"Aftermath" by MK.
Notes: Takes place directly after "Slayer, Vampire, and Witch"; you should probably read that before reading this. All characters (except Fiona) belong to Joss Whedon.
Rating: PG-13 for language and romantic tension.
Fiona Gavin yanked open the door of the mausoleum, helping Spike over the threshold. "Y' have a switchblade?"
The bleached-blond vampire cast a sideways glance at her as she kicked the door closed, surprised that she'd even asked.
She glanced pointedly at the tip of the iron rod, protruding from the right side of his chest, then his black T-shirt. "Unless y' like the 'rip-'n'-tear' look, don't think y'll be wearin' that shirt again."
He growled in annoyance, then nodded to a corner of the room. "'S in the chest, there."
She left him leaning against a wall of the crypt. She carefully moved the black duster from his arms and shoulders, taking it off the rod's length and throwing it on his chair. She then rummaged in the chest until she found a handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Depressing the button, she tested the blade's sharpness with her thumb. She was surprised to find it like a razor.
She went back to Spike, who faced the wall, braced against it with his arms. "Now, stay still." With practice born of intricate work, she delicately pulled the shirt away from the wound and sliced down. She tore the cotton until his pale, well-muscled back was exposed. Sidling to his front, facing him, she found herself between his arms. She looked down to concentrate on doing it again, catching Spike's eye.
"Careful, Red," he cautioned wryly. "Don't wanna nick me, do ya?"
"Me nickin' y' is the least o' yer problems," she replied in the same wry tone. She glanced up briefly to give him a reassuring smile, and carefully cut the shirt away, leaving his chest bare.
After a few more slices, Fiona brushed the now-ruined garment from his shoulders, and had to close her eyes briefly to drive away what she was thinking of doing to that chest. Concentrate on gettin' that rod outta him, she chided herself. She ducked under his arm again until she faced the iron embedded in his back.
She never saw Spike smiling to himself as he caught a whiff of her scent. He actually excited her! He was surprised and amused, but drove it from his mind for now. His hands caught hold of the iron ring bolted to the wall.
"Y' ready?" she asked.
"Not really," he replied. "But go ahead, anyway."
"Hang on, then." She took a firm hold of the rod, her foot against the small of his back, and pulled with all her strength.
He grunted as it moved inside him, grazing several bones and useless organs that he was still very attached to. As it came out completely, wrenching another cry from his throat, he felt his knees go weak and his head spin from the pain.
The rod clattered to the stone floor as she dropped it, quickly supporting his weight as his legs gave out. "C'mon, William, don't pass out on me," she urged, trying to keep him conscious. She led him to his chair, sitting him on the edge, and applied gauze and surgical tape to the wounds. "Y' should keep off that side 'til y' heal."
"Fat lot o' good it's gonna do me, anyway," Spike grumbled, trying to will away the stars behind his eyes.
"Where's it?"
"What?" he asked irritably.
"Yer blood supply, idjit." Spike looked at her, bemused, causing her to sigh in exasperation. "Blood'll help y' heal, won't it?"
"Yeah." He winced in pain. "Ran out. Was gonna get more when I ran int' ya t'night."
"Time fer drastic measures, then." Clearing the still-open switchblade of any leftover fibers, she cut a line into the heel of her left hand. She looked up to see him looking at her with wide, surprised eyes, making her laugh. "Y've been a vamp fer over a century, William. Y' can't be squeamish at th' sight o' blood."
"I'm not," he replied. "Just didn't 'spect ya t' slice open yer hand." In fact, even though he wouldn't admit it, it touched him that she had wounded herself to feed him. Even from a few feet away, he could smell the warmth bleeding from her hand.
Fiona stepped toward him, catching the hunger in his eyes before he could close them. "C'mon," she said. "Drink b'fore it starts t' clot."
But a horrible thought forced him to hesitate. What if the chip didn't recognize that he wasn't hurting her and activated?
She sighed and forced the issue by pressing the wound to his mouth, ordering, "Drink, William, now."
He felt the blood seep into his mouth, then grabbed her hand and suckled on it, holding onto it as if it were a lifeline. She rubbed her forearm to keep the blood flowing. The taste of her blood actually reflected her: sweetness and light, like a special vintage of wine. It had seemed like ages since he actually tasted warm, human blood. He began to purr like a content jungle cat.
She looked at him curiously, wondering about the rumbling sounds in his throat, then concentrated very hard on her arm as she realized what it was. God, please, she prayed, don't let me regret this. She couldn't help but smile at his closed eyes, feeling his tongue gently probe the cut. He actually looked—dare she even think it?—cute.
What is wrong wi' me? she berated herself. How can I even think that about a vampire?! An' not just any vampire, but William the damned Bloody!
She snapped out of her thoughts when his head fell forward into her palm. She knelt before him. "William?"
He half-opened his eyes lazily, as if he were drugged or drunk, a smile briefly touching his lips. "Gonna fall asleep on ya, Fee."
"Let's getcha t' bed, then." Taking his arm, she guided him to the double bed and laid him down. "Remember, rest."
He nodded faintly before falling asleep.
Fiona looked at him for a few long moments, watching the last century melt from his face as he slept. How could such a handsome, innocent-looking man be a soulless killer?
Wait . . . handsome . . . innocent-lookin' . . . William?! Ugh, get out, Fiona, now.
She had her hand on the door, ready to go and check on Buffy's condition. She made the mistake of looking back.
Spike was half-covered with sheets, curled up on his undamaged side, purring like an outboard motor. Fiona turned around and walked back to the bed. Y're insane, Fiona, completely. Even as the thought passed through her mind, she lowered her head, her lips gently touching his forehead. He didn't even stir.
Y're completely outta yer mind. No question.
Again, she never saw him smile faintly, even as he slept.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
What's the matter wi' me? she asked herself. She'd had carnal thoughts about a vampire! That had never happened before. Well, she thought, Buffy did fall in love wi' Angel—
All other thoughts flew out of her head as she was rammed into a tall headstone, close to the mausoleum where she'd left Spike only moments before. She looked to see a blonde vampiress, who had her pinned by the shoulder. "What are you doing with my boyfriend?" she snarled.
"Harmony, I presume?" Fiona choked out.
"Yes," the blonde said testily. "Answer me!"
"What I'm doin' is savin' his life." She forcibly pried the offending hand from her shoulder. "A demon jumped him an' rammed a rod through 'im."
Harmony's face turned from that of an angered demon to the face of an anguished teenage girl. "Oh my god. Is he—?"
"He's hurtin', but he'll be all right. Y'll need t' get some pints o' blood fer him, human's best, until he heals completely. An' keep 'im off his bad side 'til then. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Good." Fiona hadn't wanted to repeat herself, grateful that the bubblehead had at least concentrated. Fiona turned to walk away when Harmony grabbed her again.
"Why don't I just have you for a bedtime snack?" she asked, vamping out again.
Fiona smiled knowingly. "'Cause Spike owes me one, an' he knows it. Think he'd be upset if y' killed me before he settled the debt."
Harmony snarled, letting her go. "The second he says, I will kill you."
"Wouldn't expect anythin' less."
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Giles was worried, even though he knew he should not be. Buffy had gotten to his home, covered in fresh wounds and bruises, and told him where Fiona was, or should be. He was relieved to see the familiar flash of red-and-gold hair in his doorway. "Fiona!" He caught her in a fierce hug, crushing the air from her lungs a third time in as many hours.
"Rupert," she choked out, "glad t' see y' too, but I can't breathe."
Giles released her and led her to the sofa where Buffy sat. "Are you all right? Buffy told me you were with Spike, that he was damaged."
"Right on both counts." Fiona allowed herself to sink into the cushions, supporting her suddenly weary bones. "It's nothin' a bit o' rest an' a few pints won't fix. Meantime," she turned to face Buffy. "Y' okay?"
Buffy smiled. "Yeah. Quick healing in a Slayer's always a good thing." She looked down to see the long, narrow cut healing on her friend's hand. "Speaking of damage—"
Fiona followed her gaze, shrugged. "It's nothin'. I've actually had 'n' seen worse."
Buffy closed her eyes at the familiarity of the words. Riley's words, right before her mother had gone into the hospital.
Fiona caught the eyes, the scrunched-up expression of pain. Her injured hand closed over the Slayer's. "I'm sorry."
The blonde shook her head. "It's okay."
"Did that happen when you went back for Spike?" Giles asked.
Fiona shook her head, her face turning red. "After. His blood supply was gone."
Buffy's eyes snapped open to look at her incredulously. "You actually fed him?!"
"Yeah. It seemed only fair in return fer his help, even if the reason he gave me fer goin' after y' was skewed."
"Skewed how?" Giles asked.
"He told me Glory'd caused him trouble, and he wanted to get back at her for it. But I knew he was lyin'. He helped us fer his own reasons."
"Bad enough when we know what Spike's thinking," Buffy muttered.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
The next afternoon, Spike was downing his third bag of blood, which Harmony had pilfered from the local bank. Fiona had been correct in her assessment of his injuries; he already felt like a new vampire.
He was surprised to hear a polite knock on his door. He opened it to see his self-appointed red-haired angel standing there.
Fiona smiled. "Y' look better."
Spike gave her the cocky half-smile. "Feel the same way." He stepped aside to let her in.
She took a quick glance around, noting at last that he had some small taste in second-hand furniture, and turned to face him again. "Wanted t' see how y' were."
He hopped up on the closed sarcophagus to sit cross-legged. "Well, as ya see."
"Yeah." She cautiously approached him. "An' I—wanted t' thank y', fer yer help. Don't think I could've gotten Buffy away from Glory wi'out y'."
Spike felt something stir inside him. Not once had Buffy or her little Scooby Gang actually said "thank you" before the previous night. As Fiona had said it again, he felt . . . he wasn't sure what this feeling was.
As he hesitated, Fiona tried to keep her own impulses in check. The thoughts and feelings that had rushed through her the night before hadn't faded. Before she could stop herself, before he could react, she pressed her lips to his.
He flinched slightly at the warm contact. He had dreamt of kissing Buffy (and doing considerable more than just kissing), but the real Fiona—this was something else. He kissed her back despite himself, breathing in the smell of her skin, her rose perfume, her balsam-washed hair.
She felt his chill skin warm to her touch. She could still taste the copper of his breakfast on his mouth, the peroxide that permeated his hair faintly assaulting her nostrils.
All too soon, she tore herself away, her amber eyes widening in shock as they met the storm-dark blue of his. Did I do that?! she thought. What it in God's name possessed me? But she hadn't wanted to stop.
What the hell just happened? Spike thought as she backed away from him, almost fearful. He replayed it in his mind, incredulous. The bit of pheromonal flirtin' was one thing, but this . . . And he wanted to keep kissing her.
"I'm sorry," she breathed at last. "Don't know what I was thinkin'. 'Bye, William." She darted away, closing the door behind her, before she could do anything more. Or something she would regret.
Before he could move, she had disappeared into the sunlight. He let out a roar of frustration, sending his lamp crashing into the far wall of the crypt. "What is it with me?!" he asked aloud. "First the Slayer, now the Irish witch." Either he was getting soft, or his taste had seriously degraded.
So why couldn't he get either of them out of his mind now?
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Fiona pounded on the punching bag suspended from the ceiling. Giles had allowed her to use the training room in the Magic Box while Buffy convalesced a little longer. She was grateful; she had a lot to work out in her mind.
And her heart.
Jab, jab, hook, uppercut, roundhouse. She recounted the punches as she did them, trying to stay focused on the mechanics of each move. But other images leaked through her façade of concentration.
Spike's eyes . . . his look of rapture as he drank from her . . . the feel of his mouth on hers . . .
"Stop it!" she hissed to herself. As if to counteract the thoughts, her strikes became harder and more vicious. Soon, she gave up, leaning her head against the bag and catching her breath. "What'm I doin'?" she asked aloud.
"My question 'xactly."
Fiona whirled around, her breath catching in her throat. "William! It's still daylight; how'd y' get here?"
Spike held up the dark blanket he'd used to cover himself outside, then dropped it to the floor and folded his arms. "What are ya playin' at, Fiona?"
"Don't know what y're talkin' about."
"How's this? You help me, ya cut yer hand t' feed me, ya kiss me—twice—an' run like a scared rabbit."
"Y' were awake?! Y' were supposed t' be asleep when I kissed y' last night!"
"I was asleep, but I felt it." He walked toward her slowly. She couldn't help but notice the fluid grace of his movements. "An' ya got excited last night; could smell it on ya. Ya wanted me."
Fiona blushed furiously, torn between hitting him and kissing him. She whirled around again, slamming her fist into the bag. She resumed her workout, ignoring Spike as he continued his approach.
He circled the bag until it was between them. "Why don't ya face me, not the bag?"
"I prefer m' opponents able t' fight back," she got out between breaths. Yeah, take that.
He ignored the attempt to goad him and began to echo her movements, the bag swinging back and forth with each blow. "I mean, I don't blame ya fer wantin' me," he went on. "I haven't needed a mirror fer over a century, but I think I'm still a good-lookin'—"
He was cut off as she let out a strangled scream, dodging around the bag and barreling into him. Caught off guard, he stumbled onto the tumbling mat, gasping as Fiona sat on top of him. Her eyes were amber fire, a mix of anger, embarrassment, and lust. She raised her fist, ready to catch him across the jaw.
Spike caught her wrist, rolling until he had her on her back, straddling her body. He gently pinned her so she couldn't hurt him or herself. Diving in fast, he caught her lips in a kiss, smothering another cry of rage.
Fiona struggled at first, mewling in protest, before she relaxed against him. She moaned as his tongue entered her mouth to duel with hers. His hands released her arms; one supported his weight so he wouldn't crush her, the other cradling the back of her head. Her own hands interlaced behind his neck, pulling his mouth down harder on hers. For long moments, they were lost in each other, pressed together intimately.
Eventually, the kiss broke off, leaving Fiona gulping in air. Spike seemed almost breathless himself as he rested his forehead on hers, his eyes closed.
She dragged her eyes open, whispering, "Were y' kissin' me, 'r Buffy?"
His eyes snapped open as he scrambled off and away from her, shock and something bordering on betrayal registering on his face. "H-how—? Ya saw—?"
"Didn't need m' second sight t' know, William." She sat up, repositioning her legs so they were crossed. "Just m' first. Y' went mad, goin' after Glory the way y' did last night. The only other time y' might've acted like that would've been 'round Drusilla. Y' wouldn't've acted that way if y' didn't care 'bout Buffy."
Spike's face hardened, his jaw setting. "Ya gonna tell 'er?" he demanded, half-afraid she'd say yes.
But she shook her head. "No. It's no' m' secret t' tell. It's yers." She smiled gently. "I'm many thin's, William, but a snitch isn't one of 'em." She climbed to her feet, holding her hand out to him.
He took it, pulling himself to his feet. His eyes gazed into hers. "Then—what happ'ned with us—"
"Will stay b'tween us," she interrupted. "If y' don't see me as a potential involvement, I'd consider us friends." Her little smile turned wry. "If y' weren't a soulless, murderin' bastard."
"An' maybe if you weren't a know-it-all little mick witch," he countered with his own wry smile.
And the tentative truce was struck between vampire and demon huntress.
TO BE CONTINUED