Indigo
Overture – Chapter Fourteen
Rating: Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – NC17
Red, red, red,
the light burned on interminably. Spike
revved the engine impatiently and ground his teeth. Reaching into his duster, he pulled out his
flask. Might as well
start getting tanked, if he had to wait.
He took a swallow, then paused, his mutinous
eyes tracking the blonde sitting beside him.
His stomach twitched.
Guilt.
A nerve in
Spike’s left eye twitched as a fresh wave of fury rushed through him. The light turned green and he shoved the
liquor back in his pocket, stomping the accelerator to the floor. Tires screamed as the motor instantly
reacted, propelling the car down the pavement.
He didn’t know where he was going.
Didn’t care much either. Just kept his foot heavy on the gas and his eyes locked on the
road.
They barreled through a succession of LA streets, each one a
little seamier than the last. Spike
ignored the gasps of his unwelcome passenger and focused only on the roar of
the engine. As the
His mum was in a box. In a box, under
piles and piles of dirt, and she was alone.
Not much better up here, up where he’d suffered through the endless line
of people pressing sympathetic hands and salty kisses to his cheeks. And then it was over, with only Angel left to
stand watch beside him in the grave dotted lawn.
“I wish there was something I could
say,” he said, looking tall, dark and suitably pensive.
“Nothing to say,” Spike replied, gazing
forlornly at the brown earth his mother lay beneath.
--
His stomach
clenched and nostrils flared, the stench of sex so
strong that it wafted beneath the drafty bedroom door to torture him. Probably his imagination, but God, he could
smell it, could smell them as well as he could hear them. The slap and stick of naked
bodies writhing together on his bed.
On sheets he’d folded a hundred times.
A wave of nausea rocked through him and he wondered if he’d retch right
here on his scuffed black boots. Or maybe not. Maybe
his stomach would just roll like an oil slick forever, while he stood trapped
in this place with his lover’s frantic whispers begging a stranger for
more.
Not a stranger, though, was it?
--
“No family left,” he’d stated
matter-of-factly as his eyes focused on an ostentatious vase of flowers on his
mum’s table. Why hadn’t it made it back
to the hospital with the rest of them?
Waste of money, and his mum would have ‘tsked’ about having them on her
chipped dinette, but she wasn’t here to ‘tsk’, now was
she?
“It probably doesn’t help, but you’re
like family to me,” Angel said softly and Spike looked at him, a spark of real
gratitude flashing in the black sea of his grief.
---
Pounding. Grunting. Whimpering. Surround sound stereo, their coupling sang to
him as he ran through the apartment. Tried to run, at any rate.
Felt like he was wading through honey.
He had to be dreaming. It had to be one of those dreams; where the bad
thing keeps coming, and he’s stuck in slow motion, dragging his weighted feet
forward on rubbery legs. But he kept
going, moving like a man through quicksand, until his fingers grasped the front
door and tore it open.
---
“You deserve better,” Angel said,
sleeves now rolled and overcoat draped over the back of mum’s kitchen
chair. Half the decanter later, they’d
finally broached the forbidden topic.
“Don’t want better,” he’d protested,
rubbing a weary hand across his eyes, “Just want Dru.”
“After
what she did to you?” Angel slurred, leaning forward with a
disdainful sniff, “She’s cold blooded, man.”
Red lights screamed into view as a truck abruptly swerved into
the lane a few inches in front of him. Reverie shattered, Spike jerked left of
center to pass the vehicle, ignoring Buffy’s alarmed shriek when he dodged an
oncoming Ford and squeezed the De Soto back into the lane.
“Are you sure you’re alright to drive?” Buffy asked.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, darting irritably through the thick city
traffic.
A freeway sign sailed overhead and Spike considered the
possibility. More lanes and more
speed. He jammed the toe of his boot
against the brake, skidding onto the highway ramp. A Jetta swerved out of his path, braying its
pitiful horn in protest. Spike offered a
two-finger salute and merged into the stream of traffic.
“Are we going to be gone awhile?” Buffy asked.
“Are you ever going to stop your incessant yammering?”
Buffy exhaled noisily, “Look, I don’t blame you for being
pissed, but I’m not the bad guy, here.”
“And I’m not the good one,” he snapped back.
“Fine.
Look, I just need to borrow your phone,” she demanded, tone tight with
irritation.
Spike yanked the phone out of his pocket and fired it across the
seat at her. She caught it and murmured
something that he guessed wasn’t flattering as she fumbled at the keypad. He tried to ignore her, focusing instead on
the flow of traffic. He caught bits of
her conversation here and there like “don’t worry”, “yeah, you heard right”,
and “not sure, don’t wait up.”
Apparently satisfied with her update to the entire world, she
closed the phone. She tossed it back at
him with enough force to bruise. With a
flick of his thumb, he powered the phone off.
Having one person to deal with was plenty, thanks. Spike inched the needle of the speedometer
closer to ninety, the metal hulk of the car vibrating as they soared down the
endless stretch of gray.
“You’re killing yourself,” Angel
panted, face flushed and that mighty brow furrowed.
Spike guffawed. Deciding that their running was done for now,
he slumped breathlessly against a brick wall, “Nah, I’m just out to get pissed
and maybe enjoy a little light burglary on the side.”
“This isn’t funny,” Angel said, “It’s
pathetic.”
Spike
stopped laughing just long enough for the pain to seep in around the edges of
his stupor, “You want some sort of medal for sussing that out?”
“This self-destructive spiral of yours
is getting tiresome. It’s got to stop,
Spike,” He
paused, brows knitted together sagely as he watched the smog-shadowed moon, “I
think it’s time to get out of here.”
“Well, go on then,
“That’s not what I meant,” Angel said,
“You need to get out of this town, Spike.
Hell, out of this country altogether.”
Spike scoffed, turning a mean eye on
him, “And do what? Go where? Cooked up some master plan in that big
cranium of yours, have you?”
“Yeah, I have. I’m going back to the States to start that
band I’ve been talking about,” he’d said, grabbing Spike by the sleeve and
hauling him unceremoniously to his feet, “And you’re coming with me.”
Spike laughed, “Now who’s on the
bender? Somehow I doubt Mother MacArthur
would be keen on her eldest ditching this gilded British education to be a rock
star.”
“I wouldn’t say she was keen,” Angel
admitted tersely, “We have an understanding, and I’m going. And I think you should too.”
“Right,” Spike laughed.
“I’m being serious. Come back with me. Leave this place behind.” Angel sighed reluctantly, “Leave her behind.”
Spike cocked his head angrily, “And
then what, Angel? Freeload off of your
rich parents? Take up residence on your
tastefully understated sofa?”
“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”
Spike shook his head, “Mind you I’ve
got the morals of a hyena these days, but some things are below even me. You’re still my friend. ‘Sides, it’d feel too much like pity.”
“Nah, it wouldn’t be pity,” Angel said,
slapping Spike affably on the shoulder, “I could never pity someone as
irritating as you.”
“Do you have any clue
where you’re headed?”
Buffy’s snippy voice made him jump, and he took a second to
correct the resultant swerve before he mumbled something nasty in
response. Point of fact, he didn’t have
a clue. The freeway might have been a
bad idea. With a frown, he scanned the
road for some indication as to where the bloody hell he’d wandered off to. A sign on his right promised gas, lodging and
food a mile ahead.
Spike got off the freeway, speeding past what he guessed to be a
strip mall and a few all-night restaurants.
The congestion of the interstate junction gave way to a series of
subdivisions. The time for figuring out
what he was doing was well nigh. This was
not the kind of place one skulked through in the wee hours of night; this was
Suburbia. Spike slowed to something
resembling the speed limit as he turned into one of the neighborhoods to buy a
little thinking time.
“Oh, good.
This will be a perfect place to hide my body,” Buffy quipped
mordaciously. He tamped down the impulse
to knock her out cold.
This place teemed with houses, flowerbeds and all things
domestic. Eerily quiet was a term that
came to mind. Unwanted trespasser was
another. The bloody docks would have been better than this picket fence version
of Hell.
“Fabulous, another station wagon,” Buffy remarked with mock
enthusiasm, “Will there be dog houses on this tour as well?”
Spike growled furiously.
A playground came into view and he jerked the car off the road, skidding
to a stop in the patch of gravel an optimist might have called a parking
lot. He turned to Buffy as he slammed
the car into Park.
“Do you ever shut your sodding hole?!”
“Look, he speaks!” Buffy
glowered at him, her face illuminated by the yellow glow of a streetlight, “You
want to tell me what we’re doing here?”
“Not sure what memo you missed, but this isn’t a damn
joyride! In fact, remind me again why
you’re still here!”
“I know that!” she said, lowering her voice only marginally to
add, “I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t want your help!” Spike yelled, “Or maybe you didn’t
hear that bit where I told you to get the fuck out of my car!”
“Right,” Buffy drawled sarcastically, “Because it would be such
a good idea for you to be alone right now.”
“Be a hell of a lot better than dealing with Angel’s leftovers!”
Spike snarled viciously.
Buffy gasped, her hand flitting to her mouth as Spike inwardly
cringed. Flinging off her seatbelt, she
instantly wrenched the car door open.
She was outside before he had a chance to breathe, the door slamming
behind her.
“Fucking hell,” Spike said, turning off the engine and stumbling
out of the car in a blind panic. She had
already gained some distance, marching angrily through the center of the
playground. He sprinted past the swing
set, fingers catching in her black sleeve and spinning her to face him.
“Buffy, wait,” he said, and she struggled against his hold, her
tears sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight, “Please.”
“Don’t.
Touch. Me.” She gritted it out with a shaking voice, raising her free hand to
hold him at bay.
“I didn’t mean it,” he pleaded contritely, grip tightening in
her sleeve despite her resistance, “I was a shit to say it, pet. I’m sorry.”
Buffy’s fired him a scathing look, but below the fury, her chin
was trembling, “You don’t want to talk.
You don’t want me here. Now you
don’t want me to leave. What the hell do
you want, Spike?”
Their eyes locked and something hotter than fire coursed between
them. Spike reached for her other
arm. His hands slid to the pulse points
on her wrists. Every delicate thump
against his fingers sent electric shivers through his blood.
“How do you do this to me?” he breathed.
The voice she offered was sharp but ragged, “I’m not trying to—”
“I know you’re not,” Spike interrupted softly, stepping in until
he could feel the delicious heat rolling off of her. He slid his hands against hers, palm to palm
until their fingers interlaced and a sigh spilled from her lips.
“But you can feel it,” Spike continued, leaning in until her
face blurred and her could feel the moist heat of her breath, “Tell me you
don’t feel this.”
Spike inhaled the breath she released and kissed her. She froze for a minute, barely allowing the
slide of lips against lips. He coaxed
her mouth, tasting a hint of lemon from earlier when his tongue grazed her
bottom lip. He pulled that lip between
his own, satisfied when she let out a little gasp, and finally parted her lips
for him.
Just as she
began to respond, he pulled away, feeling her hands shake as his forehead
dropped to touch hers, “Last chance, pet. I won’t be able to stop.”
Buffy licked her lips and it was more than enough
invitation. He kissed her again, and her
mouth crushed against his with a ferocity he hadn’t even imagined her capable
of. They melted into each other, the
knot of his rage and need unfurling in her warmth and peace. He knew, oh, bloody hell, he knew this was opening Pandora’s Box, but
sod it all, he needed this. Needed her.
She whimpered into his mouth as his hands slid down the sides of
her throat, then further, sloping over the narrow breadth of her
shoulders. Her tongue danced against his
hungrily and his hands continued their trail, tracing the underside of her
breasts before they explored the plane of her belly. His thumb tested the dip of her navel as his
tongue delved deeper.
Buffy’s arms snaked around him, fingers feathering over his jaw
then trailing down his throat and chest until her fingernails dragged over his
nipples. Spike pulled away from her
mouth, sucking in a hot breath as she reached his stomach, eagerly lifting his
shirt and clawing at his taut flesh.
She pressed a wet kiss to his Adam’s apple and he moaned,
sliding his hands to the small of her back, then lower until he palmed her
ass. At her soft whine, he returned to
her waiting kiss, tongues dancing wickedly.
They kissed like something depended on it, and hell, maybe something
did. Buffy pushed her backside more
fully into his hands and he pulled her closer, heat sparking when her stomach
shuddered against his erection.
Her small hands slid into the back pockets of his jeans and she
forced him more snugly against her, the pressure sending his cock into a
twitching frenzy. He wrenched free of
her mouth, panting as his fingers fumbled at the buttons of her shirt, tugging
the plastic discs through their slots until at last, he could tear the bloody
thing open and feel her. He dropped his head to her chest, planting
soft kisses to the swell of her breasts while she moaned quietly into the
darkness. Her hands threaded through his
curls while his tongue traced the edge of her bra cup. When his teeth grazed a satin-covered nipple,
she groaned louder, fingers tangling to lock him in place.
Spike impatiently tugged her bra down from her breasts, his
fingers shaking like a schoolboy’s.
Tongue and teeth lightly traced the contour of her skin, and when he
pulled the pebbled tip into his mouth, she made a sound that was dangerously
close to a scream. God, but he’d cut off
an arm to get that sound out of her again.
Buffy’s hands dropped to his legs, sliding over the fronts of
his thighs in a rush. He moved to the
other breast, alternately sucking and licking while his fingers dragged
clumsily at the hem of her skirt. He
pulled away from her breasts to struggle with the offending garment, his heart
galloping wildly beneath his ribs.
She slumped forward on him, kissing him in a place behind his
ear that drove him mad. Fueled by her
ministrations, he growled and pushed the skirt the rest of the way up, fingers
brushing the curve where her legs joined her bottom, slipping his fingers
beneath the skimpy satin panties she wore.
A dog barked in the distance and he flinched, quickly picking her up
from the ground and biting back a growl when her legs wrapped tightly around
his middle.
Her hands tugged at the back of his neck, and when he kissed her
this time, it was so slow and long that he could feel it in his bones. He could kiss her for a month, with those
sweet lips and baby soft whimpers. With
his hands supporting the curve of her ass, he made his way to her side of the
car. Intent on getting them inside, he
set her down gently, enjoying the little hiss of her breath when her bare
thighs encountered the cool metal exterior of the car.
He reached past her for the door, but then her teeth were
grazing his neck and she was pulling him closer, arching her back until her
whole body was molded against the car and her tongue was flicking against his
earlobe. Her hands slipped beneath his
t-shirt, and he pulled back just enough to trace arcane symbols on the
He wrenched
the door open with his right hand while his left continued its path along her
chest. He meant to ease her down on the
front seat like a half-wit freshman with more dick than sense. But then her fingernails were scraping over every
inch of his abs and before he could remember to breathe, her hands were at his
fly. Spike braced his hand on the roof
of the car, gasping noisily when his cock unexpectedly sprung free, landing in
her waiting hands. He froze, his breath
dissolving in a groan when her fingers circled him and gave an initial
squeeze.
“Car,” he ground out, still aware of their intensely public
surroundings, despite the wave of fire she was sending through his veins.
One hand curled in the front of his duster, she turned him
around to push him back-first into the open door. He fell backwards on the seat, but she pulled
him upright, spinning him to sit in the seat like a proper passenger. For one instant, he wondered if she had
changed her mind. Then she climbed in after
him, planting a knee on either side of his hips and nipping his suspicion in
the bud.
He pushed her skirt up, admiring the dark scrap of fabric
between her thighs as she moved closer and closer to his body, tugging on his
duster. Spike assisted her efforts,
pulling the coat up enough for maneuvering room. Considered taking it off, but her hands
reached for his cock again and he stopped thinking altogether.
Spike’s
hands covered her fingers for two strokes before he moaned and dropped his head
back on the seat. He reached clumsily to
jerk the door closed, then slid one hand up her inner thigh. She was beautiful up there, swaying over him
like some sort of Norse goddess. Her
focus seemed intent on the slow movements of her hands. Watching her watching him made him feel like
his bones had been injected with molten rock.
He couldn’t stand much more of this.
If those little fingers of hers moved one bit faster, he was going to
finish this before it even started.
She must have felt him looking, because her eyes met his at that
moment, smoldering emeralds behind mascara-heavy lashes. Beyond the symphony of their mingled panting,
there was nothing but the creak and slide of leather and flesh. Holding his stare, she slowly squeezed him
again. He curled his tongue behind his
teeth, hand abandoning her thigh to reach for the damp satin at her center.
Her eyes clouded as he traced the edge of her panties, fingers
slipping beneath until they brushed the wet heat of her entrance. Buffy whimpered and surged forward, seeking
the friction he offered. Her back arched and he ripped the panties away with shaking
fingers, sliding one finger into her heat while she rocked into his palm again.
She kissed him and pushed forward again, her own fingers
dropping away from his erection to brace on his thighs. Spike tried to adjust his hand and nearly
bucked off of the seat when the damp nest of her curls brushed his cock. They were frozen for one taut moment, then he
felt her body lift and her trembling fingers move him to her opening, pushing
him in a little. Only a fraction of an
inch, but it was enough to make his eyes roll and his hips spasm forward. Spike gritted his teeth until he thought he
might chip a few.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, panting as she rocked on that little
sliver of him inside her.
His hands locked on her hips, “Buffy,” he said, forcing himself
not to move, “Condom?”
“Unh….pill,” she said, her words all but lost in the frenetic
cadence of her breath.
Almost as soon as the words registered, Spike grunted
gratefully. His hands pushed and his
hips lunged, effectively joining them in a crescendo of groans that started in
him, and ended in her. Buffy fisted her
hands in his coat, pulling against the leather as she took control with an
intensity that made his eyes roll. Hips
rocking and back arching, she rode him with abandon while he reached to meet
every thrust, to anticipate every need.
He pushed his knees apart, angling his pelvis to go deeper. The first improved thrust made her mewl, her
fingers wrapping impossibly tighter in his duster. The second made her cry out, her golden neck
arching as her body coiled in ecstasy.
They were locked together now, moving in a rhythm that belonged to
neither, but owned them both. With his
world slipping sideways, Spike breathed her name like a prayer and watched,
transfixed, as her tongue flicked against her top lip.
Jealous for her kiss, he pressed his mouth against hers,
doubling their pace as their tongues met.
Oh, she was close now, and enslaved to her body, he was too. Her thighs quaked and she tore away from his
lips to pant out a continuous stream of moans that had him writhing beneath
her. He was slipping towards the
precipice, sliding downhill with no ropes, no brakes, only Buffy to hold
onto. Clinging desperately to her
shuddering body, he could feel her digging deeper into him. Every thrust pushed her further, until she’d
slipped beneath a thousand layers and marked her presence on a locked
place. And he wanted it. Wanted it more than he
remembered ever wanting anything.
“Ah…I’m
getting…” she said, her words slipping off into a gurgled groan.
“Ah…fuck,
Buffy,” he said, voice ragged with more than lust. He felt the floodgates breaking, locks crumbling
to dust as her tiny hands moved to his face.
He angled his
pelvis and pumped harder, his body leaving the seat as they strained together
for the edge of the cliff. She was still
moaning, pretty lips pouring out a procession of
sounds as her body tightened around him.
His own climax was throbbing so close now that he felt himself pulsating
in anticipation.
Buffy’s body
began to spasm, but it was the sound of his name finally spilling from her lips
that sent him careening over the edge.
With a vicious roar, his climax burst through him, sending him
spiraling. He tumbled on her wave, his
mind and body calling her name as she continued to clench around him. With his face buried against her neck, his
groans of surrender were lost in her half-formed words of bliss.
After the
first breathless moments, the pulsing behind his eardrums drifted into a low
din. Buffy drooped forward, her body
sagging against him, her chest heaving to keep up with the demands of her
hammering heart. Her chin settled on his
shoulder and his arms folded around her, fingers tracing long lines up the
length of her back. His own breathing
recovered, Spike closed his eyes and nuzzled her hair, heart slowing in time
with hers.
He crossed his
arms over her back, holding her close. Maybe closer than he should.
It didn’t matter anymore, though.
Because right there, with the windows fogged and her limbs loose and
warm around him, Spike surrendered to being completely in love with her.
After several
minutes of puffy breathing and total paralysis, Buffy was happy to be able to
hear anything other than her own pulse.
Not much to hear. Except Spike’s
pulse, which was nice.
Fast and strong beneath her ear. Speaking of strong, she wondered if her legs
ever would be again.
Yeah, can I get an “Oh” with that “My
God”?
Thought in
mind, she giggled against his neck.
“Something
funny, pet?”
“Yeah,” she
breathed, “I mean, not funny ha-ha, but funny
I-didn’t-know-sex-could-actually-paralyze-me-from-the-waist-down.”
He hummed and
squeezed her tighter. He’d been doing a
lot of that, which wasn’t altogether the worst thing she’d ever felt. All cozy and snug in Spike’s arms. Arms of Spike. A flicker of warning entered her mind.
Shoo, fly, shoo. I’m afterglowy here.
The car filled
briefly with lights from a passing car and Buffy frowned as reality encroached
on her tingly satiety.
Spike
stiffened and lifted his head and Buffy imagined him following the disappearing
car through the door mirror while she watched it from the rear window. Luckily, it didn’t stop, but she wasn’t
surprised when his arms slid from her waist.
In fact, she almost expected the way her body ached instantly for his
embrace.
He shifted
them a little forward to fiddle with the glove box. Then, he offered her a few napkins as he
gently helped her climb off of his lap, “Sorry, it’s the best I’ve got in
here,” he shrugged sheepishly, eyes drifting furtively to the empty park.
Buffy
awkwardly tended to the business of tucking and straightening while Spike
offered a thin-lipped stare at the rearview mirror, “I’m going to step out for
a minute.”
He got out of
the car and Buffy felt her stomach roll.
The big, fat reality check was imminent and it was hinting at all kinds
of things better left not dwelled on. Like having sex with Spike.
Mind-boggling, bone-melting sex in the front seat of
his car. Which so had to be illegal. Well, maybe not normal car sex, but sex in a
black beast of a car with a guy who goes by ‘Spike?’ Felony city. They’d throw away the key.
She watched
him wander to the nearest tree and assume that unmistakable stance. Feeling a bit scandalous, she dropped her
gaze and fastened her safety belt.
She pouted at
the dashboard while she waited, wondering what was
going through his mind. Knowing her
track record, it couldn’t be anything good.
Sex didn’t result in good things.
Sex resulted in botched relationships and ‘I don’t even think we should
be friends’ speeches. Sex was a bad
idea.
With a sigh,
she lifted her gaze to the windshield.
He was headed back to the car, shoulders slumped and eyes clouded. Terrific. He was probably rehearsing his speech even
now. Or maybe just contemplating
abandoning the car altogether so he wouldn’t have to confront the issue.
Spike opened
the door and Buffy tensed as he settled into his seat. He rattled the keys in the ignition and the
engine purred to life. With a long sigh,
he rubbed his eyes, “What a fucking night.”
An anvil
dropped in Buffy’s stomach and she turned her face quickly towards her window,
locking her arms across her chest.
“So,
what now?” Spike
said, raking his hands his hair with a yawn.
Oh, that was the ego boost of
the century right there.
“I don’t know
why you’d be asking me,” she replied curtly.
The rustle of leather told her he had turned in his seat to face her,
but she was not about to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
“You alright,
pet?” he asked, sounding entirely perplexed.
“Fine,” she
said, and if he believed that, she had a bridge he might be interested in
buying.
“Right,” he
said, sounding unconvinced. Another
rustle of his coat, and they were backing out of the parking lot. He navigated them out of the neighborhood
while she tried to burn through her window with her scowl.
They reached
the main road and he made a right, slipping into the sparse traffic on the
thoroughfare. He lit a cigarette and
cracked the window, then fiddled with the radio while Buffy’s petulance morphed
into a tightly wound ball of rage. He
didn’t even care. He was going to walk
away, and not even think twice about it.
Which was just terrific, because she was really
looking forward to losing yet another important person.
She gritted
her teeth irritably at that. But it was true. Spike wasn’t just a friend. He was her sparring buddy, her comedic
relief, her pestering sidekick. And apparently her fuck bunny. Buffy scoffed derisively, then
recrossed her arms even more tightly.
He flipped the
radio off and switched to tapping the steering wheel. She was really considering hating him,
now. Stupid, twitchy
man. Yes, this was better. It was easier to ignore how unbelievable the
sex was when hated him.
Spike abruptly
pulled into a parking lot and Buffy turned to look at him, noticing a neon
Denny’s sign as he steered them into a parking space.
“Why are we
stopping?” she asked, forgoing her silent fury for fact finding.
“I thought you
might like to ah…” he paused, exhaling another plume of smoke out of the window
before he tossed the cigarette butt and turned to face her, “powder your nose
or what not.”
Buffy flushed
to the roots of her hair, but he continued quickly, “And I could use a bite to
eat. Aren’t you hungry, luv? You haven’t eaten in hours.”
Shocked beyond
the possibility of snappy comebacks, she just looked at him like a three headed
alien for a moment before bobbing her head like a marionette. When he nodded and stepped out of the car,
she shook her head, hoping to clear this Twilight Zone fog she’d wandered
into.
Her door
opened, revealing Spike with an extended hand, and Buffy decided that Rod
Sterling was probably going to start up the voiceover any minute now. He frowned at her expression, pulling back
his hand. After another insanely awkward
pause, she stepped out of the car mumbling an awkward thank you, which he
ignored. Shutting the door for her, he
ushered her into the restaurant, hand a shadow of pressure at the small of her
back.
“Looks like
the bathrooms are that way,” he said when they reached the lobby, “I’m going to
clean up my hand, then grab a table.”
“Okay,” she
said, brightening at the idea of running water and some much needed tidying,
“I’ll meet you there.”
Spike nodded,
ducking into the men’s room and leaving her to her freshening.
Buffy tended
matter-of-factly to the necessities, before making her way from the stall to
the sink. Her reflection was wild,
mussed hair and kiss-bruised lips staring back like a neon sign that read,
“Just got laid!”
“Ugh,” she groaned,
swiping at her smudged mascara and raking her fingers through her post-sex
hair.
Okay, a little
better. No way to reapply make-up or
hide the well-kissed bit, but maybe people would just think they’d been
necking. She rolled her eyes. Sure they would.
Hi, I’m Buffy and this is Spike and we
totally did not have sex in his car fifteen minutes ago.
Unexpected,
the truth slammed into her like a freight train and Buffy’s hands tightened on
the counter as she let it sink in. We
really had sex. Spike and I had sex. A few
blinks passed. And it was really
freaking good. Buffy watched herself in
the mirror, waiting for her galloping pulse to slow to a trot.
“I had sex
with Spike,” she confessed in a whisper to her reflection.
Her heart skipped
a few beats. Buffy raised an eyebrow
speculatively, but that was it. Glass
didn’t shatter. The earth did not crack open to swallow her whole. She was still just an ordinary girl in an
ordinary public restroom, albeit one who had seen much better hair days. Okay, maybe this wasn’t going to be so
bad.
With a
determined lift of her chin, she dried her hands and left the bathroom.
She wandered
past the counter, ignoring the men who murmured approvingly as she passed. A little more eager for the security of a
booth, her eyes scanned the restaurant.
Ah, there he was. Hard to miss
with the vicious glaring he was sending in her general direction.
Peachy.
Buffy’s
sighed wearily before approaching the table.
She paused briefly, waiting for a greeting that didn’t arrive. Probably because he was still glaring at the
direction from which she’d come. Why was
this even surprising? The last time they
did something even bordering on sexy, he didn’t speak
with her for weeks. That time they
hadn’t even kissed.
She slipped
into the booth silently, biting back a shriek.
Amazing how cold a vinyl seat could be when you remove an important
layer from your wardrobe. The initial
shock passing, Buffy noticed the soda he’d ordered her.
“Thanks for the drink. Is your hand alright?”
He nodded
absently, his eyes finally dropping back to his menu. She glanced at hers before dropping it on the
table. No sense in pretending to decide. She’d get the Grand Slam, eggs scrambled,
like she always did.
After what
seemed like a month of perusing, he finally put down his menu and glanced
around, apparently more interested in light fixtures and carpet patterns than
speaking with her. Buffy huffed noisily
and took a long drink of her soda, pausing as Spike finally tilted his head in
her general direction.
About time, pal.
A wave of fury
rushed through her as he leaned his head back against the padded bench, eyes
closing with a sigh. Unbelievable!
“Great, so
we’re back to this again?” she snapped, lacking the presence of mind to be
embarrassed by her puerile outburst.
“Back to
what?” he asked, looking genuinely perplexed, and totally exhausted when he
pulled his head up from the bench to gaze at her.
“This!” she
said, waving back and forth wildly between them, “We’re back to the Charlie
Chaplin routine, aren’t we?”
His expression
turned quizzical, “Not sure I follow, pet.”
“You know what
I mean,” she said, flushing as her eyes dropped to the table, “It happened the
last time…”
“…the last
time we shagged in the front of my car?” he supplied, mischief and grouchiness
both dancing in his tone, “Must have missed that, luv. Afraid you’ll have to fill me in.”
Buffy’s ears
burned and she was sure she had to be purple by now. “No,” she whispered, eyes darting nervously
to the tables around them, “And be quiet.
I’m talking about the dirtbike thing.”
“Ah, that,” he
said dismissively and she snorted incredulously.
“Ah, that?” she repeated, “What is that
supposed to mean? Don’t tell me you
don’t remember the whole tickle-fest we shared.
Us in the grass, me straddling you—”
“—I think I
remember a bit of it—
“—you giving
me the silent treatment for weeks on end,” she concluded.
His mouth
twisted in a grimace, “That’s not what’s happening.”
The waitress
arrived then, chewing her gum and writing down their orders on a coffee-stained
pad. She retreated to the beverage
station and Buffy fiddled with a sugar packet, wishing to God she could have
kept her hands to herself earlier.
“Look,” he
said, and the soft rumble of his voice called her like a moth to a flame. He paused, and she looked at him expectantly,
her stomach flipping in ways that had never happened before when she looked at
him. Then again, she could swear he
didn’t have those piercing blue eyes before, either. Stupid Spike eyes. This was all his
fault.
“I’m not
trying to be an ass here, Buffy.
Everything around me is all at sixes and sevens right now,” he said,
looking frustrated, “Tonight…earlier at The Cherry. Look, it’s just not everyday that…” he
trailed off, looking helpless and Buffy’s blood ran cold as realization dawned.
Drusilla.
Angel. How in the hell had she
forgotten about how this had all started?
Oh, that’s right, she’d been a little wrapped up
watching the world revolve around herself.
Shamefaced,
she frowned and Spike rubbed his eyes, “Be a bloody miracle if I ever get this
all sorted.”
“I’m sorry,”
she stammered, the words tumbling awkwardly from her lips, “I didn’t think.”
“Shit. No, that’s not what I meant,” he said,
shaking his head and reaching across the table to thumb the side of her
hand. It sent a little prickly dance
over her whole arm.
“Don’t read
this wrong, luv,” he continued, “I don’t want you to think about that.” A long sigh and his eyes clouded as his voice
dropped, “Hell, I don’t want to think
about that.”
She offered
him a quizzical expression and the waitress returned, setting their plates on
the table and depositing the check as she asked if they needed anything
else. They shook their heads and watched
her galumph away in a swish of greasy polyester.
Buffy returned
her eyes to Spike who was staring hard at some spot over her shoulder. She bit her lip and tried to figure out what
the hell was happening here.
“Tonight….us…it wasn’t about what
happened with Drusilla,” Spike finally continued, “It wasn’t about that at
all. It was something…” he trailed off,
frowning uncertainly, the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks, “I’m just not
sure how to say this, or even whether or not I should.”
Buffy
swallowed her heart, feeling the tides change.
Right here at the Denny’s table, she was going to lose her friend. And not just a friend, he was…well, she
didn’t really know what to call it. But
she knew she didn’t want to lose it.
“Then don’t,”
she rushed, taking advantage of his pause.
“Don’t?”
“Maybe you’re
right,” she said desperately, “Maybe you should just leave it.”
Spike frowned
and she twisted her hands together anxiously, “I mean, we’re good here, aren’t
we?”
“We’re good,”
he repeated with a clipped voice.
“Yeah,” she
said, swallowing hard, “You know, still…” she dropped her gaze to hide the hope
in her eyes, “….friends.”
Spike dropped
his stare to the table and remained silent longer than she thought he was
capable of. Then, just when she’d begun
to think they were back to the silence, he released a sigh that sounded
dangerously close to reluctant.
“Course,” he
said, offering a forced shadow of a smile as he looked at her, “Yeah, we’re
still friends.”
“Okay,” she
said, flashing a brief grin of her own, “Good even.”
Buffy’s smile
faltered, and she snatched her fork, staring at it with intense interest. Spike followed suit, and after a few awkward
bites, she relaxed a bit. She watched
Spike dip his toast in his egg yolks, which was so “ew”, but at least he
couldn’t order some weird English thing like blood pudding. After a few bites of her pancakes, she dipped
her sausage link in the syrup. Twenty
something or not, she wasn’t about to let that childhood habit die. Raising the fork, she licked maple goodness
and promptly blushed to match the ketchup on her hashbrowns when she caught
Spike watching her with a wickedly cocked brow.
His stare oozed with innuendo.
“What?” she
snapped.
“Just
admiring your technique. Is it good?” Spike asked, his innocently curious tone
belied by the bad boy smirk that curled his lips like a warning. Or maybe a promise.
She nodded,
defiantly taking a bite that sent his arched brow impossibly higher. He curled his tongue behind his teeth and
lowered his voice to a purr, “Had anything else good
tonight?”
Buffy’s fork
clattered to the plate, but she retrieved it with what she very much hoped was
an airy roll of her eyes. Digging into
her eggs with gusto, she responded, “This is me pretending that you didn’t
actually speak.”
“I’ll take
that as a yes,” he said, arching a brow cockily.
“You’re —” she
paused, searching for the word, “Incorrigible!”
“No bloody way
you know what that means,” he scoffed, not unkindly.
“Yes I do,”
she sniffed, “I asked
He laughed out
loud, and oh, this time his eyes crinkled and everything. Buffy’s heart lifted in that buoyant way that only hope could create.
Maybe this time sex wouldn’t screw everything up. It was temporary insanity. A momentary lapse of reason
in an otherwise perfect friendship.
Spike snatched one of her sausages audaciously. Link between his teeth, he offered her a
devil’s grin and her belly flipped upside down.
Yeah, tell me another one, Buff.
Spike glanced
down at the blonde snoring softly against his chest and smiled. Of course, she hadn’t started out here. Her eyelids had grown heavy in the Denny’s
parking lot and gravity had been moving her closer ever since. When he’d moved his arm to the top of the
seats, she just slid right onto his chest.
Lucky for him, he thought as she made a sighing noise that got his heart
stuck up beneath his bottom jaw.
Drusilla’s coy smile glimmered in his memory, warning him that the
little twinge he was feeling beneath his ribs wasn’t a good idea.
A bit bloody late for caution, innit?
With a
self-depreciating sigh, he dropped his arm from the headrest to her shoulders,
fingers playing with the soft mess of her curls as he cruised off of the exit
ramp. Home sweet home. Now what the hell were they going to do? Choice left to him, he’d throw her in his bed
wearing absolutely nothing. Wait, no,
maybe his threadbare Sex Pistols concert t-shirt. And they’d stay there for twenty-four hours,
waking only long enough to shag the thoughts of Drusilla and Angel right out of
his head.
Fine plan if
she wasn’t so adamant about the ‘friends’ bit.
Spike shook his head irritably as he pulled into his apartment
complex. The
“Buffy,” he
said, smiling as she snuffled against his shirt, burrowing deeper into his
chest.
“Buffy,” he
repeated, as she lifted her head and rubbed her eyes, “We’re here.”
“Good. Where’s here?” she said, offering him a
sleepy smile that made him want to spout poetry. Jesus, but this girl had him by the short
hairs.
“My place,” he
offered, “I can take you back to
“Here is
good,” she said, peering out of the windows curiously as she yawned, “Anyplace
other than this car is good.”
He turned off
the engine and Buffy scooped her long-since shed boots from the floor onto her
lap. Spike pursed his lips thoughtfully
at the sidewalk outside, which more likely than not sported more than its fair
share of broken glass. Buffy stretched
awkwardly in the cramped cabin and Spike pushed open his door before tugging
her into his arms.
“Lots of ‘Huh?’, here,” Buffy chuckled as he stood up with her in his
arms, kicking the door shut behind them.
“Might be
glass,” he shrugged, hoping his casual tone hid the poncey way his chest
fluttered. She offered him a grateful
smile before dropping her head to his shoulder.
Spike grimaced.
Oh, yeah. By the sodding shorthairs.
***
Spike set her
down on the welcome mat to unlock the door.
Weird that he had a welcome mat.
Heck, weird that he had an apartment.
She’d never really thought about it, but if she had, she would have
guessed he lived in the back of his car or something. Certainly enough crap to fill an apartment
back there.
The door
opened and he stepped inside, flicking on a light before ushering her in. She breathed in the apartment air while he
locked the door behind them, surprised by the presence of some woodsy scent
mingled with smells she already associated with Spike. No smoke, though. Apparently, he always satisfied his nicotine
need in fresh air.
“Uh, kitchen’s
there,” he said, gesturing at the small u-shaped room in front of the
entry.
“The rest is
over here,” he added, meandering left into a living area that boasted a worn
leather couch and a battered recliner that had probably seen its best days in
another century.
“Bathroom and
my room,” he said, pointing at the two doors on the far wall of the living area
as he flicked on a lamp in the living room.
“It’s nice,”
she said, and it really was. The
furniture was sparse, but the walls were sprinkled with neatly framed album
covers. Spike disappeared into his
bedroom, so she busied herself with a vague perusal of his bookshelf. Titles she’d never heard of written by
authors she probably couldn’t pronounce stared back at her. Buffy absently traced a well-creased spine
with her finger while her eyes landed on a mostly burned candle. She sniffed it and lifted her brows
appreciatively. Ergo
the woodsy.
“I don’t
really have any pajamas,” Spike said, announcing his return to the room. Buffy turned to see him standing beside the
couch, shirtless and shoeless in a pair of jogging pants that made her mouth go
dry. He had a pillow and blanket under
one arm and a t-shirt in the other. He
shook the t-shirt and she jerked her eyes away from his chest.
“Will this
do?” he asked.
“That’s
great,” she said, taking it gratefully, “And I can make up the couch for myself
when I get changed.”
“Only a completely worthless git would leave a
lady on a couch while he hogged the bed.
I’ll sleep here.”
“Are you
sure?” she asked through a yawn, exhaustion burning her eyelids and clouding
her efforts at customary courtesy.
“Yeah, I’m
sure,” he said, already divesting the couch of a stack of magazines and CDs,
“Sleep well.”
“You too,” she
said, hoping the rest would do wonders for them both.
Buffy slipped
into the bathroom and scrubbed her face.
She’d ask about a toothbrush in the morning. For now, she just needed a bed before the
bags into her eyes evolved into a nine piece luggage set. She peeled off her clothes, considering
leaving her bra on. Then again, since
the remnants of her panties were wadded in a trash can in a Denny’s bathroom,
keeping it on seemed like a mute point.
She unsnapped it and let it drop to her pile of clothes before sliding
the t-shirt over her head.
The shirt was
butter soft, and emblazoned with the name of some band she’d only heard of
because of Spike. And really, what in
the hell is a Sex Pistol? On second
thought, scratch that question. After a
brief consideration to the shirt’s meager success at covering her bottom, Buffy
rolled her eyes. A bit
late for modesty now.
She left the
bathroom with her club clothes tucked under her arm, noticing the lamp in the
living room was now off, but the light in Spike’s bedroom was left on. Buffy moved quickly into the bedroom,
flicking off the light as soon as she spotted a clear path to the bed. Leaving the door partly opened, she followed
the green glow of the alarm clock readout to the bed. Which was enormous. And had jersey sheets.
Her eyes
drifted around the room as she settled into a pillow that smelled like Spike
and made her feel faintly shivery. Not
much else in the room. And she was too
tired to look at any of it. Her gaze
moved to the open door. Moonlight from the
windows bathed the room and its sole occupant in a luminous glow. She could see him distinctly, arms crossed
behind his head and legs stretched out.
But he wasn’t sleeping. She could
tell by the way he kept shifting uncomfortably.
“Be a miracle if I ever get this
sorted.”
With his
earlier words echoing in her mind, Buffy sighed.
“Spike,” she
called, startling a little at the sound of her own voice in the silence.
Before she
could figure out exactly what she had called him for, he had rustled off the
couch, his dark silhouette now framed in the doorway.
“Yeah, luv?”
he asked, sounding concerned.
Buffy
swallowed her fear and curled her hands in the blankets, “Would you sleep
here? I don’t want to be alone
tonight.” Her eyes closed and her voice
dropped as she added, “And I don’t think you do either.”
After a
stretch of silence interrupted only by the distant hum of the refrigerator, he
spoke, “Sure.”
He retrieved
his pillow from the couch and moved into the room, pushing the door closed and
locking them into the green-tinged darkness together. The fall of his feet was the only sound until
he settled on the other side of the mattress.
Buffy rolled to face him, the silk of the sheets caressing her bare legs
as his head rested on the pillow, his gaze apparently focused on the dark
expanse of ceiling overhead.
Buffy exhaled,
strangely relieved by his presence as she burrowed back into the covers, moving
purposefully towards him until just her head rested against his shoulder. After the tiniest hesitation, he relaxed and
she let her eyes drift closed. It wasn’t
much, but it was the only kind of comfort she could think to offer as she
finally succumbed to her exhaustion.
Indigo
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