All About Spike

Chapter: 1  2  3  4

Bit Parts
By Mint Witch

PAIRING: S/Ho Biscuit

RATING: NC-17, because my ego has been beaten unconscious and my superego has fled to Tahiti to have a torrid affair with my tax return.

SPOILERS: Through Hell’s Bells

DISCLAIMER: Let’s just pretend for a moment that he does indeed belong to me, shall we? I can visualize it clearly, but that could be the drugs.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: At this point I have no idea what I’m doing or why, but I can’t seem to stop.

DISTRIBUTION: If anyone wants this I may just faint dead away. But feel free to ask, I could come to any second.

FEEDBACK: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!

Part 3: The Id Goes Marching On

I’m grinning like an idiot; I can tell because I feel like my face is going to crack apart any second now. La la laaa! Go team!

Spike rumbles. Rumble-y Spike. Whee!

“I wasn’t gonna do this, pet.” Poor vampire, he sounds all conflicted.

I know that part: I was there for the drunken monologue. “I’m sorry.” I don’t think he believes me. It could be the laughter.

“No, really, I am.” Still not convincing. I should really stop with the happy giggles. Not giggles, chuckles. I don’t giggle. Yes, I do. Fuck. “But- - oh dear god Spike, I’m so not sorry.” I am so not sorry. That was amazing. That was better than amazing. “That was amazing.”

“Thanks for that, at least.” I can’t hear so much as feel his reluctant laughter. Rumble-y Spike laughter. Yum. We should get up, do something about the mess on the floor.

“Spike, off.”

“Le’ go my ass and I will.” Oops.

He is so fucking beautiful. Even just pulling his pants up, he’s gorgeous. And I feel like an idiot for telling him to get off me, because there is no way in hell I can stand up. I can’t freaking move. Ooh, baby, twinkle at me. Love the shy smile, love the twinkle.

“Nice view.” Bastard. I’m splayed out on the rug with what smells like diet cola in my hair and he’s making fun of me. Not nice, not nice at all.

“Shut up and help me. Please?” Signature evil grin, but at least he gets me on my feet.

“Thank you.” Could I get any goofier? I just want to stare at him and grin until I die. And have more sex; we must not forget the sex parts. Wrenching my gaze away from the shirtless wonder that is Spike -shirtless? What happened to his shirt? Oh. I happened to his shirt- I make a decision.

“Okay, here’s the plan: You are going to rescue the bag and find homes for whatever it is you bought. I am going to locate my pants and attempt to Bissell. Then I am going to take you on a real fucking date, only you’ll have to drive,” because there is no fucking way I’m calling Jess for a ride, “and we will have a wonderful time and not think about the shit-load of baggage we’ll be dragging along. Deal?” I stick out my hand to shake on it, ignoring the draft up my naughty bits. Spike looks at my hand like it’s grown oozing pustules or something, then crushes me against him in a power smooch that makes my knees buckle.

“Deal.” He cocks his head at me like a bird and kisses me again, oh so gently this time. The look in his eyes is strange and new to me: he’s not amused or passionate or wicked. He looks like someone just bought him an ice cream cone, like he’s never had ice cream before and he finds it to be surprising and good. He looks delighted. An odd word for the undead, but he’s an odd vampire.

In any case, he grabs the soggy bag off the floor and merrily heads for the kitchen. I watch his ass. What am I supposed to be doing? Oh yeah, my pants, I’m looking for my pants. Do not think about Spike’s pants. Nothing about Spike, pants, and thinking, will lead to me getting dressed. Oh, god, I want to be Spike’s pants. Yum.

My own jeans are toast. Really dirty toast. There’s a reason people don’t look under the sofa, or at least under my sofa. Hell, I certainly don’t want to know what’s under there. I stuff my dead jeans back into their new home; maybe they’ll breed with the dust bunnies and bear a litter of cut- offs. That would be cool. It could happen; this is the Hellmouth, after all.


“Mother-fucking son-of-a-bitch! Aaaah!” It’s really, really tempting to just kick the damned thing, to crush it’s shiny red plastic into itty bitty pieces. Too bad I’m barefoot. I throw down the screwdriver, furious at the malice inherent in selling people items that they have to put together at home. That does not make the least bit of sense. And it’s evil. You buy something, you expect to take that thing out of the box, not a fucking jigsaw puzzle. Not that I bought the damned thing in the first place, but that’s so not the point.

Now is when I start banging my head on the floor.

Spike’s mellow laughter interrupts me just when I have a nice rhythm going. That’s right, just stand there and enjoy the show, fiend from Hell. Snarl.

“You could help, you know!” I’m not whining; I’m not. I do not whine. Much.

“I could, I suppose. What would I be helping with?” He saunters over and oozes onto the floor just outside my moat of Bissell-bits.

“I don’t know!” Okay, I am whining. But damn it, I’m allowed. “I have a screwdriver, I have instructions, I have a potential fucking home appliance for Christ’s sake! But I can’t get from potential to actual!” Argh! I hate this. I can smoke, drink, vote, drive –well, not that I do, but I could, legally again even, I think- and pay taxes, but “I can’t fucking put together an appliance that is supposed to be genetically encoded!” Resume head to floor action.

“Why do you even have a whatever-the-bloody-hell it is?” I stop my self- abuse long enough to give him my ‘like, duh’ look, but he’s staring bemusedly at the instructions. He’s ignoring my melodramatics, how rude! God, I’m such a self-centered bitch. More head pounding. Are we detecting a theme here? A desperate-for-attention type theme? Yup.

It works, though. Spike doesn’t look up, but he does stretch out an arm to grab the back of my shirt and nearly strangle me to death on my next descent.

“Gack!” Now he’s looking at me, when I’m all turning blue and choking. Great. I feel better about myself by the second. Irony sucks.

“What the fuck is a Bissell Power Steamer? You own a Bissell Power Steamer?” Oh yeah, and I’m the crazy one? Who’s never heard of a Bissell, tough guy? Well, me until the Wicked Witch of the West showed up with it one day. That’s a memory that will haunt me until I die. I yank away my collar and gasp in enough air to answer him.

“My mother. Yes. Like a vacuum, I think, only wet.” Frankly, I don’t think the Witch knew what it is either, she just wandered a department store until someone got her to buy something. She was probably told it was a motherly type housewarming gift by a quick-witted salesperson. Hell, maybe it is, how would I know? I grew up with her.

“Huh. Wet. Well, let’s get on with it then.” He’s so freaking strange. I like it.

“Okay.” I’m sitting up; I can do this. We can do this. “What do you want to do: screw or direct?” That so did not come out the way it sounded in my head.

But I love making him laugh. Meow.

He waggles his tongue at me: “You pick.” Oh god, there is no way to respond to that. I feel like I’m back in high school. And it’s not complete torture this time. Yup, I’m boning the captain of the football team, metaphorically, of course. Whee! Still, some semblance of adult dignity should be maintained.

“I’ll read the instructions, you assemble.” That was good. A moment to switch places, and we commence battle.

- - -

“No, the long screw goes in the back!”

“Bloody Hell, woman!”

- - -

“I can do it!”

“Christ on a crutch, just let me do it!”

- - -

“It says the U-ey shaped thingy should snap on. Snap on! You’re going to break it!”

“I’m going to break your spindly neck, is what I’m going to do.”

- - -

“Hand tighten, you’re s’posed to hand tighten.”

“I am! Could you shut up for just one fucking second?”

- - -

“I told you so-” Mmph!

I think the stain is permanent. Oh god, yes. I wonder if there is someplace I can return the Bissell-beast to without a receipt. Yeah, oh yeah, okay, oooh. I’m not gonna be able to sit down for a week. Oh god oh god oh god…

“Yes! Yes! Harder, Spike, harder!”

“That’s it, pet, ooooooh, so tight…”




“Can I ask you a question?” I’ve been wondering this for awhile. Well, not that long because it’s only been, what, four days?

“Depends. What do you want to know?” I like him like this, all heavy and relaxed, draped over me like the world’s sexiest blanket.

“Why are we having so much sex?” No, really, I want to know. I’m no blushing virgin, but this is a little weird. Not that I’m complaining or anything. I’m just curious. Maybe if I know why, then I will know the rest, like how long. Or how much it will hurt later.

He’s looking right into my eyes, his own gaze wary. I try to explain, but this is not the part I am good at. “I mean, I know that you’re dead sexy, pun intended, and you’re freaking amazing in bed. And I like you. You’re nice in a jackass kind of way, and you make me laugh. But besides all that, I mean, well, why you? And why you, me?” Oh, that was coherent. I so suck at this.

Now he just looks thoughtful. He stares at me for unnerving amount of time before finally answering.

“I don’t know.” His face clouds up in a frown and he rolls off me. Propping myself up on my elbow, I gaze back down at him. He doesn’t avoid my stare, but he doesn’t look happy either. “I really don’t. It just… feels good.” He looks past me. “I haven’t felt good in a while.” I’m not getting the emphasis here.

“What do you mean? I mean, I thought--”

“Nevermind. My turn to ask you a question.” He looks at me seriously, his expression weighted with things I don’t understand.

“Okay.” Brace yourself, girlie: what could the vampire possibly want to know about me? I no longer believe it’s just my blood type, but that only makes this more confusing.

“Do you like me?” Well, that was unexpected. Blink. Blink blink-blink.

“Well, yeah? I just said so, didn’t I? And hello! I don’t sleep with just anyone.” Hey, I may be an official slut now, but I retain my standards. My really, really high standards. The fact that my paramour of choice is dead is completely irrelevant. As is the amount of alcohol consumed over the course of this, ah… um… relationship thing-y.

“That’s why, then.” Spike pulls me down to his pretty, pretty lips. No more thinking.


I’d like to make this a habit, I really would. Wake up every morning wrapped in arms and legs, fingers tangled together. There is a false intimacy in the first waking moment, a promise that has already been broken, not even made actually. But I can’t help myself. I lie in bed a little longer, pretending that this is real.

The sex is amazing, but strangely sad. I think it’s just me, though. I’m not an innocent, and this is something else. I love you I’m sorry I don’t love you forgive me I do I forgive you. This is not about me at all. This is about him and about her; I’m just an interlude in G, that chick with the triangle in the very back. The captain of the football team always ends up with the head cheerleader, not some band geek. Shit. I am so pathetic. Even my metaphors stink.

I peel myself out of his arms, and check the drapes. Don’t want to dust The Hottie. My Hottie. Wobbly little baby steps to the dresser, throw on clothes. Time to earn my drinking money. I haven’t checked in since Thursday: not too unusual, but I should at least check my email.

“Pet?” His eyes are slits of blue, curious and vulnerable. I tiptoe back to the bed for a good morning kiss.

“It’s okay, I just have to check into work.” He’s so beautiful: it breaks my heart. How could happy be so sad?

His sleepy smile turns into one of those evil smirks that already seem familiar.

“Are you?” Huh? His hand burrows out from under the covers, finger tracing across my chest from nipple to nipple. They stand obediently to attention.

“What?” I look down at my chest. Oh, god. The tee shirt: Rode Hard and Put Away Wet. Did I mention a former incarnation as a metal-head? Guess not. Must’ve slipped my mind. His other hand is creeping stealthily up the leg of my sweat-shorts. Okay, yeah, ironic.

“Truth in advertising, lover.” Obviously. This is some creepy Freudian thing, isn’t it? Fuck. I have 10 million tee shirts and this is what I put on. I wish I knew whether I hate my life or I love my life. It’s getting hard to tell.

“Oh yeah, I’m all about truth. Oh god, Spike, no, I really have to--”


“Okay.” The man has the most amazing fingers. I could fall in love with him just for those long, oh god, nimble fingers.

As soon as I acquiesce, he abandons my breasts to strip off my shorts and pull me back onto the bed, straddling his erection through the duvet. I fight the material for the privilege of wrapping myself around the length of him. Oh god yes. He pulls me forward, until my nipples are level with his mouth and takes his time, sucking one, then the other through my shirt while I rock my hips, until I have two wet circles framing the hard knots.

We take our time, slowly undulating against each other, exploring with hands and mouths. His eyes are so blue, so open. He does everything wholly, completely engrossed in a single instant. Those liquid eyes are empty of anything but the moment, what is happening right now. It is shattering and frightening; for the first time I truly fear him. So little foresight: no remorse, no sense memory for the past, or awareness of the future. I am whimpering and writhing on his body, aware of his power over me, enjoying his ascendance as much as my own pleasure. This is what a monster is, humanity concentrated, reduced to the elemental in a demon’s crucible: hunger, pleasure, pain.

He could kill me. He would enjoy it. He might be sorry afterwards, but he would enjoy it as much as this.

My orgasm is soundless and violent.


Once again squeaky clean, I quietly make my way to the kitchen, trying not to wake the sleeping vamp. Everything looks different. It’s as if the walls have shifted slightly, the rooms expanding and contracting to accommodate his presence. He’s somehow made my house his: cigarettes on the table with my keys, ex-shirt thrown over a chair, boots in the corner. Familiar, but strange.

I hesitate in the door of the kitchen, expecting to see Glinda welcoming me to Oz, but nope, still my little breakfast nook. Just indefinably mussed, marked by the signs of Spike’s presence. On the other hand, it suddenly looks like the sort of room that might contain actual food. How exciting!

This is big big fun! Next time the Witch threatens to visit, I’m gonna ask for food. Who knew that Pringles and what-the-fuck-are-Wheatabix could be so thrilling? Ooooh, I have catsup and eggs and ew gross I think that’s blood, and vampires drink Diet Coke? Grosser than gross, carbonated water with aspartame. That’s even more disgusting than blood. Back on track girlie, we’re on a mission here. Way cool, cigarettes and a vast array of Hostess products. The boy has taste. Coffee, Camels, and Zingers, breakfast of champions.

The chemicals surging through my bloodstream, while satisfying, are not providing answers. I really should check into work, but there is a mystery currently passed out in my bedroom. I want Spike, yeah, okay, but more than that I want to understand Spike. I need to understand who and what he is; maybe I know part of it, more than I should, but I want to know the rest. Fuck. If I know it all, will it make any difference? Will he stay or will he go?

What do I do? Only one thing to do, really: go to work.


A man’s home may be his castle, but my office is my temple. Then again, I’m not a guy. From the Descent of Inanna painstakingly Sharpie’d on the soundproof walls, to the five networked PC’s, this is where I work and pray; this is where work itself becomes prayer, an act of divine immanence.

The dry electrical air grounds me, marks the boundary between the gawky, introverted Goth-girl and the competent mathematician. I cross over. Set my coffee and a fresh pack of smokes next to the center terminal, begin the familiar ritual: boot up, light up, select tunes. But instead of dialing in, I stand here, staring at nothing, like a complete idiot. Lovely.

I really don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this so badly that I’m actually shaking and my stomach is somewhere around my ankles. Oh god no. I don’t want to go there, I don’t want to dredge it all up.

The bag is still where I remember it, stuffed into the top of the closet. I haven’t looked at it since that night, avoided even thinking about it. I still don’t know why I did it. I guess it’s like those women who freak out about their purse when the building is on fire. I don’t know. I do know I bought myself a new bag rather than face this one again. And here we are.

It’s heavy. How much did I stuff in here? What did I take? Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, in pink, out blue, and sink to the floor. Blind, I empty the pack into my lap, feeling and hearing a rain of plastic cascade over my legs. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. Look. Crap. There must be a couple hundred diskettes, dozens of CDs. Some of them are stained, some cracked, others coated in dried goo. Not blood, nope, full on denial mode in gear. The labels are obscure, the private codes and shorthand of 20 or so people, now mostly dead. The field agents fared better. They, at least, could defend themselves, but we were like fish in a barrel.

A bright pink diskette, clean and unmarred, catches my eye, and I’m choking, sobbing, memories surging to the surface of my mind. Jill, perky and wicked, bringing cupcakes for everyone on Gavin’s birthday, horrible supermarket things with pink icing and round bits of confetti. We licked the frosting off and threw the naked pastries around the lab, making enough noise for a class of first graders. Gavin, who set up silly behavior matrices based on the field agents reports, predicting which of the agents would get laid, drunk, or just finally crack. Smuggling personal diskettes in, Chiron Project’s out, playing at outwitting the brawn and the bureaucrats. Nothing outside the lab was real to us, just data for simulations, even when those same sims predicted disaster. We were all so stupid, reporting dry projections, possibilities, margins of error, uncertainty of outcome due to maximization of blah blah blah blah, always certain nothing bad could ever actually happen. Not to us.

Maybe that was the impulse that fired me to try to save all this. Maybe I can make up for it somehow, repay my karmic debt. Maybe I can find a way to keep him. Fuck, don’t lie to yourself girlfriend; no matter what I do, he’s not mine. Still, maybe. Shit goddamn hell fuck. I hate this. I really, really hate this.

I have to know.


At some point I completely lost my grip on reality. Not like I haven’t done that before, but still, I’m in my special place, where everything seems clear and bright. I’m in The Zone. Only I don’t call it that out loud anymore, not since that creepy Atkins guy stole my line. That put him right at the top of my shit list, that’s for sure. Creepy ass pseudo scientists with their creepy ass fad diets, yup, they are all on the list, and that Atkins dude head of the line. With the libertarians, televangelists, SUV salesmen, and construction workers who call women half their age ‘Mama’, I’m gonna have a busy retirement. Hey, some people move out to the country, some get a condo in Florida. They all end up drooling on themselves eventually. Not me, boys and girls. I’m going to buy myself an RV and a sniper rifle, and prey on the really, really annoying until the FBI takes me down. I call it the Serial Killer Retirement Plan. It could happen. Make history even: the first geriatric female serial killer, fighting ageism and sexism in the style of Edward Gorey, making the world a better place for all those who are bloodthirsty and easily irritated.

Okay, so seven hours of coffee, cigarettes, and Ministry catches up with a girl. Nonetheless, I can view today’s efforts with satisfaction. The bag of diskettes is noticeably lighter, almost all the contents recoverable. I have four terminals devoted entirely to running decision algorithms, but most importantly, I have The Map. I like to name things.

The Map. My baby, my pride and joy. The first real exercise of my particular art since the Chiron Project went up in flames. It’s so pretty. Okay, it’s not pretty pretty, but I think it’s beautiful.

It’s a symbolic representation of Spike, my new obsession. Everything he’s done, every decision, every utility function I can identify, throughout the time I’ve known him. And before, from the records I’ve retrieved so far about his time in the Project. Subject 17. Oooh, baby.

The Post-Its and printouts cover most of one wall, a Scotch-taped homage to calculus. I get teary just looking at it. I’m a complete and total freak. Math is fun. These things are probably related. And Spike: The Hottie. An unliving, unbreathing, walking, talking, and most definitely acting, avatar of Baye’s Law.

If I wasn’t in love with him before, I am now. The leprechaun can go fuck herself. I’ve got the one who got away passed out in my bedroom and I am not giving him back. Uh-uh. I’m going to do much better than that: I’m going to give him choices. Lots and lots of choices.

Ew. After I shower again.


“Wake up wake up wake up Wake UP! Eeek!” He’s awake! And doesn’t like being tickled. Note to self.

“Dangerous animal here, pet. Could get hurt like that.” Hmmm, not with that look, Hottie. That look means a whole different kind of hurt. I wriggle against him, just to watch his eyes darken to azure- it takes my breath away every time. Stay focused Chiquita; we’re on a mission.

“No, Spike, we’re going on a date, damn it. Get up and get fancy!” Not quite how I meant it to come out, but that happens to me a lot. Unhappy rumblings from the evil undead. Oh no, don’t jilt me now, I promised a date, and I even have an ulterior motive, like a real TV villain. No no no noooo! My life sucks.

“Exactly how ‘fancy’ do you expect me to get?” Oh, I get it. Heh. Dooby- doo, no panicking here, nope, cool, calm and collected am I. Yes, indeedy.

“The shower kind of fancy, for one. And I need to find you a T-shirt. Black okay?” I hop off the bed and start to head for the kitchen. More sugar, must have more sugar.

He finally notices my outfit and stares. “Where are we going for this date?”


“What? I think not!” I can hear him finally getting up. Loudly. Why do guys always have to make such a huge deal about waking up? Speaking from my vast amount of experience, of course.

“You think wrong. Oh, and I left you a clean toothbrush!” This is fun. I could get used to this.

“I am not driving to Los fucking Angeles!”

Yeah, right.


“Tell me why I’m doing this again?”

“Because I’m the girl. And I’m paying.”

“Bloody hell.”


Spike seems pleasantly surprised. Shit, so am I: we’re holding haaaaa-ands. It’s definitely pleasant. And the joint is literally jumping. Despite the distance, we made really good time, and the pit is just getting hot.

I stop us just outside the fringe to check I’m good to go: 40’s laced tight, no obvious handholds or snaggables, leathers worn enough to discourage anti-tourist aggression. I’m ready to rumble. A glance at Spike’s face reveals he’s excited and nervous, staring longingly at the heaving mass of bodies.

“Spike!” Just spit it out, you big geek, and pay the piper later. This is about choices: you made yours, let him make his. Choices suck.

“What?” I can barely hear him over the band, but he’ll be able to hear me fine.

“No one here that can zap you! You can’t hurt them!” Will he get it?

“WHAT!” Oh, I heard that alright.

“You can’t hurt them! It’s why they’re here, get it? It’s why we’re here.” His glare is angry, confused and suspicious, then utter glory washes over his face. I feel like a brick has hit me. I could live off that look, eat it, breathe it, and wallow in it.

He squeezes my hand tightly enough to bring tears to my eyes and throws us into the mosh pit.

Glory Fucking Hallelujah, baby! Glory Hallelujah!

Continued in Part 4: Geeks Do Not Have Pedigrees

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