Chapter Twelve - How Can You Do This Thing to Me?
Spike sighed as he lay in Buffy's koala-like grip. She had her arms around his torso and her legs wrapped around his legs. It was a wonderful place to be, lying underneath the Slayer.
Except for the fact that she was drunk and would undoubtedly kill him in the morning.
At some point, Spike would have to find a way to get out of Buffy's arms and as far away as possible. He would also have to make sure to hide all of his stakes and wooden furniture. He didn't want Buffy to be able to get her hands on any weapons that could kill him.
"Mmm," Buffy groaned, shifting. Her leg rubbed against Spike's growing erection. He stifled a moan. He had to get out of the bed sooner rather than later, or he might end up doing something he would regret. Like jerking off next to Buffy. That would be a huge mistake.
"Mmm… Spike…" Buffy mumbled. Spike froze. Buffy clutched Spike's duster even tighter. Damn. Wriggling his way out would be even harder now.
"You've gotta let go, pet," Spike whispered. Buffy didn't respond. But her grip on his body had loosened slightly, so Spike was able to slip out of his duster and out of Buffy's arms.
Buffy made a displeased noise and clutched the duster to her chest. "That's something I never thought I'd see," Spike muttered to himself. "The bloody Slayer cuddling with my duster. The world's gone topsy-turvy, it has." Buffy didn't respond, but for to grip the duster a bit tighter. Spike sighed, pulling the blanket up over her. Even though the California weather was ridiculous for the end of December, Spike's crypt was a bit chilly. Buffy nestled in under the blanket, still not letting go of Spike's duster.
Spike slipped out of the bedroom to retrieve another bottle of whiskey. He had been lying when he told Buffy that he was out, of course. But he couldn't in good conscience allow Buffy to drink even more than what she had already had.
God, since when did Spike have a conscience to deal with? The whole good-guy thing was a pain. But then again, if Spike were still a villain, the events of that night never would have happened. And Spike had to admit - to himself only; he would never tell anyone else - that he had had a nice night. Despite the fact that he was almost certainly going to be staked when Buffy woke up, the night itself had been nice.
"I'm bloody head-over-heels, I am," Spike muttered to himself. "I need to get a bloody grip." But that was easier said than done, especially when Buffy was sleeping in the next room over and-
Spike took a big sip of the whiskey. Thinking about Buffy was a bad idea. Spike didn't need another Cecily, which is what would happen if he said anything to Buffy about his feelings for her. The only difference would be that Cecily didn't kill him when he admitted he was in love with her. It felt like she had, yeah, but she hadn't actually done it.
Spike could still picture Cecily perfectly in his head. He could see her beautiful dark hair, her pale skin, the way she would look in her lovely ball gowns… But when he thought of love, her face wasn't the one that came to mind. Instead, he saw tanned skin and blonde hair and classy-yet-formfitting clothing. Cecily wasn't the woman he loved anymore; instead, it was Buffy.
"Why the hell can't I just go back to being evil and run off with Drusilla again?" Spike groaned to himself. But the thought of having the chip out and being with Drusilla wasn't nearly as appealing as it used to be. The chip really wasn't that bad. It had helped Spike out with Tara when her family came around, and it really wasn't that big a hassle if Spike couldn't kill humans.
"What sort of vampire am I?" Spike asked himself. Not even wanting to kill humans? That was ridiculous. It was unheard of for a vampire, if you discounted Angel and his stupid soul. At least Spike still hated Angel. That was a constant, no matter how many other things were weird.
"I wonder if Buffy would love me if I had a soul," Spike mused. He stopped himself right there, taking another big sip of the whiskey. Thinking about getting a soul was going too far. Spike was a vampire, goddamn it, even if he wasn't a very good one. He wasn't going to go off and get a soul. Especially not to get in some girl's pants.
Except Buffy wasn't just "some girl." She was Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer extraordinaire and perhaps the most perfect girl Spike had ever met in around a hundred and fifty years of wandering the earth. And Spike didn't just want to get in her pants. He wanted more than that. He wanted love and compassion between them. He wanted an actual relationship, with trust and loyalty and all of the other things that went along with it.
"Get a bloody grip, William!" Spike scolded, smacking himself in the head. He was being ridiculous. No matter whether or not he got a soul, Buffy still wouldn't love him. She was a being of light, whereas Spike was a creature of darkness.
"She'll never have me," Spike told himself firmly. "She'll never be mine and I'll never be hers. So I should just stop thinking about it." Spike took a long sip of the whiskey. He had to stop thinking about Buffy. There would never be anything between them, no matter how much Spike hoped. He had to stop thinking about Buffy.
The whole not-thinking-about-Buffy thing lasted for about five minutes. At that point, Spike swore, put away the whiskey, and slipped back into his bedroom. Buffy was still there, snuggling up with Spike's duster. "Still can't believe you're doing that, pet," Spike muttered. Then he settled down into an armchair.
He would leave before Buffy awoke, if only so she wouldn't be able to stake him immediately, but for the time being, he would just sit and watch the Slayer sleep.
