.
"Why didn't you tell me you can't drive?" Spike bellowed.
"I did!" Buffy said. "I told you I didn't have a driver's license!"
She wasn't sure who was shaking more – her or Spike.
"And it's not my fault! Nobody could drive this dinosaur of a car with only a tiny patch of windshield to navigate through!"
"I manage just fine! And it's a good thing my baby's a classic. Solid American steel saved us both from being nothing more than greasy splotches thanks to your complete incompetence!"
"I am not incompetent! And I can too drive!" Buffy said. Whether or not she could was irrelevant at this point. "But not with no way to see, and not when I'm exhausted, and not when I'm -" She bit off her final point, not willing to admit that she was so hungry she was ready to faint.
Buffy tightened her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, willing back tears borne of embarrassment and exhaustion and hunger, and, yes, fear. She would not cry in front of Spike.
Spike had been draped over the back of the front seat, caught between avoiding stray sunlight from the smashed driver's side window and trying to grab the wheel away from her. Now he heaved himself the rest of the way into passenger side of the front seat. With muttered curses and smoking hands, he reached over and peeled her fingers off the steering wheel one by one, and then glared at her, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.
Buffy continued to stare straight ahead, swallowing hard. Her hands shook, and she stuffed them into her lap, right as her stomach growled loud and long.
"What's wrong?" Spike said. He sniffed at her, brow furrowing. "Why are you crying? Are you hurt?"
"I'm not crying," Buffy said, "And, duh, yes I'm hurt. I've been hurt ever since I saved your sorry ass from that stupid demon – biggest mistake of my life, I might add – and, hey, let's not forget you trying to kill me."
"Good times," he said with a half-hearted leer. "But that's not -" Her stomach growled again, and he narrowed his gaze. "Oh, bloody hell, you stupid chit. Why didn't you say something?"
"About what?" Buffy said between clenched teeth.
Spike rolled his eyes skyward. "Find some way to cover that window." He clambered into the back and huddled under his coat, cursing all the while.
"NOW!" he said, when she didn't move.
Buffy wrenched her door open, using Slayer force to counteract the inward dent the pole had made. More glass showered to the ground with a tinkling noise. She climbed out and shook the glass out of her clothes, blinking hard. She would not cry.
They weren't quite to the onramp, not more than a half-mile from the gas station, but Spike was as stranded as if they were in the middle of the desert. At least the engine hadn't suffered any damage, only the door – and window. Buffy peered ahead to the highway and the cars whizzing past, then at the now-bent pole she hadn't been able to see through the blacked-out windows, and then the skid marks the car had left when she'd turned too hard and spun out. She shivered, thankful it hadn't been worse. Whatever Spike said, she was pretty sure the accident wasn't completely her fault; after all, she'd managed to drive that far without losing control despite the odds stacked against her.
Either way, it had happened, and now she had to deal with it. It wouldn't take her long to walk back to the gas station, but she didn't know what would happen if she left Spike alone. Some curious passerby might accidentally incinerate him, or worse, get eaten for their good Samaritanism.
Another wave of dizziness hit her. "Have you got something in the trunk I can use?" she called to him, forcing her voice even.
Spike grumbled some more before telling her to pop it open and have a look for herself. It took several increasingly frustrated directions on his part before she figured out where the release was, and by the time she had it open, she was more than ready to stuff him into the trunk alongside with what looked like years and years of accumulated junk.
"God, do you ever clean this thing out?" she said, poking around cautiously. For all she knew, there could be a dead body somewhere in there. The trunk was certainly big enough to hold several. Shifting a few unidentifiable objects revealed an old, tattered blanket. Buffy dumped out a box of creepy porcelain dolls and grabbed the box and the blanket, and a roll of duct tape that she really, really didn't want to question the original purpose of too closely.
When she'd finished with the repair job, it wasn't pretty, but it would keep Spike un-crispy for the time being. "You can come out now," she said as she slid over to the passenger side of the front seat.
Spike emerged from beneath his protective cocoon and vaulted into the front. He eyed her handiwork with distaste. "You owe me a new door."
Anybody else, and she'd be apologizing until the end of time, but this was Spike. She refused to apologize as a matter of principle. "How about I don't kill you and we call it even!" she said in her perkiest voice.
"I'd say the same, but I'm not so sure keeping you around is worth the trouble."
Buffy reached for the door handle. "Good luck with your demon, then."
"Yeah? Well, same to you, Summers. Good luck finding something to eat, too. Or getting back home again."
She paused her dramatic exit, but only so she could glare at him. It had nothing to do with how faint she felt. "You know, just because you're an evil monster, it doesn't mean that you have to be so -"
"What? Evil? I'm not some bad boy with a secret heart of gold, sweetheart. I am a monster, and I like it. But: since my own skin's important to me, I can't have you dying just yet." With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. "Let's get some food in you, yeah?"
"You have money?" she said, taken aback. "For what?"
"For when it's easier than causing a scene."
"Okay, how did you get money?"
"Found it on the side of the road," Spike said with a smirk.
Buffy narrowed her eyes. "Fine," she said, and settled into the seat, arms crossed over her chest. Maybe it was dirty money, but she couldn't afford to be anything more than practical just now, and she doubted whomever he'd taken it from had use for it any longer. And maybe he really had found it, though she wouldn't bet even Principal Snyder's life on it.
Spike nodded approvingly, which gave her second thoughts about practical decisions. Anything a demon approved of had to be the wrong choice. But before she could change her mind, he'd started the car – come on baby, yeah, that's my girl, that nasty Slayer didn't hurt you too badly did she – and roared back towards the gas station they'd left only a little bit ago.
Parked in the deep shade once more, up tight against the back of the building, he thrust the wad of cash into her hands. "Get whatever you need. Doubtful they'll have blood for me, but see what you can scare up. Get me a bottle of something strong and a pack of smokes while you're at it – not those nancy menthols, though."
"You do realize I'm not 18 yet?" Buffy said, shoving the money, which she was glad to see wasn't literally bloody at least, in her pants pocket.
"Yeah, and?"
"I can't buy you booze. Or cigarettes. And you're not going to be drinking and driving anyway."
"Well aren't you the goody-goody?"
"Part of the Slayer package." Buffy hopped out of the car and all but ran for the front of the store. Food, glorious food…
Okay, so it was rest stop food, but still. Food.
Spike eyed her bulging grocery bags with an amused snort when she returned to the car. "Planning to get fat on my dime, I see."
"Fast metabolism," she said, and chugged the last of her orange juice. "Here." She reached into one of the bags and pulled out a small package of raw ground beef she'd found in the refrigerated section. "This has blood in it, right?"
"Sure, and a cup of mud has water in it."
"Well maybe the next city we hit will have a butcher," Buffy said. "Until then…"
Spike reached for the beef, and she held it out to him. But he didn't take it; instead, his fingers caressed the underside of her wrist, so delicately it was almost a tickle.
She stared up at him, eyes wide. "What the hell?" she said, too shocked to yank her hand away.
"Or," he said, his voice a low, seductive burr, his eyelids at half-mast. He bit his lip, playfully, and drew her wrist closer, tracing the veins with one fingertip. "You could let me have a little nibble."
Spike's every word, his every movement and hooded glance dripped seduction, and Buffy found herself leaning closer despite her utter loathing for him. Her breath caught, and she swallowed hard. The interior of the car seemed too small, too warm, his eyes too smoky in the dim light.
Obviously her food had been drugged. It was the only explanation. Or – maybe he had a thrall? Like Drusilla? She dragged her gaze away from his way-too-penetrating eyes and snatched her hand back, breathing rapidly.
"Don't. Ever. Touch me. Again," she ground out.
She saw him shrug out of the corner of her eye. "Can't blame a fellow for trying," he said, and picked up the package of beef from where she'd dropped it, all businesslike, as if the last few seconds had never happened. "I need at least a few hours of shut-eye before I'm ready to drive, and since it's obvious you won't be driving my car – ever again – I suggest you either get some sleep too, or go find a way to amuse yourself elsewhere."
"Fine," Buffy said, all too happy to get away from him. How she was supposed to amuse herself with nothing but a small gas station and miles of emptiness in all directions, she didn't know, but anything was better than being in the car with him a second longer after – that – had happened. "What time you want me to wake you up?" she said, still keeping her gaze averted.
Spike tipped his head back, as if judging the position of the sun. "The shade here should last a good five hours. I'll be ready to go then."
She faced him then. "Five hours?" Five hours doing nothing?
"I'm still healing, pet," he said, scratching at the ropy, angry scar around his neck. "Now, if you want to change your mind and offer up some of your blood, speed the process along…?"
"Five hours is great," she said and leapt out of the car as if afraid it was about to explode, slamming the door on his low chuckle.
The next five hours were going to be just fantastic.
.