Deep in the day, when the afternoon sun is still too high and he's stuck inside, bored with hiding from its burning face, his crypt is a lonely, empty place; cold and dark and dead. Each day feels the same. Mornings spent in the eternal rest of undeath; endless afternoons’ stretching through forever into a cloudless dusk, when he can finally head out for poker or a fight, before it's in before sunrise and back to continue the cycle of monotony, Spike doesn’t have much to fill eternity with, now the pleasures of pleasing his dark princess have gone. There are his daytime soaps for company, and Harmony, if he's really unlucky, and too much time left over, spent in lovelorn aching for a girl who cannot love him back.

He knows he shouldn't think of the Slayer this way, shouldn't adore her as much as he does, but the thoughts he'd once had, of placing his fingers around her throat, feeling the vertebrae of her neck crush slowly beneath his fingers, are long gone, replaced by a craving for her company, her affections, her love. He doesn't want the Slayer, but he can’t help it. She's all that he hates, all that a vampire should despise, but she fills his every thought, scouring him out from the inside and swelling into his head, until there’s nothing left in there but her. He doesn't know what to do with all this love he has, that’s bursting from his undead heart. He can't indulge it, get rid of it, can't bury it any longer under layers of hate. Faster Vampire! Kill! Kill! All forgotten. All the times they’ve fought together, kick to kick, fist to fist, communicating with punches to the gut, all memories that now just make him smile with a tinge of regret that he can’t dance like that with her anymore, crippled the way he is. Instead of the hopeless, pointless, longing, that slip of a girl should be caught in his trap, struggling to escape, until he picks the one good day to end her life. It's all gone wrong. He's the one pressed under her thumb, and what disturbs him most of all, is that he likes it there.

So to fill the time to sunset and to take his mind off the Slayer he can’t have, he creates naughty fantasies of her witchy friends, hot enough to make their knitwear sexy - A glossy lip would skim across the other woman's mouth, then capture it in a slow, languid kiss, all soft, liquid and breathless. Pressing closer, small hands slide over oil shiny skin, all warm lit in the glow of the candlelight crypt. Hot girl gasps echo off the walls, as Willow's perky, dainty breasts brush dusky nipples lightly against Tara's fuller, buxom handfuls - and his hand will start to travel south for some relief.

If the mask of his cool exterior would allow him to say such things, Spike would admit that he quite fancies Tara. It’s hard not to fancy any of the girl Scoobies really, beautiful bunch that they are, a chocolate box selection of pretty, unobtainable girls. But he doesn’t quite trust Willow’s suspiciously charming, always charming, magical mishaps. He sees through the geeky, witchy exterior to the ruthlessness inside and that marred any real attraction he might have had. As for the rest, Dawn is much too young, although he thinks she might outshine all of them someday, and the rebel in him is irritated by Anya’s incessant commercialism and desire to conform. Might as well forget the Slayer, as much as her wants her, she is a impossible dream. Tara though is different, if still unobtainable. Truly sweeter, she’s a right ripe peach to sink his fangs into. Oh, she doesn’t shine like his Slayer, golden Californian girl that Buffy is, Tara doesn't have that special mix of saccharine and steel he admires, doesn't have the delicate body with fists like hammers or the bouncy sun-gold hair he adores, but she's quietly beautiful in her own way. A fresh clear face with soft young cheeks, big watery eyes and a slim, wide mouth he can think of a few good uses for, atop a long, graceful neck, ringed with hippy beads and occult jewellery. She's slender, but solid built and bony. Her legs, that he'll sometimes glimpse from under the long, garish skirts that drag over her sandals as she goes up the ladder to the restricted section of the Magic Box, seem strong and sturdy, and he’ll imagine them hooked over his back in as she submits to his passion. Her clothing is demure next to the half-nakedness of the slayer's dressier outfits, she’s more like the girls he remembers from his childhood. She’s the kind of girl he could cuddle against; keep tight in his arms while she talked to him as an equal.

The kind of girl he'll never have.

She hides herself well, not seeking attention, so that no one really notices her. No one would desire her unless she permits. He thinks the many years of repression from the redneck men in her family have seen to that. Tricky little bastards, small minded and repressive. Letting this gem think she was a demon for so long, all so that they didn’t have to deal with the fact she was a woman and different, naturally magical, earth mother, white witch, lesbian.

He sees her though. Notices her like he notices everything else, perceptive vampire that he is. Tara’s secrets, like white light, become rainbow-edged and clear, filtered through the dark prism of his perception, the banded colours of her personality open for him to read. He can see Tara’s no mouse - timid to the core; she has her own kind of kindly strength, bright and wise, and kind and caring, and doesn’t give him the hateful looks that the others do.

He’s noticed lately that she's been watching him. She's trying to cover, but he's caught her glances and there's no way she's really reading that book… Looks like the pretty little witch has a crush on ol’ Spike. He can’t quite grasp why she’s making eyes at him, he knows she is besotted with Willow, even if she can’t quite trust her either. And for that reason alone he should plant his stare firmly in the direction of the slayer's chest. That might earn him a bunch of fives, but its better than then the smoking boots that will be all that's left of him if Willow catches him eyeing her girl. But her gaze feels good and it proves that he's still got it, despite the slayer's resistance. So, he sends her one of his filthiest smirks as he squares his shoulders, and secretly delights in the flush that comes to her face.

Then he looks up and receives a lethal glare from Willow, he’s been staring at Tara’s tits and her girl isn't happy.

Watch it, Spike, that way just lies trouble.

end