Buffy and the Duster

Xander broke his finger staking the last vampire, but you’d have thought it was his hip by the fuss that he made. Buffy and Willow oohed and ewed, of course, and worked up a suitable lather of sympathy on his behalf, although Buffy had to work a bit harder at it than Willow, truth be told. Even though she was only in Grade 12, Buffy already had an advanced degree in sucking it up.

They were in the tunnels under Sunnydale, and not by choice. They’d been lured down into the darkness by stupid Spike and his stupid pals. Or at least that’s what Xander kept calling them as he examined the wonky tilt of his pinkie with anxious awe.

Well, the pals were tunnel dust now, although Spike had managed to remain annoyingly whole as he made his escape. Buffy hoped that wasn’t going to become a habit with him.

Willow and Giles heroically offered to take Xander to Emergency. Giles already looked like he regretted it as he half-carried Xander out, Xander’s hand stretched in front of him like it was a lump of plutonium.

Buffy thought she’d just take a quick Nancy Drew around to see what she could see. Not much, what with just the one flashlight, but she had nothing better to do, so. She made her way further into the tunnel, Xander’s bleating fading behind her as she went. She came to a dead end in no time at all, with nothing but many incriminating rocks for her trouble. It made her wonder if Spike had even had a plan in mind when he’d thought up this fiasco.

She was back at ground zero before she had to stop and shake about 150 pebbles out of her shoes. The flashlight swung in a loopy arc as she balanced on one foot, and that’s the only reason she saw it.

It was lying in a heap against the tunnel wall, and for a second she thought it was a black dog. She came at it cautiously, her flashlight doing its best to shed light on the issue. When it didn’t move, she nudged it with her toe.

It was Spike’s duster. The second she realized it, she remembered how she’d yanked it off him as he’d made his getaway. She would have staked him, too, if he hadn't peeled himself out of it. So he’d sacrificed his coat to save his skin.

She picked it up and examined it. It was plenty battered, and she sure didn’t see anything like it on the cover of her latest issue of Vogue. What a sad testosterone ad it was. Of course, it looked a little different when it was on Spike. When he was kicking, and it swung around his legs like a cape.

Before she could catch herself, and without one clue why, Buffy brought the collar of the coat to her nose and smelled it. Ick, smoker, that’s right, although not too bad. More just the smell of the leather, and…and the smell of Spike. Hair gel. Some long-since used cologne. Maybe even a hint of perfume.

The thought of Spike in his duster, touching someone, whispering in their ear, made Buffy’s tummy plunge a floor or two. He was such an animal, the image had never entered her mind until this moment. She’d had a few images of him and the duster in a couple of dreams, yes, but she kept that fact stuffed as deep as it would go in her psyche, right under her father issues. Her psyche was way too giddy that she was holding the duster in her hands at this very moment.

Buffy threw the coat back on the ground. She meant, she wanted to throw the coat on the ground. She was going to throw it down. On the ground. Any second now.

She tried the duster on. It was roomy, but not as much as she supposed. It did drag quite a bit, of course. Buffy had long ago accepted that at 5’ 4", she would never make that Vogue cover either. A thrill of adrenaline burst in her midsection as she went through his pockets. Cigarettes, a heavy silver lighter, some quarters, a set of brass knuckles. The usual stuff. She opened the cigarette package, carefully selected a cigarette in the faint light, put it between her lips and pretended to smoke it.

So this is what it felt like to be Spike. She jutted her shoulders back, and tried her best to preen. "Bloody poncy bollocks," she whispered, and curled her lip up for good measure. She wasn’t half bad, she thought. She let her hands run slowly down the coat’s front, over her breasts, down to her thighs. It was probably a mistake in retrospect.

She set the flashlight in the dirt beside her. That was better. She needed to be in the dark for this. She took the edges of the coat, rubbed them along her bare thighs and imagined they were Spike’s hands.

She bet Spike was pretty good with his hands. How long had it been since anyone’s hands had been on her? Months and months. It seemed likely that Spike’s touch would be very different from Angel’s.

Her panties were clinging to her now. Sticking damply against her. She put a hand under her dress to free them, and that turned out to be not the best idea either. When her fingers brushed against her wet, swollen skin, she had a hell of a time getting them to stop. She stroked herself with one hand, her other hand on the leather, and wondered if Spike’s fingers would be urgent and mean, or slow and skillful. She made a string of small, frantic noises as she went.

She shut up in a big hurry when she sensed him in the tunnel, of course. She stood there frozen for a moment and listened to herself pant as she figured out where he was. Far away, right? And not looking anywhere near her. Please God.

He was twenty feet in front of her, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he watched her. It was too dark to make out his expression, and that was all of the good. Because if she had to see his grin right now, she’d have no choice but to shatter into a million Buffy bits. Her cheeks were obviously on fire. She put her hands to her face to put them out.

She decided utter denial was really her only option. She took the coat off, wiped her fingers on the hem of her dress, pulled out her stake, and said in a pathetically quavering voice, "Come on, then."

Spike strolled over to her. Not in any hurry. She thought it would be better with the coat off him, but no, she had to avoid looking at the tight black T-shirt as well. As he entered the bubble of light, she saw that he wasn’t smiling at all. He was dead serious. "Slayer," he said, and pulled the cigarette out of her mouth.

She staked him. Or, she meant to stake him. But actually, she just said, "Spike," in what she hoped was a scornful tone. Almost as good as staking him.

"I left my coat," he said, somewhat unnecessarily, and let his eyes wander down her body until he spied it in her arms.

She shoved it at him. Good riddance. He shrugged into it. Buffy closed her eyes as he did it. They stood there looking at each other then, Spike so close that she wondered if he could feel the heat coming off her. He opened his mouth and her grip on the stake hardened. "How’s your mum?" he asked.

She was speechless for a moment, then said, "Fine, thank you." Because what else could she say? "So you’re back in town, huh?" she added. Look, a normal conversation! About normal things! With Spike! The sweat was rolling down her back.

"Just thought I’d drop by and try and kill you again. It didn’t work." He put his hands in his pockets, possibly checking to see if she’d stolen anything.

"That’s right, Spike, and it never will." She felt like she was getting back on solid ground now. Maybe he hadn’t seen anything. Maybe she hadn’t done anything. Maybe she had just thought about doing something…

"That a new perfume?" he asked as he tilted his head, and her stake was against his chest before the last syllable had left his lips.

"Shut. Your. Mouth." she said through clenched teeth, the jabs helping to make her point.

"It is a nice coat, isn’t it?" he said, and now he was smiling, his tongue curling behind his teeth. "You seemed to be enjoying it enough."

She took a step back, to walk away from him, which seemed like a prudent strategy if she really wasn’t going to stake him. His hand darted out and fastened onto the inside of her thigh. She stopped moving, breathing, existing. She couldn’t speak.

"Is this what you were thinking about, Buffy?" He said her name like it was very dirty. Then his hand moved up between her legs. She whimpered, but she didn’t stop him. This feeling was better than anything she’d dreamed. Ever.

He moved her panties aside and said with fascination, "Ohh, but you’re wet." Then he pushed two fingers into her. Buffy’s eyes rolled back in her head as his fingers started to fuck her. As it turns out, she had been right on both accounts: he was mean, and he was skillful. He caught her with his free hand as her knees went out from under her.

He forced her against the tunnel wall, brought her legs into the air, and gave it to her viciously. Buffy took it and begged for more. The stake pierced Spike’s chest with every thrust of his arm, until his blood had seeped in a black, wet circle on his shirt. He didn’t seem to notice, or care.

He didn’t stop when Buffy came the first time; in fact, this seemed only to encourage him. He pounded his fist into her, and watched her face, and grinned as she came again. Then he let her down all at once, and she fell in a heap at his feet. She looked up at him as he sucked his fingers clean. She still held the bloody stake at the ready, but he was already backing away from her, while she was still dizzy.

"I’m not going to kill you today after all, Slayer," he said as he walked out, "because I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I figure nothing can bloody top that."

Not like Angel at all.

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