All About Spike - Print Version
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By Mint Witch
PAIRING: B/S
RATING: NC-17, for smut
SPOILERS: Through S6
DISCLAIMER: Do I look like a paunchy guy with male pattern baldness? No. Okay.
Let’s all move on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a wishful thinking S7. As in I WISH! And big thanks to Canada
for the world’s fastest Beta.
DISTRIBUTION: I’m not only easy, I’m free. Just ask.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!
1. Coincidence
Dawn found the first one.
Dropping the links onto the kitchen table with an idle comment, “looks like one
of the local dogs has made a break for it,” she began her daily quest for
after-school snackage.
“Huh?” Buffy looked up from the cutting board absently, her gaze slowly
focusing on the pile of chrome. “What’s that?”
“A choke chain, I think.” The younger woman spoke into the refrigerator, “I
mean, that’s what it looks like.”
Tinglies crawled up and down Buffy’s spine, Spidey-sense on full alert for no
apparent reason. She probed the feeling like a sore tooth, moving into
Inquisition Mode: “Where did you find it?”
“Back porch. What’s for dinner?” Dawn eyed the confetti of former vegetables
sacrificed to Slayer cooking. “Soup?”
“Ummm…” Buffy looked guiltily at the carnage. “How ‘bout pizza? Could you call?”
“Sure, Buffy! What do you want?” Dawn found herself speaking to her sister’s
departing back, chain dangling from Buffy’s fingers, and shrugged, “Super
Everything Combo it is, then.”
The rear porch was empty. How long had this been out here? Where exactly had
Dawn found it? It was daylight, and Dawn only came in the back door when she
stopped at Janice’s first, so it could have been days. She scoped the porch for
anything else unusual and came up empty: no fish-mobiles, scary pictures, dead
flowers, nothing. Nada. Maybe it was just a dog. But… where were the tags?
*
Buffy sat on her bed playing with the cool length of chain as she pondered the
little mystery. Was she making too much out of this? Nevertheless, she carried
it with her as she made one last check of the house, making sure all the doors
and windows were locked and little sisters safe in their beds.
Satisfied that the hatches were battened, Buffy retreated to her room. Time for
little Slayers to tuck themselves in, as well. After she stripped and crawled
into her own bed, she realized she was still clutching the choke chain. The
links were warming to skin temperature, and Buffy rolled on her back to hold
the collar up to the light filtering in from the street. When she slid the
larger ring over her thumb, the rest slid down, pooling onto her chest with a
muffled thump.
Smirking at herself, Buffy waved her hand idly, the links gleaming in the faint
illumination. The slight motion caused the end on her chest to drag itself
across a nipple. With a quick gasp, she repeated the gesture, teasing her eager
flesh. The links cooled and coiled, twining themselves around and between her
breasts, across her chest, the bumps playing pleasurably against her skin.
Bringing her other hand up, Buffy caught the smaller end-ring on an index
finger. She stretched the chain taught and sawed it back and forth across taut
nipples, eyes tightly closed, until her breath came in pants and her hips
rocked in time.
Buffy whimpered and draped the chain down the length of her torso, hands
following to run over her abdomen and along the outside of her thighs. Her legs
were pressed tightly together. With a tiny screech, she forcibly pushed them
apart, baring her sex to the night.
She held herself open for long minutes as her arousal grew and pressed outward,
demanding satisfaction. Her inner walls throbbed and rippled, a deep,
persistent ache that wouldn't go away. A trickle of her own fluids rolled
downwards, tickling her ass. Buffy fought her own desire, heightening the tension,
torturing herself, until she broke, grabbing the collar to roll it across her
clit.
The sensation shredded the last of her control. She plunged three fingers into
herself, reveling in the heat and moisture. She fucked herself as hard and deep
as a limber body could manage. Her hips thrust upwards, whimpers and moans
forcing past clenched teeth. Twisting the fingers locked in her cunt, she
flailed for the taper decorating her night table. The sweet smell of beeswax
tickled her senses, wrenching her mind into candlelight. With a deep moan,
Buffy lubed the candle in her own slick juices, before pressing it gently,
carefully, into the tight rose of her ass.
Her hand returned to her clit, flicking and pulling in time with the fingers
working deep within. It still wasn’t quite enough. She needed more, something,
one more finger. In desperation Buffy wrapped the chain around the hand
pinching her erect nub and pressed against her mons, rocking and rolling her
sex against the cool chrome. The links caught her clit with a sudden hard pinch
as her hips thrust upwards, rocketing her to orgasm with a muffled shriek:
“Spike!”
Panting, Buffy smiled to herself. There was no longer any doubt in her mind
about where the collar had come from: Lassie wants to come home. With a sated
chuckle, the Slayer drifted into sleep. She dreamt of vampires and the bizarre
courtship rituals of the undead, a length of chain clenched between her thighs.
*
Spike ground out his cigarette as the pants and muted wails from Buffy’s room faded
to soft, girlie sleep noises.
One question answered. Pulling his next gift from the pocket of his jacket, he
stroked it through his fingers for a moment, before heading around the back.
PAIRING: B/S
RATING: NC-13, this part only, for adult themes
SPOILERS: Through S6
DISCLAIMER: Do I look like a paunchy guy with male pattern baldness? No. Okay.
Let’s all move on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a wishful thinking S7. As in I WISH! And big thanks to Canada for the world’s fastest
Beta. And giant double Martini thanks to the Gutter for the loads of support
and encouragement. I love the Gutter.
DISTRIBUTION: I’m not only easy, I’m free. Just ask.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!
2. Happenstance
Buffy woke up at sunrise and rushed downstairs in her pajamas. Flinging open
the back door, she got a painful sting on the thigh for her trouble. The
culprit was a leather traffic lead hanging from the outside knob by the wrist
loop. The chrome spring latch had swung out and smacked her when she yanked
open the door.
Rubbing the sore spot, Buffy unhooked the leash and brought it inside. The
Slayer mused on how extremely kinky this was becoming while she started coffee
and got breakfast ready. One never knew what Spike necessarily intended, but
what she had done probably wasn’t it. Or maybe it was.
She scooped up the leather and went upstairs to wake Dawn, tossing the leash
into her room on the way.
“Dawnie! Hey, time to get up, breakfast is almost ready.” Buffy tapped lightly
on her sister’s door.
“I’m up, mmmmmph.” Dawn’s voice was definitely sounding less up and more ‘leave
me alone, I’m sleeping.’ Buffy waited for a moment, listening for getting up
sounds, and tapped again.
“I’m up, I’m up, okaaaaaay?”
“No, you’re not up, you’re trying to make me go away, which is so not gonna
happen.” A muffled groan reached her through the door, followed a few seconds
later by Dawn wrenching open said door and stomping into the bathroom.
Buffy smiled to herself. She was getting the hang of this Mom-thing.
Cheerfully, she headed back downstairs to finish breakfast.
*
“What is this?” Dawn was staring at her breakfast in disgust.
“A protein shake and banana-bran muffins.” Buffy was obviously pleased with
herself: a real, honest to goodness breakfast, complete with baked goods.
“Ummm, Buffy? What happened to Pop-Tarts? I like having Pop-Tarts for
breakfast.” Dawn turned wounded teenager eyes towards her older sister. “Tell
me we have Pop-Tarts?”
Buffy shook her head. “Sorry, you ate the last of them yesterday. Besides,
they’re not good for you, they’ll rot your teeth. And they’re expensive.”
Dawn sighed. There was no fighting the money. Hockey pucks and yellow sludge
would be her fate.
*
Once Dawn was safely off to school, Buffy went upstairs again, but instead of
just grabbing her robe and going into the bathroom for her shower, she found herself
staring at the collar and leash pooled on her sheets.
The collar could just be a Spike-thing, the sort of item he would leave as a
gift or a threat. But the lead... that was definitely a Buffy -and- Spike
thing. Years of Scooby sarcasm, her own snarky comments, and Spike’s bitterness
about the chip could be read in that piece of hide and metal. And the sex. She
couldn’t ignore the things they said, that they did.
Buffy reached for the leash, running the supple leather through her fingers. It
was short, less than three feet long. A short leash. Spike had given her a
choke collar and a short leash. Buffy laughed out loud.
She sang in the shower that morning.
*
As she dressed, her eyes kept returning to the traffic lead. Unconsciously, she
chose a gold silk blouse and rust colored slacks. Taking a last spin in front
of the mirror, Buffy caught sight of the leash in the mirror. Almost against
her will, she paced back to the bed and picked it up. The leather was
remarkably supple, a rich, deep brown with an oiled gleam. It seemed to caress
her hands, touching her back. The color was a surprise; she would have expected
black or even something garish and red. That would have been more obviously
sexual. This was a well constructed tool, something useful and beautifully
utilitarian.
Buffy turned back to the mirror and wrapped the glossy length of the lead
around her hips. She fastened the spring clasp through the wrist loop; the
leash draped languidly over her hips, looking for all the world like a trim,
chic belt. Buffy spun before the mirror again, a tingle prickling through her
groin. There was a hidden naughtiness to this. The idea of wearing it all day,
at work, on errands, colored her cheeks a deep pink and brought a sparkle to
her eyes.
Buffy stared at herself for a long moment. She should be angry, repulsed, or
disgusted. Instead she just felt charmed. It had been a long summer, a summer
of playing Mommy to a teenager, working a Mommy job, and Slaying. She hadn’t
felt like a woman, well, ever. Spike, intentionally or not, was giving her a
taste of that richness. Her hand stroked lightly up her side, outlining the
still young breast of the woman in the mirror.
Buffy jerked away from her image and grabbed her jacket. Today would be another
long day, but for some reason she wasn’t minding so much anymore.
Her hips switched wickedly as she trotted down the stairs and out of the house.
PAIRING: B/S
RATING: NC-17, for very light smut, and some slight kinkiness. I didn’t want to
scare the kiddies.
SPOILERS: Through S6
DISCLAIMER: Do I look like a paunchy guy with male pattern baldness? No. Okay.
Let’s all move on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a wishful thinking S7. As in I WISH! And big thanks to Canada for the world’s fastest
and best Beta, and to the Gutter for being so all around fabulous. Oh, and 20
points to the folks who can identify the title quote!
DISTRIBUTION: I’m not only easy, I’m free. Just ask. And fanfiction.net.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!
3. Enemy Action (fyi The Longest Act)
He’s sitting on the back porch when she and Dawn get home from early patrol.
Their eyes lock for an instant before he looks down, clasping his hands
together between his knees.
Dawn shivers beside her, the force of the younger woman’s fury strong enough to
blow her apart. Dawn’s pain and rage cut through the sudden silence like a
scalpel, a gasp that slices the skin and draws unexpected blood, “_Spike._” Her
young body prepares to launch itself at him, to kick and punch and punish the
once beloved for his betrayal. Her fire still burns close to the surface.
Buffy lays her hand on Dawn’s shoulder. “Dawn. No.” Her grip is not as relaxed
as it looks, and she’s not as calm as she sounds; tonight, at least, her body
won’t betray her.
“Buffy?” Dawn’s eyes are huge and conflicted. The words ‘friend’ and ‘enemy’
have lost meaning over the last year. All that remains is ‘those who hurt us
and those who don’t.’ And even that definition ebbs and flows, the line in the
sand evaporating and re-forming in a new place with each day. Where does Spike
fall now?
“Dawn, go inside, please.” Now Buffy is the betrayer, and Dawn rebels.
“No Buffy, no protecting me, you promised...” She did, she promised not to do
this anymore. They are sisters: they protect each other now, take care of each
other, because no one else can be counted on.
The elder Summers looks straight into Dawn’s eyes. “Not this time, Dawnie. This
is personal. Okay?” Dawn searches Buffy’s face for the truth and nods. They’ve
learned to communicate this way over the summer, capturing an entire
conversation in a look, a touch, and a few words. Dawn capitulates, for the
time being. She has scores of her own to settle, but Buffy just called dibs,
and they are fair with each other now. Dawn will get her turn, and then Buffy
will be the one to go inside.
Dawn walks up the path, her stride firm and steady. At the stairs she veers as
far away from Spike as possible, edging around him to the door, avoiding his
gaze. When she is almost inside, he speaks to her. “I’m sorry, ‘Bit.”
She doesn’t turn around, but she stops for a second, hesitating with the need
to lash out. She chooses her weapon carefully, for maximum impact. Buffy didn’t
need to teach her this, both the girls learned this part on their own, the hard
way. Still looking into the kitchen, she strikes: “You don’t get to call me
that anymore.” The door closes on Spike’s hiss of pain.
“Well, I deserved that, I guess.”
“You guess?” Buffy’s voice floats ironically on the night breeze. She’s still
standing on the end of the path, looking at her former lover. What is he now?
“No.” He’s looking at his hands again, fidgeting with something small and
shiny. His face works like he’s either trying to say something or about to
throw up. “Buffy, I... I just...” He runs his hands through his hair and surges
to his feet, flinging his arms wide.
“Bloody Hell, Buffy, just stake me already! I’m sorry, damn you! I’m so
_fucking_ sorry, I can’t stand it!” He tilts his face to the sky, ready to
martyr himself in the most melodramatic way possible, sacrifice himself on her
splintery altar.
She can’t help it, it just happens. It has something to do with his own
maniacal demand, the impossibility of him ever doing anything like a normal
person or vampire. He’s always like this. He couldn’t just stalk her, leave
presents on the doorstep, lurk in the bushes, and grovel at appropriate
intervals, not him. And she knows, she just _knows_ that was his plan. But he
got impatient. And now he’s begging her to put him out of his misery. Again.
Buffy laughs. Buffy laughs and laughs, laughter bubbling up from the place
where she once kept a healthy sense of the absurd. She laughs and heals and
laughs some more, her stomach cramping and tears running down her face. Oh,
god, it feels so good.
Spike looks more and more offended. “Hello! Begging for death here? Slayer,
don’t you have a sacred calling or something?”
She wipes at her face, and smiles at him, the kind of smile he saw at the
wedding. It’s that smile he wanted to die for, to live for, to go on ridiculous
quests for. But first he needs to convince her to stake him, before he makes an
utter poof of himself.
“Why should I stake you, Spike? Don’t tell me, wait, let me guess: you got the
chip out and now you’re going to murder us all in our beds?” Buffy quirks an
eyebrow at her once and former mortal enemy, and crosses her arms.
“Well, yeah, now that you mention it... how’d you know? Wait... Clem told you
didn’t he?! Can't even trust a fellow demon with a secret no more, can you? And
now you won’t stake me just ‘cause of the bloody soul.” Slumping back onto the
steps in defeat, Spike mutters obscenities to himself, completely oblivious to
the danger stalking up the path.
“You what?!” He looks up just in time to catch her right jab in the nose. Buffy
lifts him up by his jacket, ignoring the blood running over Spike’s lip. “What
did you do, Spike?” She pins him against the siding with one hand and produces
a stake in the other, poised and ready to dust him.
“I got a bleedin’ soul for you. Happy fucking Birthday, Buffy. Sorry it’s a bit
late.” His blues eyes look everywhere but at her, as she slowly lowers the
stake.
“How did you get a soul, Spike?” The Slayer’s voice is soft and dangerous.
“Found it in a box of Cracker Jacks, if you must know. No worries though, it’s
a newer model than Angelus’...” Spike’s voice trails away as Buffy’s forehead
hits his chest. “Slayer? Slayer, you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay.” His shirt muffles her reply. “You were supposed to stay
gone. I understand gone. Gone is pretty much the standard in Buffy-ville. Now
you’re back. What am I supposed to do with back?” Her head rears up and cracks
him on the chin. She grabs his lapels again and glares intently, “You’re
married aren’t you? That’s why you’re back?”
“Christ, you’ve got issues, Slayer! No, I’m not married. I’m back...” his voice
goes fast and snide, “...I’m back because I’m completely whipped, and want to
spend the rest of my immortal life begging forgiveness and being a complete
punter, loving you from afar. Or a-near. Or whatever you bloody well want,
woman.”
“Promise?” Her voice is hopeful.
“What?” His is confused.
“Promise you’re not married, and you really are whipped?” Definitely hopeful.
“I promise.” Tentatively, Spike slides his arms around Buffy’s back, stroking
slowly along her sides to twine his fingers together in the dip of her spine.
She presses more firmly against his chest, burrowing her cheek against cotton
and muscle. “I got another present for you, you know.”
“I know. You’re still not forgiven, you know that?”
“Neither are you, luv.”
“Okay.”
They stand there for a long moment. “So what now, p-- er, Slayer?” He always
has to push, make noise against the silence. Buffy ignores him, inhaling the
strange new smells imbedded in his clothes. He smells of grass and night air,
and patchouli of all things. And something else underneath, an odor that is
sweet, heavy and drugged. She shakes off her reverie, stepping away from him,
and he lets her go. Hurdles number one and two cleared.
“Now we go inside and you spill your guts. How’s that sound?” She doesn’t wait
for an answer, just goes into the house assuming he will follow. Of course
he’ll follow, he’s her bloody slave, isn’t he?
*
“So that’s everything? What Spike did on his summer vacation?” Buffy’s been
shoveling leftover Mac’n’Cheese, muffins, and now apples into her mouth for
over an hour, just letting Spike talk. He had a lot to talk about, apparently.
Some of it was interesting, but mostly she was just listening to the rhythm of
his words. His voice coiled through the room, marking it with his presence like
a kitten rubbing against the cabinets.
Dawn had gradually eased herself into the room, holding herself aloof, but
paying attention to everything. She had made a point of not saying anything,
even when Buffy asked her to nuke Spike some blood; task accomplished, she had
handed the mug to Buffy and Buffy had passed it to Spike. His quiet thanks had
been regally ignored.
“Yup, that’s pretty much it.” His face closes for a second, as if there were
something he wasn’t saying. Buffy doesn’t press him; they aren’t there yet.
Instead, she changes the subject.
“Okay, Dawnie, time for bed. You still have school tomorrow.”
Uncharacteristically, Dawn just nods and leaves the room. A few seconds later
they both hear her bedroom door close and lock.
Buffy sighs. “That, you are going to have to deal with on your own.”
Spike nods. “I know. Can’t imagine how pissed she must’ve been when you told
her.”
Buffy looks embarrassed and confesses the worst. “That’s kinda the problem:
Xander told her first.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Um. Yeah. I tried to... I don’t know. Everything was just so crazy. And she’s
growing up so fast, and...” Buffy sighs again, then straightens. “But anyway,
part of that is my problem, and I’ll deal with it. You and Dawn will have to
work out the rest on your own.” So there, she says to herself silently.
The vampire just nods again and stares thoughtfully into his blood. He doesn’t
even look up when Buffy slides off her stool and slips upstairs. Pausing in the
door of her own room, she debates for a second, then moves quietly to tap on
her sister’s door. “Dawnie? I just wanted to say goodnight.”
The lock clicks and the door swings open a crack, one large eye peeking
through, quickly followed by the rest of the girl’s head. “Goodnight Buffy,”
she whispers, darting a quick peck at Buffy’s cheek. “Don’t stay up too late
with the evil dead. And *no* nasty vamp sex!”
“Dawn!”
“Ha! I mean it, Buffy. Think of this as opportunity to practice acting like a
regular person.” Dawn shuts the door in her sister’s face, smirking.
Buffy stares at the wood grain for a moment before going into her own room.
Easily finding what she was after, she stops for a second on the top stair to
consider whether she is really ready for this. There are no easy answers, are
there Mom? Suddenly she's missing her mother and her own childhood with a sweet
pain.
*
Spike was rinsing out his mug when she returned to the kitchen. He looked up at
her as she slid back onto her stool. “Well, I’ll be headin’ back to the crypt,
it’s getting late.”
“I thought you said you had another present for me?” Buffy unhooks the leash
from around her waist and drops it and the choke collar she retrieved from her
room on the kitchen island. Spike swallows audibly, his Adam’s Apple rising and
falling.
“Um, yeah, but it’s...”
“Theme oriented? C’mon Spikey, gimme my prezzie.” Buffy puts out her hands, and
Spike’s lips twitch.
“Close your eyes.” Buffy obediently squinches her eyes shut, and something
small, warm, and metal dropped into her palms. “Okay, you can open them now.”
Buffy laughs and bounces a little on her stool, not noticing the bemused stare
Spike is aiming at her. “I knew it! I’m number one! Whoo-hoo! Numba one, numba
one!” Beckoning the vampire over to her, Buffy positions him carefully in front
of her and reaches for the collar. She untangles the smooth links and drapes
the length of it around his neck. Buffy uses her strength to force the smaller
end ring open and clasps it closed around the length of chain. Admiring her
work, she tugs gently on the larger ring, to test that it tightens smoothly but
won’t come off. Satisfied, she threads the coiled ring of her new present onto
the larger ring of the collar. The dog tags hang flat and shiny against his
pale chest. Buffy leans close to read the inscription: “Spike” Property of
Buffy Summers 1630 Revello Drive Sunnydale California
Looking up into Spike’s face, she laughs, and tugs on it again. The look on his
face is agonized and a low rumbling moan makes his whole body vibrate. But his
hands remain at his sides, in defiance of the bulge in his jeans. Taking a tiny
bit of pity on him, she threads her arms around his neck and places a soft,
gentle kiss on his lips. “Thank you, Spike. I really like my prezzies.”
“Buffy...” Spike’s voice isn’t even audible, just a strangled breath beyond the
edge of hearing.
“What?” Her breath puffs softly against his cheek.
“I should go.” He sounds as if he were being tortured, which is merely
accurate.
“No.” Buffy leans back, and pouts at him seriously. “I need to know if I can
trust you, soul or no soul.” She leans close and whispers in his ear, “I want
to. Can I?”
Spike cants his own head to the ceiling and closes his eyes. “I don’t know,
Buffy. How would I know?” Tilting his head down, he looks at her, searching for
the answer.
“You try. You try and try and try, and you never stop trying.”
“How Buffy? Tell me how.” The pain in his whisper is wretched, and she breaks a
little. Her newfound joy is fragile, her pleasure tentative. He could destroy this
tender peace if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. “Teach me to be good for you. I
thought the soul would do it, but…”
She answers for him, “People with souls kill and maim, rape, and hurt each
other all the time. I know. God, how I know.” Buffy places her lips against his
cheekbone and withdraws. “Hang out with me tonight, Spike. We’ll watch a movie,
make out on the sofa, and get all hot and bothered. You’ll stop when I say ‘no’
and I won’t hit you tomorrow.” She looks at him earnestly. “Be my boyfriend, Spike,
and I’ll be your girl.”
“Yes, Slayer. I want to be your boyfriend.” He grins at her and they kiss
breathlessly.
*
“Oh god, Spike, stop…” He snatches his hand back so fast it should break the
sound barrier, and Buffy giggles. The movie has rewound itself once already,
and they are still groping and mashing together. The long, cool length of him
presses her into the sofa, their mutual desire grinding through jeans, slacks,
and panties. She’s so wet it requires all of her self-control not to shred his
clothes and scream for him to fuck her. But Dawn set the boundaries for the
evening, and she’s right: they need this first.
Spike peppers soft kisses the length of her neck, hand resolutely returned to
her waist. In this, at least, he has been better than she has. Buffy can’t keep
her hands off of her vampire; his shirt is on the floor and her fingers play an
endless fugue along his ribs, tinkling arpeggios the length of his spine. Then
again, Spike never says ‘no’ or ‘stop’. Spike is wallowing in every caress,
body humming with pleasured frustration.
“Hold on,” she whispers to him, and struggles to sit up. Reaching behind her,
she unclasps her bra and works one arm out of the strap, beneath her blouse.
The other strap pulls easily through the opposite sleeve, the flimsy lingerie
flicking onto the floor with his shirt. Spike looks on, enthralled and panting
his desire.
With a shy smile, the Slayer grasps the offending hand and places it
purposefully back on her breast, the erect nipple pressing into her lover’s
palm through the gold silk. Spike moans and captures her sore mouth again,
licking and biting her swollen lips in time with the plucking of his fingers on
her crinkled aureole.
They arch against each other, female opposing male . Her gasps cycle into moans
when he lowers his head to the front of her blouse, nipping at her through the
slick fabric. She rubs her mons against the evidence of his arousal, her body
aching from his kiss, his touch, the play-by-play of juvenile frottage she
never experienced in her teens. The tender misery of it drives her to the edge,
and she’s close, so close.
With a savage growl, Buffy reaches down Spike’s jeans, grabbing at his ass and
shoving him harder against her. Spike growls in turn and returns his hands to
her hips, tilting her pelvis up, still suckling and biting her breasts. So
close… Her other hand crawls up his body to his neck, and a finger slips
through the large ring dangling from his collar. Quick and sharp, she pulls on
it. Spike rocks hard against her mound and yowls, teeth tearing through silk,
hips pistoning. The sharp pain in her breast shoots through Buffy’s body,
sending her over the threshold of her desire.
She’s falling now, more surely than she fell from Glory’s tower. Sparks snap behind her eyes,
and Buffy shudders, riding out her first non-solo orgasm in four months. Spike
is shaking and moaning against her, hands still firmly grasping her clothed
hips.
“Bloody hell, woman, you just made me come in my pants.” His voice is quietly
awed.
Buffy smiles. “Me too, babe, me too.”
A long pause. “God, how I love you, Slayer.”
Me too, babe, me too.
*
Dawn is not pleased. Not only is she late for school, but breakfast is stale
hockey pucks, and she has a chemistry test today: so not of the good. She slams
out of the kitchen and into the living room, eyes alighting on the couple
entwined on the couch. At least they are mostly decent; Spike probably won’t
even miss the ten bucks she liberated for lunch money.
At least someone’s happy.
PAIRING: B/S
RATING: NC-17, for very light smut, and some slight kinkiness. I didn’t want to
scare the kiddies.
SPOILERS: Through S6
DISCLAIMER: Do I look like a paunchy guy with male pattern baldness? No. Okay.
Let’s all move on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is 2nd in the series that started with Coincidence,
Happenstance… Enemy Action. I was calling it the “I Wish- verse”, then briefly
the Goldfinger series, and right now it’s going by the name Kinky-Buffy-Smut.
Anyone who can come up with something I like for this monster gets a cameo or a
ficlet, depending upon what that Bitch (a.k.a. My Muse) forces me to write.
DISTRIBUTION: I’m not only easy, I’m free. Just ask. And fanfiction.net.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!
4. Kitchen Confidential
There was a crick in her neck, and for some reason Buffy couldn’t move her
legs. She swam slowly towards consciousness, dreams muddling with memory, as
her eyes opened and focused, first on the blond head pillowed between her
breasts, and then on the mantel clock. Her lips curved into a smile, prepared
to utter sleepy sweet nothings, when her subconscious suddenly threw a fastball
into her forebrain and panic slammed through her bloodstream on a wave of
adrenaline.
Buffy bucked violently upright, rolling the unconscious vampire onto the floor
with a thud. “Crap!” The Slayer surged to her feet, hopped over Spike, and ran
for the staircase.
Spike’s eyes opened, and he blinked blearily after the young woman for a
second, muttering, “Thought you weren’t gonna do that this time, pet,” but
Buffy was gone. Spike closed his eyes in resignation and waited for the other
shoe.
Which dropped in the form of a half-naked Slayer screaming, “Coffee!” as she
hurdled through the living room into the kitchen. A highly original assortment
of bangs, crashes, and curses entertained him for a few moments, and then a
mostly naked Slayer streaked back through the living room and up the stairs
again.
Spike levered himself to his feet, pulling on his tee shirt as he rose, and
started gathering up random items of abandoned Buffy-wear. He strolled barefoot
into the kitchen and chucked the garments down into the basement. The sound of
the shower turning on swooshed from above.: Spike stared at the ceiling and
rubbed at his hair, wondering what the bloody fuck was going on.
Helping himself to a cup of coffee, Spike settled on a kitchen stool and sipped
slowly. The shower shut off, and the noises that followed sounded faintly like
an Apocalypse, but Spike dismissed the thought. No self- respecting demon would
suck the world into Hell before noon.
Buffy jogged into the kitchen a few moments later, wet hair pulled into a ponytail
and dripping onto the back of her blouse. She grabbed his coffee cup, sniffed,
then downed it in one gulp. She thrust it back into his hand with an urgent,
“More!”
William the Bloody Whipped slid off the stool and fetched the Slayer more
coffee. She was just fastening his leash around her waist when he turned back
around.
“Thanks.” Buffy smiled as she thanked him, then leaned forward and gave him a
quick peck on the lips, batting her eyelashes. Call him William the Bloody
Confused. But Buffy was speaking now. Rapidly.
“…but I get home around six, and Dawn works at the shop after school on
Wednesdays; Anya will drop her off when they close, and Xander stays over with
her while I patrol. You can hang here and have dinner with us and then patrol
with me, I mean if you want to, but you don’t have to if you, you know, don’t
want to--” Spike just stood there, listening to her babble as she ran around
the kitchen filling a steel mug with more coffee and packing what looked like a
lunch box. The Slayer has a Wonder Woman lunch box: how ‘bout that for irony.
“…my work number is on the ‘fridge, but if you leave, turn off the coffee pot
and lock the door, okay? And--” a car honked outside, “Crap, that’s Xander!”
Buffy pecked him on the mouth again, thrust his cup back into his hand, and was
out the door, mug and lunch box and purse all somehow in tow.
Spike raised his cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. Then he looked down
at his bare toes and wiggled them. He stood that way for a long, quiet moment.
Then he turned, topped off his coffee, and sat back down on the stool.
It was entirely possibly that he’d had the better end of the deal when she just
kicked him in the head mornings.
*
Xander leaned over to open the passenger door as Buffy slammed out of the
house. He smiled: every morning she could be counted on to leap off the porch
and run down the front path as if the hounds of Hell were on her heels. The
Slayer seemed to be in a constant state of almost-but-not-quite- running-late
these days, but at least she was cheerful about it. It was a vast improvement
over the Buffy of last year, who was always late, and sometimes completely
absent, not to mention terminally depressed.
Sliding into the car, she blithely announced, “Spike’s back,” and fastened her
seatbelt with the hand not juggling coffee and female luggage.
“Oh?” Xander was damn proud of his casual tone. Casually checking the mirror
for oncoming traffic, he casually reached for the turn-signal lever and
prepared to casually pull away from the curb. “How do you know?”
“Cuz he’s in my kitchen.”
Snap! Xander looked down at the plastic lever now permanently separated from
the steering column of his car and gave silent thanks to the Powers That Be
that they had not been in traffic when Buffy dropped her little bombshell.
“Oh.” Not so casual anymore, are we Xan-man? Xander physically restrained
himself from leaping out of the car and running into the house for what would
certainly be a humiliating display of male over-reaction. Deep breaths. Yeah, okay.
“Uh-huh.” Buffy waved out the car window, just in case Spike was watching.
Xander closed his eyes for moment and prayed for guidance.
Very, very calmly, Xander pulled onto the road, paying careful attention to
everything except his passenger. He counted to one hundred. He counted down
from one hundred. He attempted to count to one hundred in Spanish but only made
it as far as cinco, so he repeated it one hundred times in penance.
He finally spoke when they pulled up in front of Buffy’s building. “Buff--”
“I know, Xander. But we talked about this. And… I invited him to dinner, so he
might still be there tonight. Don’t-- just don’t, okay?”
Xander blinked thoughtfully at his friend, then looked away. He heard her
unfasten her seatbelt and turned back to face her before she got out of the
car.
“Okay, Buffy. But, I really hope you know what you’re doing.”
Buffy gazed at him seriously and nodded in understanding. “I do too, Xander. I
do, too.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. “See you
later.”
Xander tried to smile, “Same Bat time, same Bat channel.” She smiled at him
with genuine fondness and gently closed the door, then strode away. He watched
until she was inside, debating with himself, and sighed. Better to just go to
work. The Buffster would not appreciate him taking matters into his own hands.
But God damn him, if he didn’t want to.
*
Spike watched telly, called up Willie for a blood, liquor, and fags delivery,
slept, watched more telly, and basically killed time until Buffy was due home.
The Slayer’s home was woefully lacking in reading material. He was back at the
kitchen island watching the clock and pretending to do a crossword puzzle when
she breezed in with Harris in her wake.
The whelp nodded to him. “Dead boy.”
Spike nodded back. “Stay-Puft.”
Buffy intervened. “Be nice. Both of you.”
Xander and Spike traded glares, silently promising future mayhem once the
Slayer was out of the way.
Her open palm slammed down onto the counter between them, making both men jump.
“I mean it!” The males looked away from each other guiltily, relieved when Dawn
came in, yelling: “Luuuuuucy! I’m hooooome from—oh. _You’re_ still here.”
Turning away, the teenager bestowed a megawatt smile upon Xander. “C’mon
Xander, let’s go into the dining room to do my homework.”
At Xander’s nod, Team Angry-and-Sullen stomped out.
Buffy moaned and covered her face with her hands for a second. Looking back up,
she smiled weakly at Spike and shrugged. “Sorry.”
Spike shrugged back at her, as he cleared away his puzzle. “S’okay. Could’ve
been worse.”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “What, I’m supposed to be grateful for small
favors, now?” Buffy shook her head at Spike, and went to the refrigerator.
Pulling out vegetables, she suggested, “Tell you what? I’ll be grateful for
help with dinner and hope those two feel a little more charitable with food in
their bellies. Can you make a salad?”
“Can try. More of a carnivore myself.” Buffy set the fixings on the island and
opened the knife drawer for Spike. While he involved himself in choosing the
largest, sharpest, and most testosterone-laden utensil he could find, she did
mysterious female things with appliances. Weapon chosen, Spike contemplated the
forces arrayed against him. Settling upon the carrot as the most immediately
threatening of his foes, he proceeded to flay the innocent tuber, imagining it
was Harris, strapped down and obviously so evil that the Slayer was forced to
overlook a bit of torture. Take that, fat man.
Unfortunately, even that fantasy couldn’t drown out the question he’d been
worrying at all day. Just spit it out, you wanker. Switching to lettuce and
thoughts of red-hot pokers, Spike spoke. “Why didn’t you stake me, Buffy?”
“Hmmm?”
“Last night. Why didn’t you stake me, or beat the devil out of me, or
something?” He stared fixedly at the tomatoes awaiting evisceration as Buffy
came over and leaned her hip against the island.
“I don’t know, really. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if you came back. I
thought about it, a lot actually, but… well, there was no way to know what
_you_ would do, and… I just spent a lot of time this summer thinking, and I
decided to wing it.” Buffy frowned. “I guess after everything that happened, I
decided that Buffy and stone-throwing was kind of hypocritical.”
“Never stopped you before, luv.”
“Oh, thanks for that. You’re not supposed to agree with me, you know.” Spike
looked up from his vegetative depredations to raise an eyebrow at her. She
huffed back. “What I can’t figure out is why you are back.”
Spike looked away, scraping the thoroughly evil and properly chastised
vegetables into the bowl provided by Buffy. “Love’s bitch.”
“What?” She stared at the vampire until he looked back at her.
“I’m Love’s Bitch, Slayer. Always have been, always will be. Couldn’t stay away
if I wanted to.” Spike wiped the chef’s knife clean and examined the blade
minutely before continuing. “Didn’t want to.” Gazing at his Slayer, Spike
reached out and ran the tip of the steel along her cheekbone.
Buffy’s eyes widened and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. The sharp point
followed, scraping the lower curve of her mouth, before tracing over her chin
and down her throat.
Spike pressed gently against the hollow between her collar bones, then
continued downward at Buffy’s gasp. The knife left a thin white scratch on her
chest, marking its mesmerizing progress into her cleavage.
A quick flick of the vampire’s wrist, and the first pearl button of Buffy’s
blouse slipped easily out of its hole. Maddeningly slowly, the others followed
suit, until the pale blue silk was draped open to her waist.
Spike turned the blade, scraping the honed edge up her side, raising goose
pimples on the Slayer’s golden skin.
Tears pooled in Buffy’s eyes, her cheeks flushed, and her breath came in quick
pants, sawing in and out of her lungs. The danger drove her excitement higher,
propelled by sharp objects and the fear of discovery. Lightening curved and
spiraled in her belly, coiling down to pool in her sex.
The knife slid over the lace of her bra, slipping beneath the upper edge, and
teasing the cup down to expose her nipple. With a quick little flicks of his
wrist, Spike used the flat of the blade to spank Buffy’s nipple, the cool metal
shocking her with each stinging slap.
Unexpectedly, the Slayer spasmed, arching into an orgasm on her toes. Her skin
flushed a deep pink and perspiration beaded on her upper lip. Faster than she
could follow, Spike dropped the knife on the cutting board and pulled her
against him, jacking her up over his knee and sucking her aureole into his
mouth. Buffy moaned and shuddered, writhing against his thigh.
“Oh, god!” Spike hummed in response, the vibration of his mouth against her
breast sending another spark straight to her clit. Gradually, Buffy’s breathing
slowed and Spike let her slide down his leg, setting her carefully back onto
her feet. She had to tug on his hair to make him let go of her nipple, though.
He grinned at her unrepentantly, as she fixed her clothing.
Buffy was searching for something to say when the oven timer saved her. She
sounded only slightly shaky as she called for Dawn to set the table. Jesus God,
dinner was going to be utter Hell.
PAIRING: B/S
RATING: PG-13, this chapter. Hey, nobody is forcing you to read this.
SPOILERS: Through S6
DISCLAIMER: Absolutely. They are all mine, I just use a pseudonym and dress up in
women’s clothing when I write fanfic.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story picks up from the end of Kitchen Confidential. I was
calling it the “I Wish-verse”, then briefly the Goldfinger series, and right
now it’s going by the name Kinky-Buffy-Smut. Anyone who can come up with
something I like for this monster gets a cameo or a ficlet, depending upon what
that Bitch (a.k.a. My Muse) forces me to write.
DISTRIBUTION: I hope in time ‘twill grow into a custom, That noblemen shall
come with cap and knee To purchase a night’s lodging of their wives.
FEEDBACK: Is this a trick question? Because I don’t remember the professor
saying this would be on the final.
5. A Lesson in Tightropes
Being right sucked Suvolte eggs. Dinner was indeed Hell. And not Hellmouth- y
Hell, but actual Hell, complete with seven (or was it nine?) levels and
professors who kick you out of their class. Buffy had a sneaking suspicion that
she could’ve derailed the whole Acathla fiasco from the get-go just by inviting
Angel home for dinner with the family. Years of heartbreak and guilt would have
been completely bypassed, and everybody could have lived happily ever after.
Looking around the table, Buffy was forced to acknowledge that so much was
wrong with this picture, it was impossible to identify them all, like one of
those puzzles in the comics section of the paper. Dawn was good at those, but
Buffy got way frustrated and always ended up stabbing at them with her pencil,
hoping beyond hope that irritating Sunday supplements were Slayable.
Let’s see: in this picture, four people are having a nice dinner. In the other
picture, only one of them is an actual, unadulterated person, the other three
are monsters or freaks or glowy green balls of energy. In drawing one, the
young woman’s gentleman friend is savoring a nice cup of coffee after a
pleasant meal. In drawing two, a former serial-murderer- slash-attempted-rapist
is slurping down human blood with every indication of genuine pleasure. Back to
the first picture, family and friends are enjoying a quiet moment and the
pleasure of each other’s company. Cut to the second, and four very violent
purveyors of mayhem are seriously contemplating committing permanent bodily
harm to certain other members of this little dinner party.
Too much to deal with, in a really big way. Dawn and Xander were currently
playing ‘we hate Spike’, and since Buffy had turned traitor and gone over to
the enemy, she was now included in the shut out. Spike had gradually cooled
from ‘hot and sexy vamp’ to ‘silent and foreboding vamp’, obviously pissed for
any of a hundred good reasons. And Buffy, nominal head of household, temp-job
Mommy, and Slayer of the Evil Undead, was still feeling on the warm and tingly
side, trying desperately to exorcise the impulse to slide beneath the table and
suck off her evil undead not-quite-boyfriend, because oh dear god wouldn’t that
feel better than this wrackingly painful tightrope tension. To lose herself in
the taste, touch, smell. . .
Stop!
So not good. And for the life of her, Buffy couldn’t figure out how to fix
this. The whole ordeal was quickly driving her into a panic attack of truly
epic proportions. Buffy was the Slayer. Slayers save people, save the world,
countless times over, dying and resurrecting without the uncomfortable karmic
cockroach parts. Unfortunately, Slayers were not Chosen for their mastery of
witty social banter. Or was that covered in the Handbook? Appendix S, maybe,
for social, addendum IV. Some Watcher from the eleventh century outlining
appropriate subjects for Slayer conversation at meals: apocalypses over
appetizers, demons during dessert.
The scrape of Spike’s chair broke the rhythm of Buffy’s reflections. She looked
up from her untouched meal, grateful for the interruption to her rapidly
derailing train of thought. He nodded around the table, lips set into a thin
line, and carried his mug into the kitchen. The whoosh of running water was
loud in the quiet house. And surely it was only the silence that made the sound
of the back door closing seem so slammy.
Buffy rose to follow, anxiety churning in her stomach, but Dawn was already out
of her seat and darting towards the back porch. She had to calm down. He was
back: he wouldn’t have come back just to take off again. But they still hadn’t
talk-talked. God, she must chill. Chill, Buffy, chill. Dawn wouldn’t dust him,
would she? Spike didn’t know about… Everything would be fine. Mental fingers
wrapped around the thought and held it close, the familiar mantra soothing her.
Buffy sank back down into her chair, closing her eyes against the tension
remaining in the dining room. She could feel Xander thinking at her, invisible
I-told-you-sos shooting across the table like hard little rubber bullets.
*
Smoke curled up from the end of his cigarette, the gray tendrils enviably impervious
to the hostility blowing through Casa Del Summers. Spike contemplated the
collateral damage possibilities of fire as applied to the whelp, wondering idly
which of his dinner companions would be rushing outside to play Kick the Spike.
Maybe they’d all jump up at once and get stuck in the kitchen doorway like a
Stooges skit. Then at least he would be able to finish his cigarette in peace.
Ah, no such luck. Several seconds before the hormone bomb herself landed on his
nice, serene porch, the pitter-patter of little sister feet announced who'd
wrestled the others to the ground for the long straw. Spike maintained his
thoughtful pose, trying to banish a sneaking desire to rip the little brat’s
lungs out. Opposing urges warred within the vampire, for some reason far more
difficult to reconcile with a soul than with a chip. His demon understood the
chip, had even begun to accept it; pain was a recognizable boundary. The soul,
however, could be tempted, urges rationalized. Invisible sappers tunneled beneath
the ramparts of Spike’s resolve, goading him to snap and bite at the girl, to
cause pain equal to his own.
Dawn looked him up and down, face pulled into a derisive smirk. “So I guess
all’s forgiven, then, huh? You come back all soul-having and Buffy is suddenly
‘take me now, you sexy fiend?’ Gosh, you might as well change your name to
Angel!”
That’s it, time to kill the chit. Spike vamped and lunged, stopping short nose
to nose with the teenager. His face morphed smoothly back into his human guise
as he ground out, “You don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about,
Bit.” The vampire stepped away from Dawn, letting the girl get her breathing
back under control. He noted with interest that it didn’t take her long, and
even that probably just from the surprise. They’d practiced this trick all last
summer: something to while away the evenings and good training for Sunnydale’s
particular hazards.
“No? That’s what it looked like this morning: former rapist and rapee gettin’
all snuggly on the couch.” Her expression was antagonistic, but the defiance
didn’t reach Dawn’s eyes. Spike’s own defensiveness melted under the hurt
confusion lurking in those soft blue depths.
He looked down, wondering idly why he’d spent the entire day without shoes,
while contemplating his next words. “Er. It’s complicated, Dawn.”
She exploded at him, screaming shrilly, “Why does everybody always say that?
What, it’s too complex for my miniature brain to grasp? I’m sixteen, Spike! I’m
old enough for the truth. What really happened? Just tell me what really
happened with you guys! Don’t you owe me that much?”
“Fine! You want the truth?” Spike cut the reins on his tongue, and let go. The
Bit was gonna learn a lesson here, if it killed both of them. Damn certain
Harris wasn’t the one to teach her; the boy was practically in nappies himself.
“The truth is, it’s none of your fucking business, Pidge. So you’re all
grown-up now? Well, here’s a news flash: actual grown-ups know when to leave
be. Only little kids think they get a piece of everybody’s pie! You don’t want
all and sundry poking about in your stuff? Then you gotta do the same.”
They glared at each other, both gasping with anger. Dawn’s mouth opened and
closed as she fought for something mature and cutting to say. She lost. Badly.
“I hate you!”
Spike blinked at her, rocking back on his heels. She could do better than this:
they’d screamed through the house for five months, taking out their rage and
frustration on each other weekly. Red had even started to keep score, adding up
point and counterpoint. He waited.
Dawn collected herself, visibly martialling her arguments into regimental
order. Inhaling deeply, she began again, “I don’t care what Buffy does, I don’t
forgive you. You left, you hurt her, you hurt me, and you reneged on your
promise.” She looked triumphant at his sudden confusion. “You promised to take
care of me, to protect me, and then you bailed and Willow almost killed me! Hah!
Did you know that, Spike? Willow went all” Dawn scrunched up her face and waggled her fingers in
the air in a fairly good Wicked Witch impression, “on me. And you weren’t
there! You failed –again- and I. Don’t. Forgive. You.” This last was accompanied by a hard poke in
the chest.
He looked down at the finger poking him, then back up at the trembling girl.
“Join the party, Summers. I think that makes all of us. Guess you are all grown
up.” Spike turned away from her, fumbling for his cigarettes. That last was
definitely a direct hit. He hadn’t known about Red, but it made sense with what
all else had gone on in his absence. Fuck. He lit one, inhaling deeply as Dawn
continued.
“But I don’t understand how she can be all--” more hand waving flickered in and
out of Spike’s peripheral vision, “if she hasn’t forgiven you?”
The blonde man took a moment to mentally translate ambiguous Dawn gestures into
Spikese and came up –correctly- with ‘snogging’ as the linguistic equivalent.
Why didn’t Buffy have this talk with the girl? Knowing Nibblet, she probably
did, and the younger Summers was both fishing for more detail and taking
advantage of a prime opportunity to bust his balls. Went right for the soft
underbelly of a fellow, she did. You had to admire a girl who could multi-task.
“Told you it was complicated.” Shooting a glance at her still mutinous face,
Spike shook his head in resignation. “Forgiveness is just a word, isn’t it?
Doesn’t mean much, just a short way of saying we’re not gonna talk about
whatever it is. Doesn’t make pain go away. Doesn’t mean you trust again.” Next
thing you knew, he’d be giving her speeches. He smirked a little- ‘yooou
Lieutenant Weinberg?’ Snicker. Damn, what was he spouting on about? Right.
“Doesn’t make you forget.”
“That’s not true. Forgiveness is more than that. It’s…”
Spike cut her off as she fumbled to explain herself. “Don’t use words you can’t
define, Dawn.” He thought for a moment, searching for an illustration that
would mean something to the girl. “Put it another way: have you forgiven your
Mum for dying, yet?”
Dawn’s eyes filled. Whispering malevolently, “I hate you, I really do hate
you,” she ran back into the house, the door slamming shut behind her.
Spike exhaled smoke and crushed his cigarette on the porch rail, then followed
sedately.
*
Buffy and Xander both looked up, startled, as Dawn raced sniffling towards the
stairs. He rose to follow, but Buffy reached across the table, grabbing at his
wrist to restrain him.
“Let her be.”
The male yanked his arm out of her grip. “Christ, Buffy, don’t you even care
what he did to her?”
“He didn’t do anything to her, Xander. Just leave her alone.” Buffy’s eyes
flicked towards the kitchen, a whisper of sound alerting her to Spike’s
entrance. The wave of relief she felt was completely out of proportion to the
odds that Dawn had decided the vampire would look better in an urn.
Xander continued, oblivious. “Then why’s she crying, Buffy?” He bobbed his head
in the direction of her room. “He obviously did something, and maybe you should
be a tiny bit concerned about what it was a mass-murdering member of the
demon-of-the-month-club could do get her that upset. Or am I the only one who
remembers what he is?”
Spike appeared in the archway behind Xander and met Buffy’s eyes over his
shoulder. “Told her the truth, is what I did.” The angry brunette spun around.
“Said it’s none of her bleedin’ business. It's between the Slayer and me. Same
goes for you.” Buffy nodded at both of them, as Xander’s head swiveled back and
forth between vampire and vampire slayer.
He finally threw up his hands. “I can’t deal with this tonight, Buffy. I’m
sorry, but I’ve just… I’ve gotta go. Retrieving his jacket from the sofa,
Xander turned to leave, determined to get out of the house before he said
something deeply suicidal. He was almost through the door when Spike’s final
blow landed. “Still running away then, are you Harris?” The slam rattled the
windowpanes in their frames and they both clearly heard tires squeal as Xander
pulled away.
Buffy sighed and looked at the blonde man. “That was unnecessary roughness.”
“Couldn’t help it. Boy gets to me.” He shrugged, a little shame-faced. Seemed
to be his day for dishing it out. Just another thing he’d expected the soul to
fix. No wonder Xander was such a prat. Had to admit, though, sometimes it felt
good to get some of your own back.
“Yes, well, your lack of impulse control might cost me my carpool.” She looked
genuinely upset, despite the flip words, and Spike moved over to stand behind
her, laying his hands on her shoulders.
“Nah, he’ll be over it tomorrow. Just needs a little time, that’s all.”
Buffy turned and rested her head against his chest, the dog tag pressing into
her forehead through his shirt. “Don’t we all.”
Ah, this is what the soul was for, this dreadful craving to give comfort. Their
relationship, or whatever it was, had not included much in the way of comfort
towards the end. He’d proved himself an utter failure at the Marvin Gaye
impression, to boot. Bloody hell. This thing they were doing now, well, it was
still far too new for Spike to know what to offer. What would she accept?
“Buffy, luv, why don’t I patrol? You can stay home with your sis for once,
protect her from the beasties, since Harris scarpered.”
Buffy sighed and shook her head. “No, I really need to patrol and Dawn can
handle being on her own. Plus, I don’t want you and Xander to run into each
other without Buffer Buffy, for a while. That could be very bad.”
Spike pulled back to look into her face. “Why was Harris here, then, if Bitty
Buffy can handle herself?” His expression was comically confused,
protectiveness warring with curiosity to transform his forehead into an
emotional roadmap.
Snickering, Buffy ran her hand down his chest, eyes wicked. “Because it makes
him feel all… manly.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, continuing more
seriously. “Honestly, Dawn and I cooked it up, he was pretty down for a while
there. She doesn’t really need help with her homework, either, but I think I
speak for everyone when I say it would be best if you didn’t pass that on,
okay?” He nodded acquiescence and Buffy smiled a silent thanks. “Okay, then.
I’ll just go let Dawn know we’re leaving.” She pulled out of his loose embrace,
visibly turning into the Slayer as she ghosted towards the stairs.
So many things had changed in such short time. He would never get used the
speed at which humans flew through their lives. When had Buffy quit wrapping
her sister in down and denial? When had Harris turned into Mr.
Hold’s-His-Temper? Where was Red? Did Buffy slay her for threatening Dawn? That
brought Glinda to mind: where was she?
His musings were interrupted by Buffy running full bore down the stairs
screaming, “Little BITCH! AAAAH!”
“What?” Who?
“Dawn sneaked out; she knows that’s against the rules! She is sooo dead.” Buffy
dove into the closet, grabbed a handful of stakes, and was out the door before
Spike had a chance to question her further. He forced himself into motion and
sprinted after the Slayer.
“Slayer! Bloody hell! Wait up!” He put on another burst of speed, reaching her
just as they entered his cemetery. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going, Spike? Slow much?” Buffy slowed down to a quick
march as her initial rage cooled to a light simmer. “She’s gone to cry on
Clem’s shoulder.” She shrugged. “It’s where she always goes when we fight, I
don’t see how this would be different.”
Spike stopped, body rigid with horror as her words sank in, and then burst into
a run. “Bloody hell!”
“Hey! Why are you- oh no! You have eggs down there, don’t you?!” She sped to
catch him, temper flaring up once more, this time at the vampire.
“No eggs, Slayer: it’s much, much worse than that.” They came to a halt at his
crypt, Spike staring fearfully at the entrance.
She yanked him around to face her, snarling, “What could be worse than demon
eggs Spike?”
Cautiously pushing open the door, Spike’s next word was almost lost in the
blast of noise that roared out at them from the dim interior.
“Hippies.”
RATING:
PG-13, this chapter. Hey, nobody is forcing you to read this.
DISTRIBUTION: Did you ever in your life know an ill painter Desire to have his
dwelling next door to the shop Of an excellent picture-maker.
6. Illegal Smile
Buffy Anne Summers had never been the type of girl who was prone to self-
analysis. She neither looked before she leapt, nor thought before she spoke.
She had taken on every demon the Hellmouth had thrown her way and beaten each
and every one into bloody submission. Buffy lived a life in which it was a
given that a closed door signified spooky music and something ugly on the other
side waiting to leap out at her. Her only questions when faced with the
inevitable realities of her existence were 'Why Me?' and 'Do you know how much
French Tips cost?' Such metaphysical ramblings out of the way, she would
proceed to rip the spine out of her latest adversary and let others worry about
the big picture. It simply never occurred to her that there was anything left to
horrify Buffy Summers, Slayer at Large. That said, there was also nothing in
her experience to prepare her for what lurked behind Spike's crypt door.
There was singing. There was swaying. There was music playing. There was
dancing in Spike's crypt. How wrong was that?
Flanked by the crypt owner, Buffy surveyed her field, considering and rejecting
multiple scenarios. She was forced to concede that no matter how personally
offensive, the tableau before her was not sufficiently dangerous to warrant
Slayage. Even Spike, after a brief-but-frantic look around the crypt, had
settled into his usual hip-shot slouch, sword casually resting against a
shoulder. One of her swords, Buffy noted absently, it's gleam painting Spike a
barefoot knight, a tattered one-man army rushing to his Lady's banner. When had
she begun to take for granted that his efforts would be on her behalf? She had
felt his loss keenly over the summer, a cavalier ghost at her side mocking
every battle.
Buffy put the thought away for later examination and contemplated her options.
Surprisingly, what at first glance had resembled a TV miniseries about
Woodstock resolved into a mere four people and many, many candles.
The crypt itself seemed to be bearing the intruders with genteel sufferance. It
had been transformed into something reluctantly batik. The stone and marble
seemed to tremble with outraged dignity, promising bloody retribution against
the onslaught of embroidered pillows, even as the sarcophagi shrank back into
the shadows, creeping impossibly into corners for fear of being noticed and
draped in tie-dye.
Buffy's eyes picked out the dancers in the flickering light: Clem, Dawn, an
unknown male and-- oh dear God-- it was Woodstock. As the last person in the
room spun to face the newcomers, gender became mortifyingly at issue. Buffy
crossed her arms over her chest, determined not to look down; didn't Mom always
say comparisons were spurious? Or something.
Spike's hippies fit the description, that was for sure. Both the man and the
woman wore long, colorful, patch-worked skirts, some beads, and cheerful grins.
End of description. And what was that smell?
The red-haired woman swirled and shimmied toward Spike, her salient
characteristics undulating in a fashion that was both unnatural and unfair. Her
smile teased and taunted, causing Buffy's blood pressure to shoot into the
danger zone. Buffy might very well be forced to kill her first human if the
bitch didn't back off.
The bitch in question turned her smile on Buffy, then spun away to link arms
with Dawn. The two danced a complex series of spirals that ended with them
kneeling, arms stretched along the floor toward Buffy and Spike in a
disturbingly worshipful pose.
The bizarre beauty of the dance distracted Buffy from the eccentric circumstances.
With a flash of unwelcome insight, Buffy wondered if this sort of thing lay at
the core of Xander's anger. Surrounded by people who glowed and sparkled with
an otherworldly brilliance, constantly reminded in such moments that his very
mundane-ness made them shine the brighter by comparison, he could only choke on
his own bile, nurturing worms of envy in the dark earth of his heart. Trust
Spike to bring along two more stunningly exotic reasons for Xander to rage
against the vampire.
Buffy's voice plunked into the silence following her sister's strange
obeisance. "You are so busted."
The unfamiliar man--scratch that, the unfamiliar male vampire-- nodded happily
at Spike. "Dude." Throwing a curious look toward Buffy, he swayed
back on his heels and shook his tambourine gently at her, before addressing
Spike again. "This your old lady?"
"Excuse me?" Old?!
The blond vampire apparently realized that cutting Buffy at the pass was the
better part of valor, and stepped forward, gesturing towards the topless duo.
"Slayer, this is Gil and Hattie. They. well, they kind of gave me a ride.
Guys, this is Buffy. I, er, may have mentioned her?" Spike's usual aplomb
was seriously undermined by the fact that he was twitching. Clem caught his
eye, and nodded towards the downstairs with a nearly invisible wink. The sudden
tension leaving Spike's shoulders would have arrested Buffy's attention even if
she hadn't already been watching the interchange. They were hiding something.
Something related to, but presenting a separate danger than the nudie hippies
teaching her sister lewd dance moves. Something that made Spike twitchy. He was
so going down. Later.
Turning her attention back to the immediate danger, Buffy focused on Dawn, now
standing, her arms crossed defensively. "Home. Now."
Gil shook his tambourine again. "Bummer," he muttered in quiet
harmony. Buffy's Slayer senses shrilled a warning at the subtle strands of
beguilement woven in that voice. Her hand itched for a stake, and she stepped
back involuntarily.
"Dawn, we're leaving." Discounting the amiable smiles, completely
non- threatening body language, and partial nudity, there were several elements
of this whole scene freaking her out, and she couldn't identify them. Add to
list of things to torture out of Spike later as well as to list of things for
which Dawn would be grounded. A two-for, score.
Dawn whipped her hair around in the patented Dawn hair-whip of "you are
such a bitch", and addressed herself sweetly to Hattie and Gil. "Nice
to meet you guys. It was fun, but now I have to go be tortured by Sister
Dearest."
Hattie descended on the girl, all red corkscrew curls, cooing, and secondary
sexual characteristics - obviously some sort of evil Earth Mother hugging
demon- and whispered in her ear. Dawn giggled, Hattie giggled back, and Buffy
steamed.
She cleared her throat. Not over-reacting, nope, not at all.
Another hair-whip, simple irritation this time, and a "whatever"
later, the Summers girls finally exited crypt-party central. Buffy called over
her shoulder, "We'll talk later, Spike. And we will talk." The door
thumped shut behind them.
Spike sighed.
Looking sympathetically at his counterpart, Gil ventured a comment. "Wanna
toke?"
"God, yes." At this, Clem smiled happily and skipped downstairs. The
tension level in the room had dropped to its usual low demon buzz with Buffy's
departure. Spike shook his shoulders, loosening the muscles. He'd forgotten the
electric strain of being in the Slayer's presence. Just a few hours, and all
the calm he'd hoarded was washed away by wild, deadly, seductive thoughts. How
ironic that when the chips were out, the man was more dangerous than the
monster.
*
Walking beside her sister, Dawn nodded periodically, doing her best 'I'm
listening to your rant with due consideration to the fact that you have my best
interests in mind' impression, while actually ignoring Buffy entirely and
mentally estimating potential developments of the mammary variety. If she ended
up like Buffy, implants were definitely going to be a consideration. Either
that, or do as Buffy did and contribute significant future income to the
inventive people at Wonder-bra, Inc. On the other hand, she was already taller
than the Slayer, so maybe she'd also end up more endowed in other areas. Not
significant architecture, just something a little more Hattie-esque. That would
be fine: not too much, but enough to make certain types of guys notice. Or at
least hold up a tube top.
The Gil-friendly cars on this particular train did not indicate another Vamp
Crush, though. Of that Dawn was certain. She was so over that. But still, as a
point of comparison, Gil-friendly hooters were harmless, right?
"Are you even listening to me?" Uh oh, Slayer Dearest must have asked
a direct question. Dawn shuffled through her mental card catalog of Buffy-
rants, as her mouth laid down staccato cover fire.
Apparently the question was rhetorical: Buffy steamrollered on, the rhythm of
brow beating providing a kicky counterpoint to their footsteps. Dawn's thoughts
marched in time, coming to a halt just as they reached the house.
She turned to Buffy, voice dripping sincerity, "I'm so sorry that I
worried you, Buffy. I wasn't thinking, and next time I'll totally stay in my
room and hate my life, okay? Good night!" Giving a chipper wave to her
sister, Dawn ran up the porch stairs, Buffy staring after her, mouth open. Hah!
That'll keep her for an hour or two.
Buffy stared after Dawn in furious silence. There simply weren't words.
Wheeling around, she allowed herself to be diverted by the other object of her
anger. She would find out what the hell was going on at Spike's and return home
full of righteous fury. She threw a final sortie at the house, yelling as loud
as she could, "You are still grounded!" Now, look who's gotten the last
word!
Dawn's bellow floated out the window, just as Buffy stepped off of the curb.
"And I still hate you!" Brat.
Buffy huffed out her breath, squared her shoulders, and sallied forth to brace
the vampire in his lair. What did he have down there that was worse than demon
eggs?
RATING: PG-13, this chapter. Hey, nobody is forcing you to read this.
DISTRIBUTION: Previous chapters very kindly hosted at
http://www.geocities.com/cxyzjacobs/btvsfic/chrisindex.html and ff.net,
eventually.
DISCLAIMER: Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under my desk. Naughty,
Joss, no touching!
NOTE: Operating a computer while under the influence of Gin is never a good
idea. The olives made me do it.
FEEDBACK: Oh, yes, please. And Little Spike-sicles for everyone who has fed the
beast before.
7. A Very Brady Apocalypse
A sullen fog slumped through Sunnydale, too anemic to qualify for cool-
special-effect status. The misty white tendrils gave Buffy that nifty 'Rock
Star Slayer with Fog Machine Included!' feeling that occasionally made
patrolling extra fun. Fog and mist and ambient spookiness were appropriate
accessories. Buffy slipped into them like her favorite boots, wiggling psychic
toes before she moved into the street. Admiring a foggy finger's faintly
pathetic attempt at twining, she made her way towards the cemetery.
Buttonholing Spike was always an effective distraction from little sister
issues, despite the alarming tendency of Dawn issues to become Spike issues.
And hey, maybe the hippies had decamped and there could be exploration of Buffy
issues. That was a happy thought. Hmmm. how many hours could she siphon off of
patrolling for thorough issue exploring?
The Slayer almost missed the demon coming towards her, tingles running down her
spine and jerking her back to attention less than fifty feet from the cemetery
gates. Buffy looked up, searching for the source of that warning buzz and
silently groaned when she located him. Not this, not now.
Suppressing an impulse to hide her face and beat a strategic retreat, Buffy
worried at her lower lip and wondered if she could convince the grad student
approaching her that she'd recently been in a terrible accident and lost her
memory. Probably not. Maybe he hadn't seen her? Only if he'd gone completely blind
in the past three days: the street light above her head picked her out like a
spotlight. Or maybe a police helicopter. Buffy shuffled forwards, scuffing her
boot on loose gravel, and glowered at the offending rock.
"Hey, Buffy!" Slater bobbed a nod, a sweet grin gracing his even,
clean-cut features. "How's it going?" Swimmingly. Look, there! Behind
you!
Buffy attempted a smile, reaching for friendly-and-casual, but landing on
potential-stalker-beep-beep-beep. That wasn't fair. Other than his twice- weekly
routine of casually running into Buffy, he was perfectly nice. Nice. She
stuffed a variety of less charitable modifiers back down. The guy was in no way
striving for Angelus and Spike's standard of spookiness, just cheerfully
persistent in his suit.
Er. "Fine! You?" Maybe words of one syllable would distract the
Brachen from Buffy's obvious mental impairment. Wait, somehow that didn't scan.
"Okay. Just heading home." He made the statement an offer, eyebrows
climbing hopefully up his forehead, promising baked goods.
Buffy was not going to fall for that one again. Slater was perfectly capable of
fetching himself safely back to his house without her help. Last time she'd
walked with him, she had ended up spending two hours being gushed over by every
female in his clan, all of them convinced she was the one to make an honest man
out of their prodigal son. It was like trench fighting with muffins and tea.
She still wasn't sure how she'd managed to get out without hurting anyone or
ending up engaged.
"Okay, well, good to see you again. Gotta go! Bye!" Inanely waving,
Buffy broke into a jog towards the cemetery gates, ignoring the disappointed
look on Slater's face. Run away, run away! And no guilt. There shall be no
Buffy- guilt associated with blowing off the very nice guy.
Somehow, no matter how often she told herself not to feel bad, she still got a
little twinge every time she saw him. She'd been honest and forthright and all
those synonymy things. So why did she still feel guilty about two tiny dates and
one extraordinarily awkward 'let's just be friends' conversation? Maybe because
Slater's definition of friend encompassed possible future romance, while hers
was confined to panicked avoidance and nervous tics.
So much for buttonholing Spike while she still had her dander up. Buffy bid
Irrationally Angry Buffy a fond farewell and welcomed Reasoned Adult Buffy back
into the fold.
Buffy's steps slowed to a walk again, as she passed beneath the iron arch of
the old burial ground. Spike had taken up residence in what was admittedly one
of the nicer neighborhoods of Sunnydale, if you didn't mind all the dead
people. The newer cemeteries really were graveyards, vast swathes of rolling
green lawn studded with bland concrete memorials. At least here there were gracious
benches, tasteful urns, and the occasional angel standing serene guard over the
dearly departed. Most of the statuary dated from the late nineteenth century,
judging by the inscriptions, a time when death was an art form, not a vaguely
embarrassing faux pas. The residents had turned their last resting-place into a
morbid plaza, compounding irony upon irony, as Buffy made her way to Spike's
door.
She brushed suddenly sweaty palms against navy hips and took a deep breath. She
wasn't here to ask him out, for goodness sake, she was here to. to. to what?
Yell at Spike because Dawn snuck out? Give sanctimonious speeches and make
hysterical accusations? Bomb his crypt, again? Buffy blew out her breath in a
sigh, and shuffled mentally through her list of daily affirmations, seeking one
that would apply to confusing relationships involving the formerly evil dead
and mystical sisters. Nope, nothing. Where was Jack Handy when you needed him?
Oh, yeah, he's dead, too.
Well, she'd wing it. They would have that talk-talk, she could reassure herself
that nothing more evil than the usual assortment of demons lurked in the crypt,
and, assuming appropriate footwear was available, invite back out Spike to go
patrolling.
Oh dear lord, it was a date. Buffy had already invited him out, to the Slayer
equivalent of a movie. They'd even had dinner first. The realization sparked a
sudden attack of butterflies armed with machine pistols in her gut. This was
what had been missing over the summer: sweaty palms and anticipatory insects.
The Slayer jigged nervously in place, then did the unthinkable. Raising her
hand, she slowly closed it into a fist and cordially made introductions: fist,
door, and door, fist. This is called knocking. Innovative and strange, but it
could catch on.
Waiting for the door to be answered was excruciating. A small eternity passed
while Buffy gravely considered the drawbacks of common courtesy. Maybe she
could just kick it in, but that was naturally followed by the irrational
rampage she'd resolved to avoid. What was taking so long? Three, maybe four
seconds had passed!
The door swung open on the smiling face (don't look down! Do not look down!) of
Hattie. "Hello again!" The woman stood in the door, patiently
expectant. Buffy pushed her Slayer senses outwards, towards the female, seeking
the source of the dissonance she provoked. Not a vampire, or even a demon, but
different somehow. Weird. Hattie just looked back at her, serene and cheerful.
"Um. Hi. Is. is Spike in?" What was wrong with her? Buffy, not
Hattie, but her, too. Argh.
Hattie didn't seem to notice that Buffy was losing her mind; she stepped back
and beckoned Buffy inside with a graceful gesture uncannily reminiscent of
Buffy's mother. "Come in. I'll get him." The woman smiled sweetly,
and turned away.
The upstairs was empty of anyone else, the TV muted and flashing blue light at
the walls. Laughter and music drifted from the lower level on pungent clouds.
Thoughts that had tickled at her earlier returned and resolved into
comprehension. The sense of relief at the human scale of Spike's latest
peccadillo was nearly overwhelming. This Buffy could handle.
Hattie disappeared down the ladder to be replaced a moment later by Spike
warily popping his head out of the opening. A burst of loud laughter propelled
him the rest of the way upstairs: he gazed at Buffy, looking bewildered.
"Pet? You okay?" He seemed genuinely concerned.
"What? I'm fine!" Ripping Spike a new one and related Slayer fun was
way easier than this. "Can we talk? Do you have a minute?" That
couldn't have been any more awkward if she'd planned it. Buffy dropped wearily
onto a sarcophagus and sighed into her hands. Spike's return had obviously
unhinged her; it would be better for everyone if she just checked herself into
a nice clinic staffed with quiet, soothing people who wore lots of white.
Spike sat himself beside her, keeping a close but careful distance. "You
don't seem alright. You knocked!" He seemed slightly shocked by the
uncharacteristic behavior.
Buffy dropped her hands into her lap and laughed quietly. "Didn't mean to
scare you, I was just-" How to start this conversation? "I've been
working on this little Slayer-Self-Improvement project. Dawn calls it 'trying
not to be such a enormous be-atch.' I prefer the phrase 'voyage of self-
discovery' myself." She laughed again. "Dawn is more honest than I
am."
"Okay." Spike looked away from her, guarded but attentive. She'd
forgotten he could do that, just sit and wait for her. The vampire was
excellent at being there, sometimes, without expectations, simply present. It
was very soothing.
She leaned into him, coming to rest against his shoulder. Obligingly, he
scootched closer and wrapped his arm around her.
"Just tell me you're not hiding anything worse than recreational drug use
down there? Please?" His shirt muffled her imploring whine, but her words
were clear enough to make him start and try to pull away. She clamped onto his
waist and held him in place. "Spike?"
Spike relaxed and she felt him shrug. "Nope, you got me, Slayer. I'm dead
meat, go ahead and stake me. Illegal, immoral, a bad example for the kiddies,
all that, right?"
Was he? Her feelings twisted and tangled, hissing contradictions in her ears.
He wasn't good. He wasn't quite bad, either. He'd always been a little too.
something, to be deeply evil. Flexible, maybe: just call him Blank. While ideal
for stealing RV's and certain sex acts, it didn't make him a poster boy for
goodness and virtue, much less DARE. What the hell ever.
"Not so much, I guess. Just don't corrupt my sister with your fiendish
ways or start lurking near the Junior High, and I'll walk like an Egyptian. I
mean, technically speaking, you are an adult."
"Hmm." Spike gave her an inscrutable look and shifted, fishing at his
back pocket. Buffy raised up, watching with interest as he pulled out a small
steno pad and a pen, and began writing against his knee.
"What's that?" She craned her head, trying to read the crabbed
script, but Spike twisted away from her, tut-tutting mockingly.
"It's private and not for nosy little Slayer's eyes." His soft amused
tone belied the words, so Buffy ignored them.
"No, really, show me!"
Spike finished writing and shut the little book with a flourish. Exhibiting a
mixture of self-consciousness and pride, he passed her the pad, tucking away
the pen at the same time.
Slightly embarrassed, Buffy flipped rapidly through the pages, not really
looking. The sheets were crammed with tiny, uneven cursive. She stared unseeing
at a line, her gaze sharpening as she realized what it was she was seeing.
Turning back to the first page, Buffy began to read, while Spike alternately
peered over her shoulder and ostentatiously looked away.
Increasingly engrossed, the Slayer nodded and muttered, occasionally breaking
into muted giggles. A particularly shaky entry prompted her to poke at him.
"Why is the handwriting so bad?" She pointed to the offending
sentence.
Spike took back the notebook, examining it for a moment, as he answered.
"Wrote a lot of it on the road; hard to practice your penmanship in a
moving vehicle, pet." His lips twisted and he read aloud, "Addendum:
Thou shalt not bugger the neighbor, either."
Buffy erupted in peals of laughter and snatched back the list. Turning to the
last entries, she caught her breath. Exquisitely Spike, the last few lines
read: #207. Thou shalt not expose the Bit to drugs (see #144); #208. Thou shalt
not lurk about schools; #209. Thou shalt remember the Slayer can read you like
a book (see #9).
Buffy flipped back to page one and reread Spike's version of the Ten
Commandments, then handed the pad back to its rightful owner. "You know,
most people make do with just the ten. But you seem to have covered
everything." She grinned at him as he returned his tiny notebook back to
its pocket.
She wasn't prepared for his serious response to her teasing. Pursing his lips,
Spike quietly disagreed, "Not nearly everything, Slayer. Every day I have
to add something. Things I never even thought of. I thought I was getting
myself an instant moral compass, but I can't seem to find North." His
troubled face suddenly seemed older, taut with remembered pain, and sins both
real and imagined.
Folding her hand over his, Buffy tried to reassure him. "You're doing
fine, Spike. Don't try so hard. It'll get easier." She cringed at the
trite phrases coming from her own mouth, and continued resolutely. "Or
maybe it won't. I don't know." She stood, and moved in front of him. The
neck of his tee shirt hid the dog tags, and she reached for the choke chain,
pulling it free to lie silver and gleaming against the black cotton. "But
you have this to remind you." She regarded the chromed links thoughtfully,
and stroked her makeshift belt. "This was a good idea, by the way. Kept
you from going all dusty. Sorry I didn't say so, before."
Spike smiled, a sweet expression of pleasure and gratitude that she'd rarely
seen from him. "Didn't know why I was buying them at the time. Got the
tags in New
York,
picked up the collar in Ohio, and the leash is from Kentucky, if I remember right. Hattie suggested
presents as a good way to. er."
Buffy batted her eyelashes, slyly. "To beg forgiveness? Win my favors?
Yup, prezzies help." An ugly, jealous, completely irrational thought made
her frown and tug on the leash pointedly. "This was Hattie's idea?"
"Not quite. Her suggestions included livestock and slaves. A bit out of my
price range. Although if you really must have a herd of goats." Spike
waggled his eyebrows, surprising a giggle from the Slayer.
"No, don't think I'm ready for kids, quite yet." Buffy laughed at her
own joke and Spike's pained groan. Controlling herself, she continued,
"Seriously though, I actually wanted to talk with you. About. about
us?" Buffy shook with nervousness, and a loud thrumming suddenly sounded in
her ears. Why was talking scarier than the end of the world?
"What the fuck?" Spike surged off the stone and crossed to the crypt
entrance in three quick strides, ignoring her hurt gasp. Throwing open the
door, he reared back a step and stared.
Oh. Not nerves, an earthquake. Not her heart beating triple time, giant
hailstones in California. Well, that was reassuring: Buffy wanting to the have The
Relationship talk really was a sign of coming apocalypse, right up there with
seismic activity and prophetic dreams. Why hadn't she figured it out before?
Buffy drifted over to stand behind Spike and looked out at the storm.
"Wow. They're the size of golf-balls. I don't think I've ever seen hail
that big."
Several stones bounced and rolled into the crypt. Buffy bent to pick one up for
examination, but Spike's voice rang out before she could process what she was
seeing.
"Fucking hell. They are golf-balls."
RATING:
PG-13, this chapter. Okay, maybe a tiny bit of smut.
DISTRIBUTION:
http://www.geocities.com/cxyzjacobs/btvsfic/chrisindex.html and ff.net,
eventually.
DISCLAIMER:
Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under my desk. Naughty, Joss, no
touching!
NOTE:
This chapter is definitely all about Canada, who has coaxed me through endless rewrites,
tipsy self-pity, and the injustice that is American Idol. Thank you Chris, you
are a treasure beyond price.
FEEDBACK:
If I didn't want it, would we even be here?
PREVIOUSLY: Spike gets collared (Yum). Buffy invites Spike to live out a
Ramones song. Xander remains unhappy with Buffy's life choices. Fun with
cutlery. Dawn runs away to dance with suspicious hippies. Golf balls from
Heeeeeaven.
8. Little Earthquakes
The lower crypt disgorged first Hattie, then Clem, and finally Gil. The three
of them milled around aimlessly, and a little slowly, while Gil explained their
appearance upstairs.
"Dude, the bus is shaking." He didn't appear to notice anything off
about the weather, despite the growing litter of sports equipment, or the storm
outside. Instead, the vamp turned to Buffy and reiterated, "Shaking!"
He rocked back and forth to demonstrate, but lost either his interest or his
train of thought, and wandered over to sprawl in front of the television.
Gil had Buffy seriously confused. Confused and jumpy. She should have staked
him on sight, but he hadn't actually done anything to warrant Slayage. Yet.
Other than exist, which was usually reason enough for her. But it would be rude
to stake Spike's houseguest, right? Maybe he had a soul, too. Oh yeah, because
there are so many of those around.
On second thought, there really were. The population of soulful vampire
boyfriends, present and former, had certainly doubled recently. Possibly the
worldwide population was exploding, and there would soon be a plague of moody,
guilt-stricken ex-fiends to deal with, and Buffy would be out of a job. With
her luck, they would all move to Sunnydale and try to date her. Xander would
combust, he really would.
Dammit, the hippie was messing with her categories, distracting her, and she
didn't like it one bit. Buffy refused to acknowledge that her distraction might
have more to do with the blond vamp than Gil-ly with the Long Black Hair.
A golf ball rolled toward her and thumped against her boot, drawing her
attention back to the rain of non-toad-like-objects. Buffy looked down and then
stared out at the hailstorm.
"I should do something." Something more productive than saying that,
for instance.
Spike stuck his head out to look and leapt back inside with a yelp.
"You don't want to go outside in that, pet. You'd be knocked flat in two
ticks." Stepping gingerly through the mass of balls rolling in the
entryway, he forced the crypt door shut against the flow. The noise was
scarcely less with it closed, pounding through the small space and rattling the
windows in their aging frames.
Buffy tossed the ball she'd picked up from hand to hand, a thoughtful frown
creasing her brow. This was too pat: everything was happening too fast, and it
was somehow wrong. Not wrong in a big evil kind of way, either, but wrong as in
slightly off-kilter. One minute she was mashing with Spike, and the next there
were nudists. They'd gone from deep and meaningful to silly and kind of lame in
24 hours. What was that about?
Focusing, Buffy examined the variables and came up with two biggies. Two plus two
equaling. She spun around and looked, really looked, at Spike's new friends. No
Slayer senses, just good long stare.
Gil was still stretched out in front of the television, Clem slumped at his
side. Hattie had wrapped a scarf or something around her to form an intricate
halter, and was squatting on the floor, contemplating one golf ball after
another with a doubtful look on her face. Switching her gaze up to Buffy, she
informed the Slayer, "They're not pearls."
Buffy rolled her eyes, but the non sequitur sharpened her attention on the
other woman and her eyes narrowed.
"No, they're not. Should they be?" She felt Spike coming up behind
her, drawn by the warning in her voice. He could recognize her tone, even if
these strangers didn't.
Hattie continued, heedless, "it's always pearls. 'A gift of the waters for
the Queen of Heaven.'"
The Slayer stalked towards the hippie chick and lowered herself to the floor,
raising her voice to be heard over the cacophony.
"What. Are. You. Talking. About." When the woman didn't reply, she
turned to Spike. "What does she mean?"
"Search me, Slayer." The vampire shrugged. "I haven't got the
foggiest: her and her vamp are following some sort of prophecy.
"Think it's a load of crap myself, but she's convinced that you can
interpret 5000 year old prophecy with musical theatre." He shoved his
hands in his pockets and shifted uncomfortably at Buffy's blank stare.
"Fuck if I know."
She rose to her feet and dusted her hands off decisively, "Well, then,
Magic Box it is. Tally-ho."
*
Buffy was slightly surprised to learn that not only did Spike have another pair
of boots, he had dozens: a whole coffin of them doubled as table and storage
chest. Creepy, but practical. Her fingers itched to get in there and see if
they were all alike. Or she could just ask him, like a normal person. Ooh, Dawn
moment.
The five of them strode through the tunnels, an even more motley crew than the
Scoobies. They could call them the Scooby Auxiliaries. Oh, or the Spikettes!
Buffy laughed aloud at the thought, and the Spike in question shot her a
worried look.
"Something funny, Slayer?" He'd retrieved the sword and was carrying
it as if he expected to be attacked any second, stalking beside her with Feral
Grace [TM]. Strangely, Buffy wasn't worried; maybe it was the Feral Grace [TM].
Buffy chuckled again and flipped her hand at the three behind them. "Just
thinking about how weird we look, traipsing through the sewers." She
trailed off, and then continued in a firmer voice. "Have you seen Anya,
yet? Since you've been back, I mean."
Spike's head whipped toward her, his face outraged for a second, before his
features settled into frozen blandness. His "no" was crisp and
clipped.
"Oh. Okay. I was just wondering. No bitchy-Buffy hidden agendas,
here." Well, maybe a few. "So she doesn't know you're back,
then?"
"I think she probably has a clue, pet, but we haven't really spoken, per
se." At her exasperated pout, he sighed. "Left her a note and a few
quid for Burba weed." He raised his voice pointedly, so that it would
carry back to their companions. "Since *someone* used the last of my stash
for nachos!"
Clem cleared his throat nervously. "I'll pay you back, Spike, I told you I
would. I'm just a little short right now." He continued more confidently.
"I'm sure we'll get that contract from the city: then I'll be able to pay
off that mess last spring."
Spike acknowledged this with a curt nod, a smirk belying to his rigid body
language. The vampire only held the pose of offended homeowner for another
minute, before relaxing once again into Feral Grace [TM]. Strange that that was
how he looked relaxed. Although, upon reflection, she'd never seen him happier
and more content than when he was fighting or.
Buffy coughed, blushing, and sought for something, anything, to distract her
from naughty Naked!Spike thoughts. "You paid for your Burba? Where'd you
get money?"
"I do have skills, you know, Buffy!" he huffed. "I paid for a
lot of stuff, getting back here, and I did it honestly -for the most part- with
the labor of my own two hands, thank you very much!"
"No, I didn't mean- " she tried to interject, but the vampire was
busy defending his honor.
"But no, old Spike is evil, doncha know, snapping necks and robbing
corpses while whistling a merry little tune. Not like your precious Angel,
never mind I got the bloody stupid soul! And who'd I do it for? He didn't do it
for you, did he? No, it was a sodding curse!" Spike was working himself up
into a tantrum, roaring and stabbing at the air, words tumbling out as if a dam
had burst.
"But I put my immortal unlife on the line, and what do I get? Kicked in
the bloody balls, every fucking time! See if I ever do that again! As a matter
of fact, I'll give the damned soul back, you ungrateful, self-righteous, b-
"
Buffy did the only thing she could think of. Stepping in front of him, she
grabbed Spike's head and yanked his mouth down to hers. Hmmm, lips of Spike.
Vaguely, she heard the ring of metal hitting stone, but Spike's arms were
slithering around her waist, pulling her closer. Buffy forgot their audience
entirely and crawled up his body, wrapping her legs around the vampire's narrow
hips. Her head swam: it was like the first time and the last time and every
time they had ever kissed. While their lips melded the world vanished. Tasting
Spike was like walking through fire: he thawed the frozen black heart of her.
Had she ever thanked him for that, for the fire that burned in her again?
Buffy struggled for air, dragging oxygen in through her nose when Spike failed
to release her mouth. His hands were confident on her body, certain of her
response: one hand holding her ass, molding her against him, the other skimming
up under her blouse, and there was a reason they shouldn't be macking right
here, right now, but she couldn't seem to recall it at the moment. Not when his
touch was setting her ablaze.
A loud cough interrupted Buffy's reverie, and she jerked her mouth away from
Spike's with a gasp. Her eyes fluttered open to find Hattie and Gil holding
hands and smiling indulgently behind a mortified Clem.
"Uh. Buffy? Spike? Shouldn't we be." The demon's voice trailed away
miserably.
Spike had burrowed his face in her neck when she pulled away. Now he looked up
and glowered at poor Clem, before loosening his grip. She slid languidly down
his front, still a little woozy, and they exchanged a heated stare, while each
struggled to regain composure.
"Right then." Spike's voice came out a little hoarse, and he turned
away to pick up the fallen sword. When he continued, he sounded almost normal.
"Slayer, it might be best if I take point. You can bring up the
rear." His voice descended briefly into a hot growl that made Buffy's
nipples stand up and say 'I want that one'. "Yeah, uh, to protect the
non-combatants from any beasties sneaking up behind us."
Rationally, it was a good plan, and what they should have done in the first
place. Buffy sighed.
"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" She tossed Spike a mock salute, then turned and
marched several paces back the way they'd come. Spike hid his smile, pretending
to check his blade for dings, as she settled herself into a ridiculous parody
of parade rest. He wasn't usually so careless with the sharp pointies.
As they set out again, Spike seemed to have forgotten his earlier fit of pique.
He had regained his 'all is well with any world that had him in it' swagger;
Buffy was torn between watching their rear or his rear. His jaunty stride did
amazing things to her boyfriend's ass.
Boyfriend. She'd said it to Spike the once, but she hadn't really admitted to
herself that this was what she wanted. What she'd wanted and needed all along.
Her boyfriend disasters were legendary, or at least they should be.
Maybe in a hundred years Giles' journals would make her love life a warning to
future Slayers: whatever you do, don't do this or this, and definitely do not
do that. Although, Giles himself had seemed to find this latest example of
Buffy-decision-making a source of endless amusement: it was almost worth being
the butt of the joke just to hear him laugh like that again.
Which was oh-so-very strange. Xander had never managed to lose his look of
pinch-lipped horror every time the 'S' word came up, but Giles barely contained
his mirth. He couldn't or wouldn't explain why it was so funny, either, yet
she'd frequently found herself laughing along with him.
Oh how she missed Giles. He had. perspective, that was it. Giles had swooped
into Sunnydale, saved them all, and done it with style and humor. Then he'd
flown away again with Willow tucked under his wing, a string of promises left behind to hold
his place in their lives.
Thus far, his record of promises kept was unbroken, a Summers' family record.
When Buffy was honest with herself, she could admit that his absence -and his
constancy in spite of it- played a big part in the peace she'd managed to
achieve over the summer. Giles didn't promise what he couldn't deliver, so he
always delivered on what he did promise. There was probably a lesson in that
somewhere. She should tell Spike; he could add it to his list. Maybe it was
already on his list.
Or perhaps Buffy would make her own list. #1: Do not beat the crap out your
boyfriend and leave him for dead. #2: Lying about boyfriends never turns out
well. #3: All guys are complete dicks at one time or another.
Maybe Xander should start keeping a list, as well. Anya might appreciate the
irony.
RATING:
PG, this chapter.
DISTRIBUTION:
Previous chapters at
http://www.geocities.com/cxyzjacobs/btvsfic/chrisindex.html and ff.net,
eventually. And if you ask nice.
DISCLAIMER:
Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under my desk. Naughty, Joss, no
touching!
NOTE:
Thus this chapter begins my ode to Leonard Cohen. If you want to be spoiled,
listen to The Window. On second thought, don't; spoilers are evil. Oh, and
thanks to Canada for the beta, and Kimi
for twisting my rubber arm to post.
FEEDBACK:
If I didn't want it, would we even be here?
PREVIOUSLY: Spike gets collared (Yum). Buffy invites Spike to live out a
Ramones song. Xander remains unhappy with Buffy's life choices. Fun with
cutlery. Dawn runs away to dance with suspicious hippies. Buffy's got a Brachen
beau. Golf balls from Heeeeeaven. Some walking and talking.
9. Of Locks and Keys
The unlikely group straggled into the basement of The Magic Shop with Buffy
galloping around her clotted companions, yelling, "Anya! It's me, it's
Buffy, Anya!" even as the room exploded into brilliance. The vampires
dived back into the tunnel, Spike cursing vigorously.
The glowing abruptly faded, and Buffy was relieved to see Anya snap her
spell-book shut. The shopkeeper had placed wards on every conceivable entrance
against strange demons and potential thieves, and was not the least bit
reluctant to launch fireballs at anyone who didn't enter through the front door
with wallet in hand.
"Is Dawn here, yet?" Spike caught the question as he and Gil
re-emerged from the tunnel, and shot her a quizzical look.
"She's here, yes. We were just wondering if you would show up." Anya
exchanged a complicated nod with Spike as Buffy passed her, and lagged behind
to usher the others up the stairs. "She brought Xander with her, I can't
imagine why. Oh! And I found that Dustin you were dating, lurking in the alley.
He still won't make a wish, by the way, despite being brutally dumped."
Oh dear god, not this, too. "Dylan, Anya, his name is Dylan Slater,"
Buffy muttered through clenched teeth, earning another look from Spike.
"Whatever." Closing the basement door behind them, Anya slid back to
her post behind the counter and sniffed. "I just thought I should keep you
informed. I'll let you know if he changes his mind."
Buffy forced herself to smile cordially at the three already seated around the
research table. What she really wanted to do was run out into the hailstorm and
get knocked unconscious for an hour or five.
"Hi, again, Buffy." Slater twiddled his fingers at her with shy
smile. "I'm glad you're okay."
Spike stalked bonelessly around the table and propped himself against a
bookcase, sword still in one hand. He smirked at her and mockingly waggled his
free fingers at the Slayer. She glared back.
Buffy should have remembered that dirty looks were Spike's favorite form of
encouragement. He set down the sword, clasped his hands under his chin, and
gazed longingly at the ceiling, mouthing 'Buuuuuu-uuuuffy.' Bastard. Not funny.
Forcing her eyes away from the immature vampire's antics, she sweetly addressed
the Brachen, "Yeah, I'm okay. How about you? You weren't caught outside,
were you?"
It wasn't his fault that he was the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong
time.
"I'm fine," he reassured her.
"I found him trying to take cover behind the dumpsters," Anya argued.
"He could've been killed."
"No, really, just a few bumps and bruises." Slater gave a
self-deprecating laugh. "My aunt would say that's what I get for
dawdling."
"Well, I'm still glad you're okay." Buffy transferred her gaze to
Xander and Dawn. "You guys?" They both shook their heads.
"Good."
"Okay, quick intros, then with the research." She ran through the
cast list, introducing everyone quickly, trying not to notice how Slater's face
fell when she reached Spike. Avoidance: avoidance was key.
"Let's crack these books, people, time's a' wastin'!" Buffy chirped
desperately, clapping her hands once in an attempt to be upbeat and commander-y.
Spike's smirk broadened into a delighted grin. Argh.
Buffy ducked and scurried, planting herself in the chair next to Dawn.
"So, what do we know? Anything? Anya?"
The demon waved at the books piled on counter and table. "We've selected
the most frequently referenced prophecies, but unfortunately none describes
yuppie sports equipment. Rains of frogs are common, however, as are occurrences
of currency and small valuables falling from the sky."
Xander snorted, switching his attention from scowling at Spike to mocking his
ex-fiancée. "Pennies from Heaven? Hasn't that been done?"
"Wait, that's actually--" Buffy rose to pace around the table.
"Hattie said something about it not being pearls, and Spike, you said that
she and Gil have this theory about musicals and prophecy."
She looked for confirmation from the two hippies, but they were oblivious,
staring with interest at the assorted merchandise of the store.
"Hello! Gil?" He came to attention, looking at her expectantly.
"Musicals, prophecies? Does this ring a bell in there, somewhere?"
"Oi, Slayer, watch your tone," Spike came to his friend's defense.
Gil shook his head and looked down at his companion. "Not me, Slay-sister,
I'm just along for the ride." He nudged Hattie with a sandaled foot.
"But she's got us this far, so it's groovy."
The prophetess smiled brilliantly from her lotus on the floor.
"Hair!"
Interrupting her pacing to sidle up to Spike, Buffy whispered, "Does she
ever make any sense?"
"Not often, luv, but she plays a mean game of Twister," he leered.
"I'll just bet." She threw him another glare and made a mental note
to discuss inappropriate boyfriend behavior later. A full-fledged argument had
exploded while her back was turned.
"Hollywood is run by demons,
Xander! Pennies From Heaven, Singing In The Rain, Charlton Heston," Anya
was retorting, shrilly.
He thumped his hand on the table, "It is not! You're just saying
that." There was no way Xander that would ever admit that The Matrix was
an evil plot. Not the best action movie ever made; it simply couldn't be.
"Oh, come on. The entire industry is based on apocalyptic prophecy and the
end of human oppression. Before motion pictures and TV, there were plays and
bards. Beowulf was a warning to demon-kind, you know."
Clem nodded soberly, finally joining the conversation. "Humans came and
drove us out of the fens: it was genocide. Very scary stuff. My grand-da used
to tell the story every Grofj Day. Kinda like Christmas in July," he
clarified for the humans.
"Oh, is that where that came from," Dawn murmured, looking
thoughtful.
Buffy's head was beginning to hurt. "Okay, so what we have here is what,
the suburban version of rains of pearls, is that it?"
Dawn looked a little guilty. "Well, it makes sense." She opened her
backpack, revealing a tote stuffed full of golf balls she'd gathered in a
moment of inspiration before heading for the Magic Box. "The Pro Shop at
the country club pays for used balls recovered from the woods and stuff. Some
of my friends make extra money that way."
"Well," all heads turned to the Brachen, the only one of the group
who had actually cracked a book. "This one says that the coming of some
sort of god will be, er, 'heralded by a gift of the waters.' I think." He
shrugged. "But it also mentions other stuff. My early Sumerian isn't very
good."
The Slayer groaned. "We so need Giles for this. Hell Gods I can do. Dead
languages, not so much."
"It doesn't mention a Key or anything, does it, Dyl?" Dawn looked a
little nervous. "'Cause if it does, I'm so outta here."
"Don't worry, Dawnie, no matter what happens, there are no more towers in
your future," Buffy reassured her sister.
"Duh! Like I care about that. Geez, Buffy," Dawn absently rubbed her
ribs, "I'm all ready doomed to a life without bikinis; I'm not giving up
middy tops." She set her chin, performing a Willow-worthy resolve face.
"There will be no more permanent scarring of the Key, ever. And that's
final."
Spike jerked away from the bookcase he had been holding up, as if he'd been
burned, and stalked towards the girl, staring hard at Buffy all the while.
"No," he murmured, hand hovering over the girl's shoulder,
"there won't be. I'll dust before I fail you again, Bit."
Dawn's face softened, and she looked back at him. Spike dropped his gaze from
Buffy to meet the eyes of his chosen charge, and let himself touch her, the
barest brush of his fingertips against her hair. They communicated silently for
a long moment, the tension between them palpable to everyone in the room.
Buffy tried not squirm at the intensity of their connection. She'd been dead
when they had turned to each other, and it probably had not been easy, but they
made it seem so effortless. Spike and Dawn could forgive each other with a
glance, while Buffy struggled to even talk to them. Would it always be this
way, her sister and her lover closer to each other than either was to her?
They turned to look at her then, and the Slayer was no longer excluded. She
wasn't closed out, she was part and parcel of each, and they in turn were part
of her. Their combined gaze drew her forward until she was standing next to the
pair. Her fingers brushed Spike's through the curtain of Dawn's hair and an
electric charge seemed to run through Buffy.
Spike's eyes widened in surprise. He slipped his other arm around her waist,
and drew her against his side. She leaned into him gratefully, returning the
caress as her left hand dropped to rest on Dawn's shoulder.
Xander coughed. He was looking away from the scene, obviously uncomfortable,
but holding his tongue. His last ally was gone, which meant he would have to
get used to another vampire in Buffy's life or lose her and Dawn both.
Although, technically, this vampire was back in Buffy's life, but she'd hidden
it before, so he hadn't had to deal with it last year.
Turning his gaze to his old friend, Xander met the Slayer's sympathetic smile.
At least this time, she wasn't lying to everyone. And he didn't have to like
it. But he also didn't need to make this any harder for her than it would
already be.
Buffy turned her attention to Slater. He was concentrating on the book in front
of him as if his life depended on it, not just his heart. It wasn't her fault,
but she still felt guilty for putting him through this.
"Hey, guys?" The assembled Scoobs and auxiliaries looked up at her
soft call. "Why don't we call it a night? We've done as much as we can
here, and it seems to have stopped." At some point during Xander and
Anya's bitch- fest, the noise from outside had slackened, and now it was completely
silent outside, excepting car alarms. More than one Sunnydale resident would
wake up tomorrow to a broken windshield.
Gil helped his companion to her feet, as everybody stood and stretched,
shuffling towards the entrance. Buffy tightened her grip on Spike when he tried
to pull away, turning to him.
"Do you mind coming back to the house? I still want to talk to you,
okay?" He nodded agreement.
"Are we done, then?" Anya piped up. "Good. You can all leave,
now. Please come back during regular business hours with money, and thank you
for visiting The Magic Box."
Buffy drew Spike away as Dawn stood and stretched. "I am going to be
totally scragged tomorrow." She grinned at her older sister. "Unless
my favorite person in the whole world wants to write me a note. Pullleeeeze,
Buffy? Let me stay home," she pleaded, "I don't have any tests
tomorrow or anything, and I can totally get the homework from Janice and Lisa.
Please?"
"Uh-uh. If I can go to work, you can go to school."
"But you have super-powers: super-stay-awake-Slayer-powers!" Dawn's
whine went straight to Buffy's guilt reflex, but she held firm.
"Dawn," she warned, "you are going to school tomorrow, and
that's final. Do not make me sic the Kroger on you."
The teenager crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, deliberately juvenile.
"Beeatch."
"Truant."
"Slut."
"Klepto." The girls dissolved into giggles, as Spike looked on in
shock and Xander watched fondly from the doorway.
It was good to see them like this, acting like sisters, not warden and inmate.
Dawn had been so thoroughly inserted into their memories that it was easy to
forget she and Buffy were practically strangers only a year or two ago. The
remembrances were actually a handicap to the sisters' relationship, creating a
false sense of familiarity not grounded in reality. But over the summer, the
slight awkwardness between them had gradually vanished, replaced by a deep
loyalty and true affection. Enough so that they could now tease each other and
laugh together.
A knot deep in Xander's soul loosened, releasing tension and resentment he
hadn't even realized was there. They were beautiful, but they weren't his. Like
Anya, they belonged only to themselves, and he was merely privileged enough to
be included in their lives. It was more than enough.
"Hey, Anya," he began nervously, "can I, uh, walk you
home?"
Anya looked up at him sharply. "I am perfectly capable of apparating
myself, Xander," she reminded him with asperity. "I am a vengeance
demon, as you seem to prefer to forget."
Xander winced, but pushed on. "Then, um, would you mind walking me home?
Dawn brought me here and." he gestured out into the dark night.
A softly startled look passed over Anya's face and a tiny smile flickered
around her mouth. "Oh! Um. Of course, Xander. I should have realized you
are human and defenseless. Just let me lock up, and I would be, um. I will.
yes." Flustered, she turned to the remaining threesome, said a hurried
goodnight, and joined Xander at the door, locking it closed behind her.
Spike watched the exchange with amusement. It looked like Puff Daddy was well
on his way to reconciliation with his demon-girl. Good on him. Unfortunately,
he was now locked in the shop with Buffy and Dawn; not that it was necessarily
a bad thing, but..
"I hate to destroy a tender moment, pet, but are we camping out in here or
am I to break out a window?"
"You haven't told him?" Dawn snickered.
"I thought you did!" Buffy protested, releasing her hold on Spike and
holding up her hands defensively. "It's yours to tell, anyway."
"Oh, yeah, right." Dawn rolled her eyes and flipped her hair back.
"Like that's ever stopped you before, blabbermouth."
The girl eyed the vampire speculatively and snickered again. "Watch and be
amazed, blood-breath."
She sauntered over to the closed door of what Spike distinctly remembered as a
utility closet and pushed up her sleeves. Throwing a mischievous wink at Buffy,
the Key pulled a tiny switchblade from her pocket, snapped it open, and ran her
finger down the razor sharp edge.
A thin, red line of blood oozed out of the cut; Dawn reached out, grasped the
doorknob firmly with her wounded hand, and threw open the door with a flourish.
"Tada!"
"Holy fuck!" Spike yelled as Buffy seized his hand and dragged him
towards the rectangle of green light.
"Show off," she muttered at her sister as she propelled the stunned
vampire through the portal.
"Bloody fucking fuck!" Spike was still shouting obscenities when they
stepped through into Buffy's bedroom. Dawn followed calmly, struggling to keep
a straight face as the realization of where they had landed finally shut him
up.
Handing the blade to Buffy, Dawn stepped away from the portal. The Slayer
sliced her own finger, reached through the wall of viridian light and pulled
the door shut.
She closed the miniature switchblade and tossed it back to Dawn, watching Spike
warily. His eyes were wide and shocked, his gaze flicking back and forth
between the two sisters.
With a choked sound, he flung himself at the closet, trying to push it open,
but the door had reverted to it's natural closet state and once again opened
into the room. After a few seconds of struggle, Spike was finally able to grasp
the concept, and wrenched the door wide, only to be confronted with Buffy's
stylish yet affordable wardrobe.
He slammed the closet shut again and leaned back against it, mouth working
silently as he stared in panic at Buffy and Dawn. Buffy was doubled over with
laughter, tears streaming down her face.
"That was cruel, Dawn," she gasped.
Dawn had fallen back onto Buffy's bed, howling and holding her stomach.
"Oh. oh. but so funny!" She pointed weakly at Spike. "You. ha!
You should've seen your face! Omigod!"
Buffy slowly regained control of herself, clutching her aching side.
"I'm sorry, Spike, that was really mean," she chortled, not the least
little bit repentant.
"What the bloody fuck was that?" he roared at the giggling duo.
Dawn sobered slightly and sat up. Giving Spike a smug look, she indicated the
closet, "Door," herself, "Key," and Buffy,
"Lock."
His head whipped toward Buffy. "Lock?"
"Kinda, yeah. More like Anti-Key, though." She shrugged. "We're
not sure why, but Giles is researching it."
"How did you--" The vampire was still unable to form complete
sentences.
"Figure it out? Kind of a funny story, actually." Buffy shifted
uncomfortably. "In a deeply scary and almost fatal kinda way."
Dawn nodded agreement. "Big scary accident. Mucho badness." She
smirked. "But for future reference, you might want to be careful about
pissing me off. Just a suggestion."
"Enough, Dawn, I think he gets the idea." Spike gaped at the
inappropriately amused twosome as he tried to assimilate what had just
happened.
"I think you broke him, Dawnie," Buffy observed.
"Naw, he'll get over it."
"I don't know. Maybe you should have warned him first."
"Hey, a picture's worth a thousand words, right?" Dawn shrugged,
unconcerned. "Whatever. I've gotta crash, since a certain evil someone is
making me go to school tomorrow." She glanced at the bedside clock.
"Make that today," she said pointedly, and levered herself off of
Buffy's bed. "You should too, if you're gonna go to work tomorrow."
Buffy grimaced. "I know, but I have to call Giles first; he'll want to
know what's going on."
"Yeah." Dawn kissed her sister's cheek as she let herself out.
"See ya tomorrow, sis, evil dead."
"Sleep good, Dawnie." Buffy smiled affectionately at her sister's
back, before turning to Spike. He still looked completely shell-shocked. She
grabbed his hand and led him firmly from the room.
"C'mon, White Fang. Let's get you some blood before you pass out."
RATING: PG-13, this chapter.
DISTRIBUTION: Previous chapters at
http://www.geocities.com/cxyzjacobs/btvsfic/chrisindex.html
DISCLAIMER: Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under
my desk. Naughty, Joss, no touching!
NOTE: This one goes out to www.headtilt.com and the lovely
people who share it with us. And thank you's galore to Canada, my lovely beta;
Miss Spank aka Kimi, who won't even recognize this from my angsty babbling
about it weeks ago; and Jen, who helps me shop when I'm avoiding my fic demons.
FEEDBACK: If I didn’t want it,
would we even be here?
PREVIOUSLY: Spike gets collared
(Yum). Buffy invites Spike to live out a Ramones song. Xander remains unhappy
with Buffy’s life choices. Fun with cutlery. Dawn runs away to dance with
suspicious hippies. Buffy’s got a Brachen beau. Golf balls from Heeeeeaven.
Some walking and talking. Xander gets over it (kinda) and Anya takes pity on
his poor fragile self. Buffy and Dawn exhibit surprising new skills and scare
the piss out of our Spikey. Awww, poor Spikey! The cruel sisters point and
laugh. How mean!
10. Closing Time
“You are so weird.”
Spike raised his head at her
comment. Ten bucks on what he would do next.
Yup, there he goes: left
eyebrow, head-tilt combo, hold, hold, aaaaand... he lands it. The crowd goes
wild! Yes Jim, Team Vampire will definitely be taking home the gold this year.
“What?” He sounded faintly
defensive. Maybe that’s because she was staring. There should be a website,
www.spikeeybrowporn.com. Gah. Buffy shook herself out of head-tilt hypnosis and
pointed to the mess on the battered kitchen island.
“What are you doing?” Spike had
pulled everything out of the bag from Willie’s and lined each item up like a
macabre solitaire game.
“Selecting my entrée, Slayer.”
He raised and dropped the eyebrow again, before returning his attention the
grisly menu laid out the counter. Engrossed in the decision making process, the
vampire sipped at a glass of the scotch that had mysteriously appeared in her
home. Or not so mysteriously, considering where Spike had gotten the blood.
Willie probably raked it in as Sunnydale’s sole purveyor of demonic delicacies.
Buffy shuddered. The bags were
far more disturbing than actual blood. A Slayer got used to blood, gore, and
slices of skin flapping unpleasantly in the breeze, but those small, sterile
packets were creepy. If the fluid were blue, those bags would be dead ringers
for the hot/cold heat packs she kept for contusions and sprains, and ew!
This train of thought led
inevitably to wondering if one could just stick the whole bag in the microwave
to warm them or if it would explode like Dawn’s attempt at instant eggs. A
whole different kind of Gah! going on there.
“It’s blood, Spike. B-l-o-o-d.
Just pick one before it curdles on the countertop.” Gross, icky, bad! Buffy had
a sudden image of the vampire version of cottage cheese and nearly lost her
cookies. This is what happened when one dated vampires: a whole dimension of
badness that far surpassed human boys with a penchant for peanut butter and
potato chip sandwiches.
“Just blood? Just blood!” Spike
picked up a squishy sample and shook it at her, a deeply offended expression on
his face. The eyebrow twitched madly. “This is the good stuff, Slayer. A-1
prime, best grade plasma, fresh from the campus blood drive. You don’t just
dump this in a novelty mug and suck it through a crazy straw.
“For example,” he examined the
neatly lettered label on the packet in his hand, “this is a 22-year-old male,
no STD’s, tested positive for marijuana, with traces of alcohol in his system.
Probably from a kegger the night before.” He frowned and set it down. “Would clash
with the scotch, though. Save it for buffalo wings.”
The vampire chose another.
“Now, this one is a sprightly young co-ed: 18, vegetarian, clean as a whistle.”
Spike pursed his lips appreciatively and set it aside for dinner, as he
returned the losing contestants to their bag. The bag went into the vegetable
crisper until next time.
Buffy shuddered. Salad was
definitely not going to be served with dinner anytime soon.
“That’s sick, Spike.” She
frowned thoughtfully and picked up the winning donation. “Who labels these
things, anyway? ‘Cause this is disturbing in so many ways.”
Shrugging, he snatched back his
meal. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Then how do you know for sure?
It could be anyone’s blood; some junkie looking for drug money, or a homeless
person.” Visions of bag ladies thumped on the head and drained by an evil
nursing assistant danced through her head.
Spike rolled his eyes.
“Vampire, pet, remember? One, I would know,” he poured the blood into her Pyrex
measuring cup and raised it to his nose, eyelashes fluttering as he inhaled.
“And two, Willy is well aware that I’d get him for cheating me.”
As satisfied as a sommelier,
Spike placed the cup in the microwave and turned to face Buffy.
“Oh, really, soul-boy? And
before you were chip-loose and fang-free you woulda what, tickled him to
death?” She snorted, arms crossed and challenging.
“Chip didn’t give a good
goddamn about property damage, luv.” An evil smirk propped up the corners of
his mouth like quote marks emphasizing the difference in species, as if she
could forget. “Can of petrol and a match and Fwoomp! No more Willy’s Place.” He
chuckled at her appalled stare. “Not to worry, pet, got no plans to firebomb
the git.”
“But…” Buffy sputtered,
searching for words. He had a soul now; didn’t that make him different, better,
not evil? “How could you even think of that? It’s---”
“Evil?” Spike stalked towards
her, smirk wiped away. “I’m a vampire. I’ve spent five times my original life
being a vampire, and I will continue to be a vampire until I’m dust. Vampire.
Evil, soulless thing. Remember?”
His arms shot out, trapping her
against the cabinets as his voice lowered to a rumble. “You don’t get it, do
you? You never once understood.
“The chip’s not what kept me on
a leash, Slayer. It was never the chip.” One hand stroked down her arm to her
hip, and grasped the lead still looped around her waist. He tugged, pulling her
tightly against his own slim frame. “It was you. Always you.”
Hands slid and wandered,
stroking skin and silk and gabardine. She shuddered under the teasing, her arms
unfolding of their own accord to fasten around him. He made it so easy to
forget, his wicked tongue trailing up her neck to the point of her cheek. Buffy
moaned, even as he whispered bitter truths in her ear.
“Sent hit-men after you once.
Coulda done it again,” his hands grabbed her ass and he pressed against her.
Buffy’s head fell back at the sensation, silently pleading for more, “and
again, and again, until one of ‘em finally got you good.”
The movement of his lips
against her skin was intoxicating. She was sucked under by the sound of his
voice, the meaning of his words lost beneath waves of frustrated desire.
And suddenly he wasn’t there.
Buffy almost fell, her knees buckling at the abrupt loss of support. She gasped
and leaned heavily on the counter until her head cleared, irritation chasing
away weakness.
“Damn it, Spike!” He grinned a
little, but pretended to ignore her, his attention ostentatiously focused on
programming the microwave.
He spoke without turning
around, feeling a little smug, but not enough to risk a stake through the heart
for gloating. “Call your Watcher, pet.”
“Don’t wanna.” She glared at
his back and pouted, chin dangerously pointy. “Besides, it’s probably like,
midnight there or something.”
“It’s after midnight here, but
full morning in the Motherland, Slayer.” Spike didn’t bother to do the math,
instead extending his awareness of night, pushing his senses against the
boundaries of his nature. Somewhere within there was a vibrato twanging, and
his demon cowered at the onrushing sun, counting down hours, minutes, and
seconds.
No watch or clock could tell
the truth of time. It wasn’t about the soothing tick of wheels and gears, or a
blinking electronic display. Time was divided into darkness and light, safety
and danger cycling endlessly through years and decades of un-life. Hunt and
feed, sleep and dream, constellations of predators emerging with the moon and
retreating before the sun since time immemorial.
Impatience with the Slayer made
Spike’s words sharp. She should feel it, she should know the rhythm as well as
the creatures she hunted, if not better.
“Rupes is probably on his
second cuppa by now. Call him before he for leaves to do whatever Watchers do
when they’re not watching.” Tweedy prats.
“And you would know this how?”
Buffy still sounded sullen.
He squashed down his
irritation, but a sigh escaped. “Lived with ‘im, didn’t I? Just get on the
horn.”
*
Spike rescued his dinner while
Buffy dialed. The magic of modern technology in the form of McBlood distracted
him from her voice, while he wrestled with the urge to brood.
He felt as if there thousands
of invisible eyes watching him, a constant itch on the back of his neck. In his
more paranoid moments, he was certain these invisible observers were sitting in
judgement, waiting for him to fuck up, wondering how he could return to the
scene of his crime.
Certainly Xander was on the
jury, ready to stake him at the first lapse. And yet, the episode which had
most recently put him on the carpenter’s shit list felt nearly inconsequential,
a grain of sand among infinite others. The horrors he had performed, the gore and
terror of over a century, eclipsed a single moment of mad desperation on tile.
No, despite his melodramatic
re-entrance, what he’d tried to wrest from Buffy didn’t weigh nearly so heavily
on his new soul as all that had preceded it. Babies haunted him, coal miners
and their families, bodies impaled for the sensual pleasure it gave his demon
and his demon bride. He had constructed elaborate tableaus of terror in his
time, disdaining to feed even. He and Dru, Angelus and Darla; they had made
death their craft, dynamic performance art of the most self-indulgent kind.
And the worst part, the part
that really stung, was that he increasingly suspected he hadn’t been any better
at that than he had at poetry. Spike was a dilettante, and a poor one. No
wonder they had sneered, and Dru had left him. William was bloody awful and had
never gotten any better, even at being a demon, just more ostentatious with
each Slayer, like a spotty adolescent smoking in the boy’s room.
So it was all for nothing. He’d
killed and maimed and reveled in blood for nothing. All that death, empty and
meaningless and useless and he was still the git in the corner, knobby kneed
and trying too hard. It was funny, in a morbid way: thousands of bodies heaped
upon his conscience, just because he was a middle-class wannabe who couldn’t
rhyme for shit.
Spike finished his blood and
rinsed out his cup, then wandered into the living room to sprawl on the sofa.
Buffy’s voice skittered across the surface of his attention, and he closed his
eyes wearily.
*
It never failed to amaze her
how a transatlantic phone call could be as clear as if Giles was in the same
room, but whenever she called Xander, his voice seemed to come from the bottom
of a well. A very deep well.
Buffy made a mental note to
swing by the telephone company on her next patrol. Demonic activity was more
likely than technical failure in Sunnydale.
His voice on the line had been
reassuring, soothing her jangled nerves. She’d reported the events of the past
few days in an urgent babble, her words tumbling over themselves like unruly
toddlers, but she couldn’t seem to slow down: “so while Dawn making a little
extra money isn’t a bad thing, since I still can’t afford to giver her an
allowance, it’s a little weird-- dontcha think?”
Maybe if she talked fast
enough, he wouldn’t notice the Spike parts of her ramble. There was no telling
if he’d still think it was funny, and she couldn’t see his face over the phone
to give her a clue. Giles could be unpredictable that way, and the soul bit was
bound to bring up lots of… stuff. Issue-y stuff, involving torture and leather
pants, and the last time she’d been involved with a vampire.
The moment of silence on the
line stretched like taffy into several moments. Buffy was seriously considering
hyperventilating when Willow’s voice came on.
“Buffy? Giles is cleaning his
glasses really hard, and I think he may be going into catatonic shock. So I
thought maybe I should take the phone for a minute, so you didn’t think he was
dead or something.”
“Oh.” Should she repeat the
whole story or just move on to regular Willow-phone-call type conversation?
Except that there was nothing regular about talking to Willow, anymore, for
obvious reasons. “Ummm. So how’s it going?”
Willow laughed, the sound
darker and sadder than it used to be. “I’m fine, couldn’t be better, if you
don’t count horrible guilt and suicidal depression. But, hey, other than that,
everything’s peachy. One day at a time, et al.”
“That’s good. You sound
better.” God, this was awkward. They hadn’t spoken a half dozen times since
Giles had taken her to England. Buffy was totally on board the ‘love, give,
forgive’ train, but really, what could she say: Oh hi, how’s it going, seen any
good movies recently? And hey, how ‘bout those Mets, huh?
“Spike’s back,” she blurted,
and mentally kicked herself. Hippie vampires, golf balls falling from the sky,
and Hell-god prophecies, and that’s all she could think of to say? Talk about
Freudian.
“Oh.” There was a noisy slurp
and chew over the line, proving Spike right about it being breakfast time in
Bath. “So are you shtupping him again?”
“What? No! Maybe. What’s
shtupping?” A muffled howl from the living room caught Buffy’s attention and
she peered around the corner to see Spike doubled over with laughter.
“You know: boinking, banging,
doing the nasty.” Willow’s voice was clinically interested, as if she were
curious but not particularly invested in the answer either way. It was vaguely
comforting compared to Xander’s reaction. “Because that’s the only thing I can
think of that would make Giles get a drink at 9:30 in the morning.”
“He’s not mad is he? Because
no, no nastiness here! Well, not much. Yet. Although, the knife thing was
pretty nasty, but in that good tingly way, not in a bad scary way, except you
know, knife.” Great, babble on Buffy. She should just change her name to Brooke
and bring the metaphor to life. Or was that a simile?
Willow gave her a respectful
moment to contemplate sinking into the floor with embarrassment, before
responding. “I think that was a TMI, but since it made no sense, I’ll pretend I
didn’t hear any of it, okay Buff?”
Giles voice interrupted from
the background, and there was a muffled exchange that she couldn’t quite make
out. “Sorry, Buffy, but we’ve gotta go. Giles says he’s not upset, but ‘do be
careful’” Willow sounded exactly like the Watcher for a second, “and he’ll see
what he can find. We’ll call you later, okay?”
“Oh, okay, sure.” Buffy was
nonplussed as they made swift good-byes. What was so urgent that it outranked
the Hellmouth, anyway? She indulged in a little more self-castigation: that
wasn’t fair, but it was hard. She was used to Giles dropping everything when
she needed him, and hadn’t yet gotten out of the habit. Nine months did not six
years of habit break.
She hung up the phone with
exaggerated care, laying the receiver back into its cradle as if it were glass.
Her hand lingered on the plastic, eyes blank and introverted.
Spike watched her wander into
the living room from his place on the sofa, his own eyes wary. It was hard to
tell if the conversation had gone well, and he didn’t quite know what to make
of her talking to the witch.
“You okay, pet?”
Buffy lowered herself onto the
floor next to the couch and let her head rest against his thigh without
answering. The events of the past three days spun dizzily in her brain, and her
stomach suddenly felt as if she were riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair.
It was just too much all at
once, especially after the summer of peace she’d been having. Now suddenly it
was back to business as usual, and she wasn’t ready, hadn’t studied or even
gone to class. Buffy needed time, but time was what she didn’t have. Instead
she had Spike, and two new pieces on the board with unknown agendas, and
prophecies, and an angry Xander, and a little sister with more mood swings than
an entire ward of manic-depressives.
Her Watcher was watching a
witch, not her, and Willow was her friend so she wasn’t allowed to resent that,
was she? But still, it felt like another betrayal, another usurpation of her
place. Her dad had gotten himself a new family, with shiny new kids who didn’t
burn down schools; Riley had his perfect Kevlar wife with a mission to match;
Angel had replaced her with Faith, swapping out the old Slayer for a shinier,
faster model with better handling. Even The Powers That Be had chosen Kendra,
and then Faith, over the damaged original.
How soon until Spike did the
same, and dear god where had that thought come from? Despite his claim, he
hadn’t come back to her unencumbered. It may not have been a wife, but the soul
cast a shadow, tugging him away from her. It was easier when she’d thought that
he’d turned to Anya: Buffy could just add him to the list. Easy when you’ve
done it countless times before.
The fragile identity she’d
pieced together over the months was cracking along familiar fault lines, the
glue that held her together turning brittle. Her hand crept up Spike’s thigh,
slipping stealthily toward the familiar opiate of his flesh.
Gentle fingers trapped hers,
capturing her hand. “No, pet, not like this. Not when you can’t see me.”
Buffy’s eyes flew up to the
vampire’s, and the hurt regret in them shattered the last vestige of her
control. Sobs beat their way up her throat, bursting from her mouth with cries
like wounded birds. It burned.
“No!” Buffy hiccupped,
resentfully, as tears finally escaped down her cheeks. “I’m not okay, and it’s
all your fault!”
He lifted and tugged, pulling
her up until she was nested against his lanky body, arms wrapped tightly around
her shoulders. Buffy wailed into his chest, gasping, hands fisted in the
material of his shirt as she shuddered and cried.
“Shhh, luv, I’ve got you, let
it out.” Spike stroked her hair and let her bawl, holding her together so that
she could fall apart. “That’s it, pet, just let it all out.”
She sniffled and muttered. “I’m
getting your shirt all snotty. Gross.”
“It’ll wash.” She could feel
him trying not to laugh, a muted rumble in his chest. “Now then, what’s this
all about?”
Buffy sighed, somehow not as
mortified as she thought she would be. “Nothing. Everything. Not enough sleep.
Willow and Giles and stuff.”
“Oh, yes, of course. That makes
it perfectly clear.” Stupid vampire. How dare he be mocking and sarcastic when
she was obviously having a complete breakdown. She thumped him on the chest,
and realized with a start how very girlfriendy that was. Buffy sat up,
straddling Spike, and stared at him, brow wrinkled.
“What?” He stared back,
expression waxing from boyfriendy to worried.
Her mouth opened and closed
silently, as she searched for words. Oh god, revelation. Bad, bad revelation.
Riley. Oh my god.
“What? Buffy, you look like a
gaffed fish. Speak woman!” He shook her, hands cupping her shoulders. “What are
you thinking?”
“Oh god.” She stared at him in
horror, her mind comparing and contrasting a million different moments. “This
is what Riley wanted. Why couldn’t I do this with him?”
He looked at her and cocked his
head. “Do what? Get his shirt all snotty?” He laughed at her dumbstruck nod. “I
dunno, Slayer. Do you?”
“It’s gonna sound stupid, but I
think it’s because he used starch. And ironed.” Okay, maybe it was a dumb
revelation, but epiphanies didn’t have to make sense. “I mean, it’s kinda hard
to really let go with someone, when you’re afraid of messing up their nice
outfit, you know?”
Spike chuckled and sat up,
pushing her off of his lap. “Honestly, Slayer, I do know. I also know that it’s
time for you to tuck in, before this evening becomes any stranger.”
“Don’t wanna.” Her lower lip
pushed out, and she pouted at him through her lashes. “I wanna have The Talk.”
“No talk. Talk later.” He
scooped her up, ignoring her halfhearted wiggle of protest. “Sleep now, before
you become completely incomprehensible and I’m forced to kill you for my own
sanity’s sake.”
She yawned in response,
relaxing as he carried her up the stairs in pleasant boyfriend fashion. This
was good. Buffy’s thoughts slowed and she let herself be dumped on her bed.
“Good night, Slayer.” Cool lips
rested against her forehead and her eyes fluttered open.
“Good night, Spike. Sorry I got
you all grody.”
He laughed and kissed her hard
on the mouth, and was gone.
Buffy yawned again, and
struggled out of her clothes without getting off the bed. Pulling the covers
over her, she set the alarm and snuggled into her pillow.
This was normal. Strange and
unnatural, but it felt normal. She was asleep in seconds.
RATING: PG-13, this chapter for adult situations, language,
and mild violence.
DISTRIBUTION: Previous chapters at
http://www.the-sandlot.com/mintwitch/mwfic.html.
DISCLAIMER: Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under
my desk. Naughty, Joss, no touching!
NOTE: This chapter is pretty much a bridge. Oh, and a chance
for me to torture Xander, just a little. Big thanks to all the graphics
bunnies. Check out http://www.cafeshops.com/cp/store.aspx?s=RetailJustice to
see their efforts. Proceeds are donated to needy fans who wanna go to cons.
FEEDBACK: If I didn't want it, would we even be here?
PREVIOUSLY: Spike gets collared
(Yum). Buffy invites Spike to live out a Ramones song. Xander remains unhappy
with Buffy's life choices. Fun with cutlery. Dawn runs away to dance with
suspicious hippies. Buffy's got a Brachen beau. Golf balls from Heeeeeaven.
Some walking and talking. Xander gets over it (kinda) and Anya takes pity on
his poor fragile self. Buffy and Dawn exhibit surprising new skills and scare
the piss out of our Spikey. Awww, poor Spikey! The cruel sisters point and
laugh. How mean! Then some smoochies, some snot, and a lame-o epiphany.
11. The Future
Spike let himself out of
Buffy’s window and crept along the roof to Dawn’s room. Just a quick check to
make sure she was sleeping safe and sound, and then he could go make everything
ready for the big night.
“Pssst!”
“Ah!” The vampire jumped and
spun to face the threat, lost his footing on the slanted surface, and fell
hard, scrabbling for purchase on the rough surface as gravity tried to work
it’s will. With a muted bellow, his game face leapt to the fore, and he drove
his claws deep into the cedar shakes, feet hanging precariously over 30 feet of
air. The last thing he needed was a broken neck. Spike hung there for a moment,
feeling less like a predator at the top of the food chain than a fluffy bunny
faced with headlights and a semi.
“Geez, Mr. Stealthy, how ever
did you manage to get caught by the Initiative with those catlike reflexes?”
The voice drifted down from the roof’s peak, dripping teenaged sarcasm.
“Bit,” he hissed and swung back
onto the roof. He leapt with self-conscious grace over the dormers to Dawn’s
perch. “What are you doing up here?”
“Duh. Spying on you and Buffy,
what else?” Her eye-roll was perfectly visible, a belated reminder that he was
still in demon mode. Spike growled softly and shook himself back into human
guise as he settled next to the girl.
“If you didn’t leave tonight, I
was totally gonna blackmail her into letting me stay home from school.” She
heaved a disappointed sigh. “That’s an hour of sleep, wasted.”
Dawn shot him a sly sideways
glance and rearranged her face into a pout. “I don’t suppose you could be
persuaded to sneak back into her room and make with some PG-13 nookie action,
huh? Solely in the interest of my continued health and well-being, of course.”
She batted her eyelashes and tried not to smirk.
Spike grinned at her and leaned
back to fight his trouser pocket for possession of his smokes. He really needed
a new jacket. “Much as I hate to disappoint you, Platelet, I do have other
plans for the wee hours.”
Spike lit up with a deep sigh
of pleasure, savoring the mingled bite of nicotine and tar across his tongue.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”
“Think nothing of it.” Dawn
waved grandly, changing both mood and subject with the regal aplomb that only
adolescent girls could pull off convincingly. “So are you and Buffy official,
this time?”
“Define official.” He quirked
an eyebrow at her and took another drag, leaking smoke out his nostrils.
“Going steady, out of the
closet, dating, yadda yadda.” She shifted uncomfortably in place. “C’mon,
spill, my butt’s getting sore.”
“Dunno. Maybe. She wants to
talk.” Spike pondered the glowing tip of his cigarette and wondered whether he
should be merely afraid, or very terrified. His hindbrain was voting for
gibbering terror.
“She wants to talk, or she
wants to have The Talk? Did she capitalize?” Dawn jigged and shifted again,
wincing.
Spike looked at her in awe.
“How do you chits do that? Capitalize, boldface, and change font with your
voice?”
Dawn let loose a triumphant
crow and stood. “Ha! She did, didn’t she?” He nodded. “I knew it!”
Mission accomplished, she
picked her way down the roof to her window, abandoning Spike to the company of
RJ Reynolds. The wind carried her snickering chant up to him: “…k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
First comes loooooove…”
He shook his head and pitched
the cigarette out into the yard, rising to make his own way down. Women. Dead
or alive, they were all mad as hatters, gods love 'em.
*
Spike worked the streets of
Sunnydale in a tightening spiral, chain-smoking and casually staking as the
opportunity arose. The new high school was similar enough to the old that his
preparations there presented little difficulty, and the vampire was feeling
well pleased with himself when he finally reached his own cemetery.
There was still plenty of time
until sunrise, so he continued circling, taking out a few stray fledglings and
some joker’s attempt at undead animal husbandry. Some vamps never learned that
demonic house pets were a bad idea. The things inevitably strayed out into the
sun and got fried; one squirrel-chasing incident was all it took. Better to
just put the poor, sorry bastards out of their misery. Still, it always pissed
him off to have to stake puppies.
“Don’t move, Soul Train.”
Spike froze. Buggering hell.
“Don’t any of you Scoobies sleep?”
“Just turn around slowly.” The
vampire actually considered it for a nanosecond. Fuck that.
Spike dived to his left in a
blur of supernatural speed and flipped off his hands towards the sound of the
voice. He landed silently beside Xander, dropped to a crouch, and swept the
carpenter’s feet out from under him as the crossbow twanged and released a bolt
right where he’d been only seconds earlier. Spike backhanded the boy, grabbed
the crossbow as Xander reeled with the blow, and threw the weapon out of
immediate range.
Xander pulled out a stake and
lunged towards the vampire, or tried to. His knee folded and he collapsed onto
the turf with an ignominious squeak.
Spike danced back, away from
his fuming attacker. “What the fuck was that for?!”
Xander rolled up into an
awkward sprawl and leaned against the headstone he’d been hiding behind. He
rubbed at his wrenched knee, glaring back at the outraged vampire.
“One, I couldn’t sleep, so I
thought I’d patrol, and two, I want to have a little talk with you. Frankly,
when having conversations with vampires, I prefer to be armed. Heavily armed.”
“Was this a shoot first, ask
questions later type of conversation, mate? Because I don’t see you having a
meaningful exchange of ideas with my ashes.”
Xander had the grace to look
embarrassed. “I didn’t actually mean to shoot, it just sort of went off.”
Spike sighed and glared, glared
and sighed. “No harm done. Fat lot of good the artillery did you, anyway.” He
hopped up onto a neighboring monument and lit another cigarette, ignoring the
crossbow and regarding Xander steadily. “So. Talk.”
Xander shifted uneasily,
avoiding his gaze. “Um. Well, that’s the thing. I hadn’t really gotten farther
than ‘don’t move,’ but if you give me a minute or two, I’m sure I could come up
with something along the lines of ‘you better not hurt Buffy, you evil bastard,
or I’ll stake you.’” He tipped his head back against the stone and closed his
eyes. “And I think it’s been amply demonstrated just how empty that threat is.
“Still,” Xander straightened
and met Spike’s eyes, “I’m a creative guy and I’m pretty sure I could come up
with something painful and permanently dusty.”
Spike nodded agreement, tapping
the ash off the end of his smoke. “I’ve no desire to be on the wrong end of a
rocket launcher, I’ll give you that.”
“Oh. Okay, then.” Xander seemed
a little surprised and continued with more confidence. “In that case, let’s set
some ground rules.”
“First, stay away from Anya. In
the carnal sense, I mean, not the retail sense.” He looked to the vampire for
concurrence, and got another nod.
“Not to worry, one time thing,
that.”
“Good. Okay, second,” Xander
rubbed his hands together, “I know we’ve already covered this, but no hurting
Buffy in any way, shape, or form.”
“Wouldn’t dream of mussing a
hair on her or the Bit’s head.”
“That covers third. So, fourth,
uh… I don’t what comes next, but I’ll think of something. Just keep your nose
clean.” Xander nodded firmly, satisfied.
“Right then, my turn.” Spike
jumped to his feet, sauntered over to squat in front of the human, and began
ticking off his own rules with his fingers.
“One: lay off Buffy about us.
She decides, not you or me. Two: don’t go sneaking around trying to shoot me in
the back. Makes me nervy. Three: be nice to Anyanka, she’s a good egg, and
deserves better than you. Remember that, or I’ll remind you in the most painful
way possible. And four: I don’t know yet, but if you piss me off like this
again, I’ll rip your arms off and use them to beat you to death. We clear?” He
smiled pleasantly.
Xander gulped and nodded. It
was never good when vampires smiled at him like that. “Crystal.”
“Good.” Spike exhaled a plume
of smoke in his face and frowned. “I think it’s probably best if the Slayer
never finds out about this.”
That earned a vigorous nod in
reply, as Xander levered himself up. “Oh, on that point we are in complete
agreement. Yup, complete and total simpatico.”
“Is this what’s meant by male
bonding? Because I always thought it would involve orgasms and manly cries of
ecstasy. I’m very disappointed.”
“Anya?” Xander startled, and
would have fallen again if Spike hadn’t grabbed his arm. And how weird was
that? “What are you doing here?”
The vengeance demon stepped
into view and scowled at her ex-fiancé. “I could ask you the same thing,
Xander, but I think I know, and I’m not pleased. You have no right to interfere
in my life. If I want to have sex with Spike, I will, and you have no say.
None.
“Not that I do, nothing
personal, Spike.” She shot him an apologetic glance and he smirked back. “But
as a matter of principle, I resent your making ultimatums regarding my orgasms
and I won’t tolerate it. You are violating my civil liberties and undermining
the fundamental tenets of a free society.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,
Anya,” Xander huffed, flapping unattractively. “I was just---”
“I don’t want to hear it. Go
home, Xander.” She turned her back on him, crossing her arms. Xander stared at
her rigid posture, and then flicked a look at Spike, who shrugged.
“I’m sorry, An,” he said,
softly. He looked for a second as if he would say more but didn’t, walking away
instead.
Spike watched the other man
until he was out of sight, feeling an unwelcome empathy for him, before
addressing Anya.
“Were you looking for me, pet?”
She shook her head without raising her eyes from the ground.
“No, just following Xander.”
Her arms fell to her sides, hands dangling limply as she finally met his gaze.
“I don’t know whether I’m
waiting for someone to make a wish against him or trying to protect him,” she
whispered. “Half the time I’m worried sick, but the other half I want to pluck
out all of his body hair, strand by strand.”
Spike winced.
Anya sighed. “Anyway, so long
as you’re here, I should give you a card.” A rectangle of stiff blue paper
appeared in her hand. He raised an eyebrow as he accepted it.
“I meant to give you one
earlier,” she explained. “I’ve diversified, expanding into the virtual
marketplace, while still adhering to my core competencies.”
Anya pointed out the logo
proudly. “The graphics are up at Café Press, and you can find it by searching
on RetailJustice. This URL
-http://www.cafeshops.com/cp/store.aspx?s=RetailJustice- works, too. It’s fully
operational and all major credit cards are accepted.”
Spike nodded gravely,
complimenting her. “It’s very nice, Anyanka. If I decide to curse Xander, I’ll
come to you first thing.”
The vengeance demon fairly
glowed, beaming. “Thank you, Spike! I look forward to doing business with you.”
She cocked her head suddenly.
“Oh well, duty calls.” Anya fluttered a good-bye and disappeared.
Feeling vaguely like an undead
Greta Garbo, Spike extended his senses, checking for any more unexpected
visitors. Satisfied that there were no other Scoobies –or anything else- lying
in wait to accost him, he cautiously started home. With any luck, he’d make it
back well before sunrise without being shot, cursed, or maimed. Hope springs
eternal.
Spike reached his crypt with no
further excitement. Rounding the corner quickly, in anticipation of a nice chat
about the evening’s festivities, followed by an even nicer morning snooze, he
skidded to a halt, gaping in horrified outrage.
There was a bloody huge R.V.
parked in front of his crypt.
*
The bell over the door jangled
cheerfully as Buffy walked into The Magic Box.
“Anya? Are you here?” She
called into the empty looking shop, searching for signs of life. “Anya?”
“Good evening, my sister.”
Buffy whirled around to face the strange woman coming towards her and stared.
She was dressed like a refugee from a costume party, Hattie-style, only
different. The multicolored skirt swung in heavy silken pleats, and strings of
pearls hid her bare chest. Gleaming black hair tumbled in ringlets, wrapped
with more pearls.
“It’s morning,” Buffy argued,
gesturing to the windows, but they were dark, and her hand fell.
The petite stranger shook her
head and smiled. “Not yet, but it will be soon.” Reaching Buffy, she hugged her
like a long lost cousin, and took her arm. “Come, sit. There is much to be done
before they get here.”
Buffy let herself be led to the
research table in a daze. As they sat, a woman dressed in a white skirt and
tight girdle entered from the back room, carrying a tray. She set bowls of figs
and dates, a jar of wine, and small plates of sticky looking pastries before
them, and retreated silently.
“Who are you? Where’s Anya?”
Her companion just smiled and pulled an open i-book towards her. She typed rapidly
for several moments, while Buffy eyed the food suspiciously, before looking up
with a serious expression.
“I’m afraid we don’t have much
to spare. The tribes of the one god have burned Diamah and D’ashtar to the
north and we’re currently flooded with refugees.” The woman typed some more and
looked grave. “I can provide some limited funds. No grain or wine,
unfortunately, with all the new mouths to feed.”
“Okay.” Buffy looked down at
her sparkly halter and red leather pants. Fat bees buzzed lazily through the
muggy air of the store, landing on baskets of pomegranates stuffed into
shadowed corners. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
Her hostess smiled and
shrugged, reaching for glazed crescent of golden dough, dripping with honey.
The odor was pungent, heavy and sweet with spices.
“Dream schmeam. This is
important, and there is little time, so pay attention.”
A printer hummed and spat in
the background, and the attendant returned with a battered scroll, neat lines
of wingdings marching across its creased, brown surface.
The black haired woman examined
it closely and sighed. “We’ve sent a warrior and a handmaid with your consort.
They will make the journey west, to build the temple and restore the rites of
the people before they arrive.”
“Before who arrives? Who’s
coming?” Buffy was starting to panic.
“The rest of the refugees, of
course. We can’t take them all, nor are we immune to the fires.” The dream
person rolled up the scroll and tapped it thoughtfully against her palm. “Move
swiftly, sister: there is much to be done, and you have only begun.”
Smiling sweetly, she reached
for several strands of pearls, pulling them over her head. She held them
towards Buffy, who bowed her own head to accept. As the pearls fell against her
chest, the strings broke and they rained to the floor, bouncing and rolling
away.
The bell over the door rang
again, and golden sunlight streamed in as it opened into the shop, framing the
blond man standing at the entryway.
Buffy jackknifed upright with a
choked gasp, her eyes snapping open to the same sunlight flooding in through
her bedroom windows. It dripped down the walls like honey, heavy and sweet, and
she smelled spices.
With a groan, Buffy fell back
onto her pillows and reached for the snooze button, closing her eyes wearily.
The remnants of her dream unrolled behind her eyelids.
“Uh oh.” Giles was so gonna
want to know about this.
RATING: PG all chapter. Sorry Guttersnipes, sometimes our
characters must do things other than shag each other into the nearest available
surface.
DISTRIBUTION: Previous chapters at http://www.the-sandlot.com/mintwitch/mwfic.html
DISCLAIMER: Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under my
desk. Naughty, Joss, no touching!
NOTE: This chapter is dedicated to the lovelies who kept me from committing
hari kari last week while I had the flu: Shaddyr (sorry it took so long!), Jen,
and as ever, Canada, beta goddess.
FEEDBACK: If I didn't want it, would we even be here?
PREVIOUSLY: Spike gets collared (Yum). Buffy invites Spike to live
out a Ramones song. Xander remains unhappy with Buffy's life choices. Fun with
cutlery.
Dawn runs away to dance with suspicious hippies. Buffy's got a Brachen
beau. Golf balls from Heeeeeaven. Some walking and talking.
Xander gets over it (kinda) and Anya takes pity on his poor
fragile self. Buffy and Dawn exhibit surprising new skills and scare the piss
out of our Spikey. Awww, poor Spikey! The cruel sisters point and laugh. How
mean!
Then some smoochies, some snot, and a lame-o epiphany, followed by
sneaking around, Xander torture, and the obligatory dream sequence.
Wow, this part is rapidly exceeding the text for length. Maybe I
should change my name to Robert Jordan.
12. Hotel California
“Pick up the phone, pick up
the phone.” Buffy tried to send urgent psychic messages to Bath, but
apparently they weren’t receiving. Giles’ answering machine clicked on instead,
his plummy British accent directing her “to please leave a message after the
damn it to hell; infernal machine! Is this thing beeeep---”
“Hey, Giles, sorry to bug you
again, this is Buffy by the way, but you probably knew that, huh?” She giggled
nervously. “Um, I just had a pretty darn vivid Slayer dream, and ARE YOU THERE?
Sorry. Call me back, okay?”
Dawn was staring at her, the
banana bran muffin in her mouth completely forgotten. “Schoo ungky ‘uffy?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth
full,” the Slayer replied absently. “And I’m not sure. I had a freaky Slayer
dream.”
Dawn gulped slimy yellow
protein goo in an attempt to wash down the expanding mass of carbohydrates in
her mouth. The muffins didn’t actually taste all that bad, but one tiny bite
seemed to grow until she felt as if she were having one of those dreams where
she woke up trying to chew her pillow. No wonder Buffy was so skinny; a single
muffin-puck could probably feed a small third world country.
She finally managed to
swallow. “Wanna talk about it? Maybe I can unlock mysterious dreams, too. Was
it prophetic?”
Buffy smiled. “Sure, I doubt
it, and I don’t know yet. In the dream it all made perfect sense, except it
didn’t. Like I was supposed to do something, and I was this close to knowing
what it was, but I just didn’t quite get it.” She sighed and brightened. “But
hey, you know how you can help me?”
Her sister looked suspicious.
“No, and I’m not sure I want to. Will it involve work?”
“A little, but not much.” She
ripped a page out of her dream journal. “Can you email this to Giles from
school?”
“Oooh, is this your dream?”
Buffy nodded. “Cool! Can I read it?”
“Sure, if you wanna. You’d have
to see it for research, eventually. I don’t know if I got it all right, but
that’s what I could remember when I woke up. If you could check the names too,
that would be great. I don’t know if they are people or places or demons or
what.”
Dawn scanned her sister’s
crappy handwriting with interest. “Did you spell it the way it sounded in your
dream? I mean, is this phonetic?”
Buffy frowned. “I hope so.
I’m really bad with names.”
“No kidding.” Buffy frowned
harder, looking a little insecure. Dawn hastened to reassure her. “Actually, if
it is phonetic, they look a little familiar to me. Do you mind if I swing by
the Public Library after school?”
“That’s a good idea,
actually. While you’re there, make enough copies for the whole gang.”
“’Kay.” Dawn unwrapped
herself from the stool and hopped down, a move that seemed less necessary every
morning. She stuffed the piece of paper in her knapsack, swinging the bag over
her shoulder as she headed out the door.
“Hey!” Buffy yelled. “Where
are you going? You still have half an hour.”
“I’m gonna stop by the Pro
Shop and turn some straw into gold, if your Wardeness would be so kind as to
let me out on a day-pass.” Dawn could go from happy sister to sulky sister in
3.6 seconds.
The elder Summers grinned.
“Yep, I just like to know
where you’re going. Have a good day and call me before you go anywhere other
than school or the library, okay?”
Dawn saluted. “Aye-aye. Can I
go now?”
“Yes, out of my sight, you
ingrate.” Dawn bounced down the porch steps, waving over her shoulder at her
sister’s shouted, “and be careful!”
Buffy closed the door behind
her and checked the clock. For once she had plenty of time to get ready.
Really, it was the little things, sometimes. An extra five minutes of bonding
with the shower was heaven on a stick. Detachable showerhead with pulsing
massage action, beware: randy Slayer on the loose! Resistance is futile.
As she made her way upstairs,
Buffy considered the notion that she’d been spending too much time with Xander
recently. The sci-fi quotage was getting out of hand.
*
He was sleeping. It was
daytime, Spike was a vampire; thus, he was sleeping. If he was sleeping, then
this was a dream. A nightmare even, but not real. Nope. Not real, because there
was no way his crypt had been turned into a soup kitchen for homeless demons.
The head of Restfield
security had stopped by before sunrise to tell him the RV would have to go and
that the night watchman position was still available, if he wanted it. And he
did, but so far he was refusing to acknowledge the RV problem, which could
undermine his credibility.
Great, now he was thinking
about a sodding job.
Spike closed his eyes and
refused to breathe. Hattie was not cooking bean and rat stew in his kitchen. It
was a dream, all a dream. Except someone was invading his personal space in the
dream.
“Dude, you up?”
Spike cracked an irritated
eyelid at Gil, looming about an inch away, then shut it again. “No, I’m
sleeping, and this is a dream.”
“Oh, okay.” The other
vampire’s voice retreated to the corner occupied by Hattie and Spike’s hot
plate.
“He’s still sleeping.” Spike
could actually hear Gil’s head rattle when he shook it. “These baby vamps, man,
they sleep all the time.”
He resisted the urge to get
up, just to prove the elder vampire wrong. It was a dream; there was no need to
argue with a figment of his imagination.
The odor of Cheetos
approached his slab, and Spike stifled a groan. What now?
“Um. Spike?”
He answered without opening
his eyes. “Clem.”
“Do you have any extra towels?”
“Do I look like the day
manager of the Holiday Inn, mate?” Bloody buggering hell, there was no way he
was going to get any sleep, here, today. Spike surged off the sarcophagus with
an impartial snarl, startling a family of Tomko demons playing pick-up-sticks
and an aged Gorgon knitting a very large and hideously yellow cap with her
brass claws.
“Do I? No, I bloody well
didn’t think so! The lot of you, sod off. I want this place empty when I get
back. Not a single sodding thing, living or dead, is using my towels.”
Spike grabbed the pink and
purple batik cover from his bed and stomped down the stairs, heading for the
deepest, darkest, smelliest cesspool he could find. Maybe there he could get
some fucking sleep.
*
Xander nearly rear-ended the
neighbor’s SUV when he pulled up to 1630
Revello Drive. Buffy had never, ever,
in all the years he had known her, been waiting at the curb for anything. She
ran like the devil, she leapt short stairways in a single bound, and she
occasionally didn’t show up at all, but she never stood coyly waiting for her
ride, neatly dressed and ready to roll. Not even for slayage.
It was Pod Buffy: that was
the only explanation. Xander peered through the car window, waiting for the
really real Buffy to haul down the porch stairs and kick Pod Person’s ass.
Instead, Pod Buffy opened the
passenger door, slid into the seat, and smoothed her skirt over her thighs,
favoring him with a glowing smile. “Thanks Xander. I wasn’t sure you would
show. I really appreciate the ride.”
“Who are you and what have
you done with Buffy?”
Pod Buffy cocked her head
winsomely. “Xander, have you been smoking something I should know about?
Because I know you’re an adult and all, but it’s probably not a good idea to
drive under the influence.”
He stared at her. “Okay,
you’re Buffy.” He put the car in drive and pulled out into traffic. “I was just
surprised, that’s all. You’re never ready and waiting.”
She laughed and buckled her
seat belt, avoiding coffee stains only through the magic of Slayer reflexes.
“Oh, that! I woke up early with a Slayer dream, the spooky prophetic kind. So,
I figured as long as I was awake, I might as well make with the readiness.”
Xander nearly rear-ended
another car. It was definitely Pod Buffy. “You had a Slayer dream, but you’re
laughing? How many fingers am I holding up and take me to your master!”
Buffy blushed, and mumbled
something about getting reacquainted with household appliances and the joy of
hot rollers. So not going there.
“Anyway, I left a message for
Giles, but I’d like to have a Scooby meeting tonight. Can you be at the Box
before sundown, maybe 7ish?”
“Sure, Buff, no problemo. The
Xan-man is there.” Should he mention his encounter with Spike? Only it wasn’t
an encounter, because that made it sound like there were orgasms and manly
cries of passion, which there weren’t. Ever. His confrontation with Spike: that
was manly sounding, without the orgasms. Yeah. Confrontation was the word.
Except, he and Spike had
agreed the Slayer didn’t need to know. Yeah, but Spike was evil, so maybe he’d
gone back and told her in order to score points. No, if he’d told her, she’d be
pissed. Unless it was all some twisted game, to catch him in a sordid web of
lies. Except there was nothing sordid about it, because hey! No orgasms.
Time for a little indirect
interrogation: a subtle steering of the conversation with the single manly goal
of finding out if she was about to break him like a potato chip. “So, Buffster,
Buffino, Bufforama: will Spike be there?”
She shrugged, but blushed a
little pinker. “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him since last night. Well, early
this morning, really. But do you think he would come if I asked him? I mean, if
I happened to see him to ask him?”
Okay, that conversation took
a left turn at the interstate. Xander shot a wary glance at his passenger: Pod
Buffy was slowly choking the life out of her chubby mug. “Um, I really couldn’t
say.”
She nodded and looked out the
window, chewing her lip. “Xander, can I ask you something?”
Uh-oh, here it came. The
least she could do is wait until the car was stopped to kill him. “Sure, Buffy,
anything.”
“Did Anya ever… cry on you?”
Xander glanced at her, but she was still looking out at the traffic.
“Well, yeah.” Her head
whipped in his direction, and his brief glance at her face revealed an almost
desperate expression. “You know, when she was having that time of the month, or
the cash register was short, or… well, a lot.”
“No, I mean, like total
weepy, snot on shirt, make it all better, cry-fest?”
“Yeah, Buff, I get it.” His
mouth twisted with wry affection. “For An, those things are world ending. As an
ex-demon, she was surprisingly emotional.”
He shrugged. “I kinda liked
it, you know? I miss it. It made me feel like I could do something for her,
something no one else could. I could be there when she needed me.”
“Oh.” Xander looked over at
his friend. Her eyes were swimmy and wide, suffused with emotion. “Oh god. You
liked it? Really? It’s… normal?”
“Yeah, it’s normal.” Xander
pulled up before Buffy’s building, and put the car in park. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” She looked down
at her lap. “No, that’s a lie. I… I never cried on anyone, before, anyone
guy-like, I mean. Or at least, not for a long time. I didn’t know I could. I
thought it would make me… weak. Not the Slayer.”
“Oh.” Xander sat back,
thinking over her words. “Did you cry on… Spike? Last night, maybe?”
She nodded, toying with her
hem. “Did you feel better?” Another nod. Oh, god, this was awkward. This was
Spike. This was so beyond surreal that Rosencrantz was in line behind him at
the ATM.
“Well, if it made you feel
better, that’s what counts, right?” She looked up at him, grateful.
“Thanks, Xander. I’m sorry.”
Her eyes dropped to her lap again, and Xander wondered what could send her back
into her shell so quickly.
“Why are you sorry?” He
reached across the seat for her hand. “I love you, Buffy, you know that, right?
You’re one of my best friends, and I want you to be happy.”
He squeezed her hand. “I
can’t say that I’m thrilled about the Spike thing, but as long as we’re being
honest, I wasn’t keen on Angel either. I still wish things had worked out with
Riley, but…”
She flashed him a shamefaced
look from under her lashes. “Oh. You never?”
“I never.” She shook her
head. “I just couldn’t.”
“It’s okay, Buff.” Xander
screwed his courage to the sticking place and reached out towards his friend,
lifting her chin with his free hand. Screw twenty-minute load-and-unload zones.
This was important. “If he couldn’t be what you needed, then you’re better off.
I love you for who you are, bad boyfriends and all.”
Xander dropped his hand and
looked at her thoughtfully. “You know, Buff, you’re not my hero anymore.”
Her eyes flew up to meet his,
hurt, and he smiled. “You fell off the pedestal a while ago, and I’m glad. I
don’t need heroes, I need friends. The paragon thing? Well, it doesn’t last.
The friend thing? It seems to be working. Don’t try so hard, Buffy, it’ll be
okay.”
She huffed out a breath and
squared her shoulders. “Yeah. Everything will be okay.” She faced him. “Thanks
Xander. You’re a good friend.”
“Thank you. I’m trying.” He
watched her fumble out of her seatbelt, far less poised than she had been when
she got into the car. He should remember that: messy Buffy was normal. Sharp
Buffy was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He wondered if all women
were like that.
Xander Harris smiled to
himself and stuck his hand out the window to signal, as he prepared to merge
back into traffic. He learned something new every day. Now he just needed to
remember to get the turn signal replaced. Xander sighed. The learning new
things bit would be more impressive if he could remember the old stuff.
*
Swinging her briefcase, Buffy
disappeared into the 9:00 AM herd of office-bots. She ducked and wove as groups
of the bots clustered in front of the elevators, working her way to the rear
wall. With a sharp left turn at the ugliest piece of corporate art on the
planet, she was standing in front of a nondescript gray steel door.
She quickly checked over her
shoulder to make sure no one was around, and then slipped through, silently
easing the heavy door closed behind her. Endless concrete stairs loomed, and a
sly smile flickered across the Slayer’s face. Eat your heart out Suzanne, this
Summers has buns of titanium.
Fifty-six floors and
thirty-nine minutes later, Buffy skipped to a halt before another gray steel
door, barely breathing hard. She leaned against the wall and toed off her
trainers, trading them for the heels lurking in her briefcase. She could
totally take the stairs in pumps, but she’d learned the first day she’d tried
this that the shoes crapped out long before she did.
Buffy exited the fire stairs
and entered the executive suite, fully togged for corporate America. Well,
actually a couple of secretaries and the random tourist or three. It was kinda
mean, but she really enjoyed sitting at the reception desk. The glass wall of
the suite had a freaking amazing view of the bay: several times a day she got
to tell camera-wielding couples from Iowa that this floor was not open to the
public and if they didn’t remove themselves im-meeeed-i-atly, she would be
forced to call security.
Buffy smirked, unconsciously
mimicking Spike. Oh, she was eeeevil.
*
Our vampy hero was coming to
the end of his own, less vertical, journey. Without really thinking about it,
he had ended up at The Magic Box. He looked up at the stairs warily, not sure
if he should be expecting fireballs or not. Nothing had attacked him the first
time he’d come here, but the episode last night had made him cautious.
Anya stuck her head through
the door. “It’s not warded against you, Spike, just strangers. Unless you plan
to steal something?”
He attempted to look mad,
bad, and dangerous to know, and sauntered toward the stairs. The image was
slightly undermined by the big purple blankie trailing behind him. “Just
looking for a place to crash, Anyanka. You don’t mind if I use the sofa in
back, do you, pet?”
Shaking her head in
irritation, Anya shut the basement door as he passed through. “You do realize
that this is a business, not a half-way house?”
“Yes, well, it’s not my first
choice, either. Just tell me yes or no.” Spike tapped his foot, and gathered
his blanket up into wad, cradling the bundle against his chest defensively.
“What’s wrong with your
crypt?” Suspicious, Anya stared at him, still not relenting.
Spike sighed. “Nothing’s
wrong with my crypt, it’s just a wee bit noisy with every fucking demon on the
west coast,” his voice spiraled into the danger zone, “using my fucking
towels!”
“Uh huh.” Anya nodded
encouragingly. Spike on a tear was well worth the entertainment dollar.
“I have plans for the
evening, you know? I gotta rest up, be ready.” He gave her a beseeching look.
“It’s not like I can just rip out hearts and tear off heads night and day, day
and night: I’m not a sodding’ robot, am I? A vamp needs his beauty sleep, now
and again, right?”
“Yes.” Anya smiled and patted
Spike’s shoulder in a reassuring manner that signaled fellowship between
demons. Or she hoped that’s what it signaled, and not ‘I would like to have sex
with you.’ She snatched her hand back, worried.
He cocked his head. “Yes?”
“You may sleep on the sofa.
But don’t snore or do anything that might disturb the customers,” she warned,
“or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Spike looked offended and
stomped towards the back room. “I don’t bloody snore.”
Anya sniffed. “All men
snore.”
“Not a man, pet, vampire. I
don’t breathe, and I don’t snore.” He slammed the door pointedly behind him,
ignoring her disbelieving snort.
The vengeance demon smiled.
All men snored, even vampires: she knew that for a fact. Male snoring was the
single most common reason women made wishes.