A/N: I am an Atheist who wants nothing to do with religion. You will see my views very often throughout this fic, and if you are uncomfortable with it, I suggest you refrain from reading. Don't complain to me. Your faith is your own. If it's not strong enough that I'm able to shake and upset you, that is not my problem.
Buffy Summers sighed, tears building behind her eyes as she played with the hem of her sun dress. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere - a Christian Summer Camp, to be exact - when she could be spending her summer vacation hanging out with her friends. Instead, her parents had taken the time to notice that she'd been skipping out on Sunday masses to bake with one of her best friends, Willow. She'd been getting really good, and it was always fun to have someone to trade baking formulas with. The Sunday before her parents had sent her off, she'd learned how to make a proof box by putting the slow-rising dough in a slightly heated oven, thus accelerating the rising process. It was challenging trying to keep the temperature in check, but the overall outcome had been fantastic.
It had been three days since her arrival and she hated it already. Her father, Hank, was a minister at their local church and knew a couple counselors in Camp Christ Our Savior. They'd made it known that she was under constant surveillance, and just the fact that her father was a minister had them thinking that she above everyone else would enjoy participating in bible readings and the 'fun' activities that accompanied it.
And she'd made it known, very vehemently in fact, that she would rather clean the toilets than read anything from the gospel.
And that was what she was doing now - or at least what she should be doing. The counselor, Harmony Kendall, had not been very amused by Buffy's attitude and so she sent her to the lavatories.
"For spiritual guidance," she'd said snootily, tossing her blonde hair behind her shoulder. "Maybe you'll find the Lord in one of the toilet bowls and finally accept him as your Lord and savior. Flush away your fears and doubts!"
Buffy sat with the pair of rubber gloves Harmony'd given her resting across her knees, her cheek in her hand and her chin quivering. She honestly didn't give a care about religion, and she didn't understand why her parents felt the need to push it on her. She didn't find spiritual comfort or guidance in going to church and sitting and standing and making her knees hurt from chafing them on the harsh, carpeted kneelers.
And she had a feeling that she wouldn't be finding spiritual comfort or guidance in a toilet bowl either.
Buffy snorted in derision as tears made their way down her cheeks.
She suddenly looked up at the sound of the thumbwheel on a lighter. Above her, a platinum blond man with crystal blue eyes hovered. He took a pull of a long black cigarette, and Buffy watched as the ember grew brighter.
"Why the tears?" he asked on exhale, smoke escaping from his mouth and nostrils. Buffy noticed his British accent.
Buffy snorted and eyed the pair of rubber gloves, clenching her fists angrily. "One of the counselors told me I might find Jesus in a toilet stall. What a waste of a perfectly good summer."
The young man smiled, tossing his cigarette and sitting down beside her. "I think I like you already."
Buffy smiled, then sniffed the air. She stared at his cigarette, lying forgotten on the dirt floor. "Those are Cloves, aren't they? My dad smokes them on occasion. Must have a lot of cash to blow if you toss them away like that."
He smiled. "It's not mine, anyway. I stole it from one of the ministers when he wasn't looking."
She laughed. "You don't think sins are doubled around here, do you?"
"What, you mean like driving above the designated speed limit in a construction zone?" he chortled. "What's your name?"
"Buffy. And yours?"
"Spike."
She raised her eyebrows.
"I won't say anything about your name if you don't say anything 'bout mine."
Buffy smiled, suddenly feeling shy in the presence of this handsome young man. "Deal."
He raised his rear off the cement to dig into his pocket, producing a ratty pile of cards. He raised his eyebrows invitingly.
She giggled. "Sure."
"Does it say anything about gambling in the Bible?" he asked mockingly.
Buffy reached into the pocket of her thin hoodie, taking out a bag of Skittles. "Dunno. Wanna use these as chips?"
He nodded, watching as she spilled some of the candies out between them. "So what's your story?"
"It's a bit weird, actually. I want to pursue baking and I used to skip Sunday masses to go to my friend's house to bake. We did it every Sunday. My parents found out and thought my baking hobby was distracting me from praising God."
Spike giggled. "Baking? That's a hoot."
She popped a green Skittle into her mouth. "What about you?"
"I've been here for three straight summers." When Buffy's jaw dropped, he nodded and winced. "I guess it's about the same. Parents always pushing religion on me. Was into a lot of Skinhead bands, so that automatically caused some alarm. But you see, not all Skinheads are racist. Actually, some of 'em are downright hippies. And that's the kind of stuff that I was into, but m'parents twisted it round, read too much into things."
"Wow," Buffy said quietly. "Three consecutive summers? That kinda sucks."
Spike laughed dryly. "Tell me about it."
"I think that task is yours alone," she giggled, accepting the cards he dealt her. She looked up at him in wonder. "Why haven't you done something about it, though? I mean, you look like you're a bit older than me… Couldn't you have gotten a job? Moved out?"
"I'm twenty. And I guess this is my own masochistic way of trying to show my parents that I love them," he said, scratching at the back of his neck, his embarrassment plain. "I've rebelled in so many other ways when I was younger. I think they're trying to put me in line by doing this, and honestly, I think it's funny. They're wastin' so much money on me, tryin' to make me believe in some higher being."
Buffy pursed her lips. "I'm seventeen. My mom was against me going, but my dad is the man of the house." She rolled her eyes. "And he's also one of the ministers of the local parish. He expected better from his daughter, I guess."
Spike nudged her with his shoulder, giving her a soft smile that made killer butterflies gnaw at her stomach and a blush form on her cheeks. "You know, I'm pretty close with the cook around here. Maybe we could get him to lend you the kitchen one of these days."
Buffy grinned widely. "Really?"
He nudged her again, smirking. "Yeah. Why the hell not?"
"That'd be great," she said excitedly, bouncing in her spot on the cement stairs. "It's really boring out here."
"Yeah, it is." He leered at her. "Wanna make out?"
Buffy felt her face grow hot as her blush deepened. "Um--"
He shot her a lethal grin, then took her hand and got up, dragging her to places unknown. "Come with me."
"Spike, I don't think this is such a good idea," Buffy whispered as they tiptoed to the staff's lounge in the main building.
He grinned at her. "Which is exactly why it's such a great idea," he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. He tried the knob before pushing the door open, finding the lounge to be empty. It was bible study hour and all staff aside from the secretary was in the chapel, overseeing their sheep. "You learn a couple things when you stay here three summers in a row."
Buffy raised her eyebrows. "And what's that?" she whispered.
Spike grinned as he opened the mini fridge. "Father Snyder really likes his blueberry pie."
Buffy's eyes widened at the five boxes of blueberry pie stacked and cramped into the fairly large mini fridge. Spike took a box and dragged her outside again, this time near the lake where recreational activities were held every afternoon after lunch.
"We don't have eating utensils," Buffy said, frowning.
"We've got hands, don't we?" Spike chuckled. He pointed to the lake. "And the lake's a public washroom if I ever saw one."
Buffy watched as Spike opened the box and dug his hand into the pie and unceremoniously shoved the handful of graham cracker crust and blueberry currant in his mouth. She grinned and followed suit.