in retort.

A sardonic smile curled his lips, but he made no move to counteract. She came at him again, this time with a sharp kick to his face. He took the blow and it sent him spinning to the ground. He remained there on one knee, his head lowered. He slowly ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, tasting his own blood. Without delay, she pounced on him, the front of her body making full contact with his back. He sprung up, the momentum sending her body reeling backwards – and as she fell, he was behind her waiting to catch her. His left arm snaked around her torso, while his right hand secured the hand that held the stake. *That’s two, Slayer.*

The pose gave him an advantageous view of her exposed neck, and the closeness allowed him to feel her body heat and hear the agitated beating of her pulse. There was also a whiff of the pungent scent of excitement tainted with fear. Primordial urges overwhelmed him and he sunk his teeth, hard and deep, into her vulnerable neck. She instinctively recoiled and he felt the flesh tear, sending blood gushing forth down the front of her shirt – but his pleasure was momentary. Her foot connected sharply with the front of his leg, and the impact caused him to loosen his grip, allowing the Slayer to elbow him hard on the ribs and to break free from his hold. Spike sprung back, lifting his arms in the air. “You are right Slayer, no need to rush things.” *After all, we are just getting started.* He ran the palm of his hand lasciviously over the front of his pants.

“Spike, you’re a pig,” she growled.

“So you keep telling me, luv. Although, you didn’t seem to mind so much when I was rooting on top of you.”

His words provoked an onslaught of blows to his face and body. He blocked some, took others, and retaliated to a few – his eyes always vigilant of the sharp stake in her hand. He could feel the excitement, the fear, the anticipation, the eagerness – both his and hers – rushing through his veins. And he reveled in it, savoring every drop. For the first time in nearly forty years he felt alive. He was more than alive, it was a heady feeling of exultation that only the thrill of ripping the very life away from his opponent could surpass. Getting caught WAS even better than being hunted.

He had killed a thousand times over the years. So much so, that it had become common, even vulgar. The thrill of killing a slayer, which had once held such fascination for him, no longer made his blood boil like this. It had taken him nearly a century to hunt down and kill his first two slayers – he had killed five in the past decade. The damned bitches were everywhere these days, young, eager, and stupid – some even wet behind the ears.

But this one was different. She had been the “chosen one.” She had been the hunter and the hunted. She had died, and come alive, in his arms. He had tasted her, and she had tasted him in more ways than one. She had trained him, and caged him, and broken him – and to an extent, he had reciprocated in kind. They had danced – and now it was time to finish the dance.

As the Slayer moved in for the kill, stake raised, eyes wide, he griped her arm and bent it back. He inhaled sharply, relishing the sounds of bone breaking, throat gasping in pain and surprise. Without hesitation, he swung his leg up and in, his foot brutally crashing against the woman’s face. She stumbled back, scrambling to retreat; but his hand curled around her hair and he yanked back, swinging her body in a wide arch and slamming her hard against the pavement.

She laid on her back, momentarily stunned. With one fluid motion he was straddling her, his thighs pressing firmly against her ribs, squeezing the air out of her lungs.

He looked into her eyes, waiting. Her lips quivered and her jaw clenched – and he waited. With a feral growl, she raised her upper body trying to dislodge him. That was what he had been waiting for, that final act of defiance, a dare she must have known he couldn’t refuse. He lunged forward, fangs bared, and she met him half-way into a macabre embrace.

He drank greedily this time, without any attempt at restraint, until he heard that familiar flutter of the heart. Pulling back, he looked into her eyes. Her gaze was distant and hazed, but there was still life left in her. He couldn’t drain her completely, he owed her better than that. She wasn’t just food. She had been a worthy opponent – his dance partner. Time to end the dance. With a climatic gesture, he snapped her neck and allowed her limp body to float gently to the ground.

He stood up, his legs still straddling her inert body. He looked down at her with a rueful smile on his lips. “Now who is beneath whom, Slayer?”

He casually wiped his mouth, stepped over the body, and slithered into the night. It had been a VERY...good...day.

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