All About Spike

Chapter: 1  2  3  4

Bit Parts
By Mint Witch

PAIRING: S/Ho Biscuit

RATING: NC-17, for smut, violence, language, and perfect punk rock resumes

SPOILERS: Through Hell’s Bells

DISCLAIMER: Please tell me you’re kidding

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!

WARNING: No sunshine, no puppies. Overcast skies and somebody nailed the puppies to a church door.



Part 4: Geeks Do Not Have Pedigrees

Look at him go! Go baby go baby go! He’s fucking amazing: take no prisoners, high speed, low drag, thrill kill cult. Visibly pushing his limits, he crackles and throbs and gives off invisible sparks.

Christ, he gets me wet. And how.

I can’t take the crush as long as he can; periodically I have to escape for some water, but I still watch him. I’ve been watching him for more than three hours, and never once has he stopped, or even slowed down. His hair is a riot of wet curls, his jeans soaked and clinging with sweat: his own or other’s, there’s no way to know. And he just keeps going and going and…

Hey, he’s gone. Where’d he go? Oh god, where did he go? Fuck fuck fuck. Please don’t be killing anyone, please please please.

This was a freaking dangerous idea. Make it worth it, Spike, come on, make it worth it. Fuck. This vampire, this man, is sentient: he feels, he hurts, he loves, and he fucks. He fights and kills and he’s dead and he’s so very alive. It’s his nature, dammit, as much a part of the world as I am.

Could I handle that nature? Really? Do I want this particular demon off his leash? What if I’m wrong? What then, dumb ass, what then?

“Time to go.”

Oh, there he is. I guess he wants to leave. Nothing like being slung over someone’s shoulder to get the point across. This cannot be good. Nope, I’m thinking its piper paying time.

From my vantage point, the universe consists of Spike’s ass and an open bottle of something brown that swings into view every once in a while. If I really strain myself I could probably make pithy remarks about the ground. Oh, look, the ground. Frankly, I personally am more interested in relearning how to breathe. And noticing the rapidly diminishing level of liquid in aforementioned bottle. Fuck. I’m guessing The Hottie is not happy. Mood swing much?

A nifty little twitch and I land hard on the hood of a car, feet dangling. Ouch. I think this is the feeling commonly described as terror-stricken. Or paralyzed by fear. Something like that. In any case, I’m once again splayed out on a hard surface looking up at Spike.

For his part, Spike is gazing down at me thoughtfully. His calm would be far less frightening if he wasn’t all bumpy and fangy. And drinking. Wonder where he got the bottle? Inane non-sequitors seem to be my forte. This cannot be good.

Spike steps closer, right between my thighs, as he drains the rest of his bottle and tosses it to crash somewhere out of my sight. Oh fuck.

“Tell me something, pet.” His voice is way too even. “Will the Captains Courageous come running to the rescue if I do this?” His hands grip the waist of my leathers and literally rip them down my hips.

“No? How ‘bout this then?” One hand presses firmly against my abdomen as he shoves the fingers of the other into my cunt. Hard.

I can’t help the moan that tears from my mouth. He cocks his head at me curiously and flexes his hand, forming a fist deep within.

This time I scream.

“Is this why you’re here, pet? Hmm? Will the chip go off if I do this?” Using his sheathed fist, Spike lifts my hips a few inches off the hood of the car and slams me back down.

I scream again.

“No? You’re not a Scoob, and you don’t feel” the clenched hand inside me twists “like a farm boy, so I’m wondering” my world narrows and contracts, spots of light dancing in my blackened vision. Far away, I can hear someone screaming and crying; I feel tears running into my ears. There’s the ripping sound of cloth tearing, and a hand is crushing my naked breast as the fist inside turns and torques, knuckles working against the slick walls of my pussy. My orgasm pulls me apart, shredding my thoughts, my flesh, and I come and come and come. Distantly, I hear him growl, “What the bloody fuck is going on?”

Fuck if I know. I’m the wrong person to ask right now.

Spike wrings another howl out of me when he pulls out. There’s a rumbling thunder underneath my sobs. It takes me a minute to realize that I am hearing myself twitch and spasm against the metal. Fuck.

A rasp and hiss: Spike is lighting up. God I want a cigarette. Probably not possible for me at the moment. Is this what lucid dreaming is like?

Spike’s voice underlies my mental ramble; I may eventually come down enough to hear what he has to say. Someday. Not soon.

Spike is impatient. A quick sharp slap on my bruised tit snaps me to attention.

“Care to share why you’re sleeping with the enemy, cutie? Cuz I just can’t figure out what you Initiative types get from this.”

My brain is in the next time zone, but a twisting pinch of my nipple arcs my body into a bow and sets my mouth running.

“No, not Initiative, no such thing, stupid word, I don’t know, I just figured it out today.” My voice is high and thin, alien in my own ears.

“Figured what out?” His human eyes bore down into mine, slicing through the haze of pleasure pain.

“You! Chiron, you’re Seventeen, the breakout, all of it. I told you: my dream.” I’m babbling, but my synapses aren’t quite connecting. I’ve been stupid, stupid stupid stupid, god, always so smart, idea girl. Bad idea girl.

Slap! “Stay with me here. Chiron: what’s that?”

“I told you, you’re him! Choices. The Project. It’s biofeedback: chemicals, adrenaline, seratonin, I don’t know! That wasn’t my part, I was just a Grad student. Spike, please.” What does he want to hear? I can’t think. “I’ll show you, okay? I can show you.” I can show him The Map, the choices. Make him understand.

His voice is like ice, cold and hard.

“Can you take it out?”

Oh. The vampire cuts right to the point, dispelling the last lingering weakness in my limbs. Pushing myself up, I fumble at my ruined clothes.

Spike isn’t good with avoidance. His hand shoots out and locks in my hair, wrenching my head back, grating out the words as he repeats himself.

“Can you get it out?” I close my eyes for a brief second against the warmth that licks through me. What is happening? I should be kicking and fighting, and instead I want to sag into him and beg the vampire to hurt me just a little bit more. The flush in my face betrays my thoughts and Spike looks pissed; he shakes my head roughly.

“No” I whimper, my mouth languid, praying to him. Use me Spike, do it again, I’ve never felt this before. I yield into his grip, something deep within beating on the bars of its cage: wake up wake up wake up.

Was this what I wanted all along? To drown in the monster? To give myself up to someone else?

No. No, this is not what I want. With my head still held hostage, I close my eyes and reach down, fighting the soft glow of surrender. My life trickles through mental fingertips stroking the sharp points of intellect.

My voice emerges of it’s own volition, chill and clinical, rippling with that other me, the me that rejected a pink kidney shaped pool life, the me that chose and still chooses.

“You are a vampire, Spike. That’s all you are and all you ever will be. But you have choices. This is a choice. Will you break me or not. Will you love, or will you hate. Will you live or die. I don’t have answers, Vampire. I have questions; that’s what I do, what I am. That’s why we’re here.”

I yank my head around to face him and feel the rip of hair being torn out. The pain threatens me again with the now familiar wave of weakness; it takes all I have left to face him squarely. “You don’t love me. You never will. I just wanted to know, to be certain. Now I do. That’s all.”

His summer eyes are shocked. The vulnerability in his gaze registers, but I’m losing it. This night, these last few days, have been too much and my body rebels. As my world fades to black, the last thing I see are his lips moving soundlessly.

I don’t have to hear him. I know what he’s saying, what he’s thinking of.

“Buffy.”

Asshole.

***

The swim back to life is slow and sultry. I’m alone, tucked into my bed with the Prez all prickly against my bruised flesh. Poking through my memories of last night gives me no clue about how I got home. He’s in the house though. I know how a house feels when you’re alone in it, and I know how this house feels with him. This is definitely a someone-else-in-the- house feeling.

I hurt all over. Really, my entire body is one giant ache. I keep my eyes closed, fighting wakefulness until the scent of coffee, wonderful coffee, seduces my nose. The edge of the bed sags: Spike.

“I’m sorry.” Play it again Sam. This time with feeling.

I don’t open my eyes. “You keep saying that, but I’m not really feeling it right now, you know.” I can’t be bothered to modulate the bitterness in my voice. Fuck you, evil fucking torch bearing asshole fiend from Hell. You hurt me, you really, really hurt me. Not just with the whole sex-is- violence-Jane’s-Addiction bull shit, but all of it.

“Help me.”

My eyes snap open, and if daggers could shoot from pupils… well, that would be cool.

“Help you? Help you! Why the fuck would I possibly want to help you, now?” Oh yeah, I feel a good old-fashioned rant coming on. “Give me one fucking reason why I should do anything except douse you with gasoline and set you the fuck on fire!”

Somehow I’m kneeling on the bed, screeching at the top of my lungs. Who knew I had such inner resources?

“I should stake you! I should cut off your head and rip out your spine. Help you? Do you have any fucking idea how much I hate you right now? Do you? Do you!”

He really doesn’t get it. Jesus Christ on roller-skates. Those blue eyes, so innocently cruel, face as smooth as a baby.

“What? You got a seeing to, didn’t you?”

Holy shit, the vamp is so fucking clueless, I can’t even begin to describe it. My arms rocket out, shoving him off the bed, my bed. The cup he was holding goes airborne and coffee spews across the room. I fling myself after him with a pillow in my hands, a meager weapon at best. Nonetheless, I whack him a good one with its downy softness and keep whacking.

“Are you stupid? Because right now I’m thinking you’re a total moron! There is no” whack “possible” whack “excuse” whack “for what you fucking” whack “did!” Whack whack whack.

Spike evades the rampaging pillow and pulls me tight against his lean frame. “I was there, luv, I know exactly what happened. You got off on it.” Smirk.

“That’s not the point!” I swear by all that’s holy, my voice should be breaking glass. “The point is you could have just asked. I would have told you.” Maybe. “The point is you used sex as a weapon against me. The point is… fuck, I don’t know.”

Dropping his arms, Spike steps away from me and runs his hands through his hair, exuding frustration.

I give up. I just give up and walk away from him. I need coffee.

Spike appears in the kitchen a few minutes later with handful of broken pottery. Throwing it in the trash, he ignores me, and heads back out with a roll of paper towels. Huh. The evil undead fiend cleans up after himself. Or ourselves. Or me. Whatever. All very interesting, but I’m having coffee. Naked. Naked coffee. When did I reach the point where I was comfortable having naked coffee with Spike around?

Screw it. I’m still sulking.

He returns with soggy paper towels and stares into the trash can for a while before speaking. Since it’s unlikely the garbage will answer, it’s a good guess he’s speaking to me.

“What do you want from me?” Good question.

“Nothing. Everything. Grow up. Get a grip. I don’t know.” Brooding here. I finish my coffee and stand up. “Spike.”

He won’t look at me.

“Spike!” Now he looks at me, all whipped puppy, and I sigh. “Just meet me in my office, the door across from the bedroom, okay?” Whipped puppy nod. Shit. Time to get dressed and deal with the amoral vampire. How do I end up in situations like this? Oh yeah, I’m an idiot. I get another cup of coffee to take with me; somehow, I have the feeling I’ll need it. I snag the box of Snowballs too. A girl needs all the help she can get.

***

Spike and math are not mix-y. Big surprise. You thought I was impulsive? Huh-uh. This guy redefines ADD. I’m practically sobbing in defeat within minutes.

“Will this help me get the chip out or not.” But focused, nevertheless. Yes, I know I just contradicted myself. Sue me.

“No, Spike, this is not about the chip, which for the billionth time is not a chip.” Somebody kill me. The man’s mind is like a steel trap: it can only hold one idea at a time.

“So how do I get the chip out?” Argh! I lose it. I really, really do.

“How the fuck should I know? You’re the demon, you figure it out. I’m sure there’s all sorts of oogly-mooglies that handle that sort of shit. I don’t, okay? Are we clear on that? Any fucking questions? That I can answer, I mean. Because frankly, I’m not seeing you getting the big picture here, you know. So what if you get the fucking ‘chip’ out? What then? Will that get you your precious Buffy? I don’t think so. No, Spike, this is where you fucking make a goddamned choice. Do you even want it out? I’m thinking not. If you did, it would be done already. I think you like it. I think you’ve lived with it so long it’s gotten good to you!”

Okay, did not see that one coming. Admittedly I was ranting, not paying proper attention to the extremely dangerous creature I was ranting at, but most people probably notice a fist heading at them before it connects with their jaw. Ouch. Ouchie ouch ouch. However, the sight of Spike clutching his head and squealing like a stuck pig consoles me immeasurably. Oh yeah.

“See what I mean? You have no impulse control.” My face hurts. Ouchie. “You should have thought about the pain before you dived off the deep end. How is that going to improve your love life? Tell me Spike, I really want to know. What do you want?”

He sinks to the floor, still holding his skull together. When his baby blues are finally able to focus on me, they are completely defenseless.

“I don’t know.” The whisper is barely audible. “I just can’t live like this anymore.” His mouth quirks ironically on the word ‘live’ but I get it.

I settle next to him on the floor and stare at my feet.

“I don’t know either, Spike, I really don’t. Give me a couple of days to read through the rest of it, okay? Maybe there’ll be something that can help. I doubt it, but I’ll let you know if there is. Okay?”

The object of my desire looks at me intently and pushes himself off the floor.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, pet.”

I shake my head at him, not moving to rise.

“Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Now get out.”

***

Baths are nice. Correction: baths are the best, the absolute bomb. There is nothing that cannot be cured by a nice long bath with bubbles and squeaky toys. I’ve never known a bath that didn’t supply inspiration by the time the water gets cold and I’m all prune-y. Thank god this one is no different. The three B’s of true inspiration: bed, bath, and bus. It’s time to get out and get to work.

Packing.

There is no way I’m going to be able to give Spike what he thinks he wants. Nope. And I’m way too besotted to not give into him and try my damnedest anyway. He thinks he can’t live with a chip in his head? Well, I can’t live as a handbag, or a punching bag, or a blow up doll. Or whatever. I just can’t.

What I can do is run like hell.

The Map, the diskettes and CD-ROMs, my Hello Kitty clock, books, a few clothes. There’s not much else in this house that I need or care about. Except Teddy, he goes in a box. UPS will pick up the sum total of my life in Sunnydull and have it at the ‘rents in three select days.

Smokes and random toiletries go in my bag. I call the Witch; she’ll have some lackey take care of the rest. Oh yeah, this is familiar. I left Seattle just like this. Well, not exactly like this. That boyfriend was boinking some blonde bimbo on our sofa. Okay, so it’s pretty close to exactly the same, minus the this-not-my-boyfriend could kill me quite dead just by accident.

A bitchy impulse spurs me to leave a note taped to the door while my taxi waits.

Spike:

P(T|E)= P(T) P(E|T) / P(E)

Kirsten

***

Oh yeah, baby. I’m a bad, bad pixie.



Finis.

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