A/N: This is the companion/continuation fic to my other story 'Someone Who Understands'. I could have just continued 'SWU' instead of starting a whole new fic, but I wanted to pull a kind of tabula rasa (hehe) so I could start over with some things. First of all, I wanted to change tenses. Secondly, the characterizations in 'SWU' were sort of weak-- I have the tendency to romanticize and water down my characters. Unfortunately, this is a mistake that becomes *especially* apparent when writing Spike and Anya, so I was kind of unhappy with how they turned out in the other fic. Hopefully this time around I won't be so God damn sentimental and I'll be able to write a good quality story. So please let me know how my characterizations are doing! Also, if you don't feel like reading all ten chapters of 'Someone Who Understands', just read the last two and you'll get the setup for this fic. Thanks and enjoy :O)
Disclaimer: You know the drill. Joss, ME, Fox, all them people. Lucky bastards.
Distribution: Someone Who Understands (http://spankya.homestead.com) and Too Hot (http://toohot.homestead.com) if Emily wants it. Anyone else is free to take it, just try and let me know so I can visit it :O) iNDiECHiCK5@aol.com
There are times when Spike hates the fact that he's nocturnal. Take *now* for example: his body is buzzing and crackling with predatory energy, but if he were anymore tired mentally, he thinks he'd bloody well be in a coma. He's exhausted from driving two full days and a night straight out of Sunnydale, stopping only for food and to refill the gas tank. He doesn't know what made him distance himself so far from the Hellmouth before taking a break; he doesn't want to feel like he's running away. Staying and fighting was a much more appealing option than leaving, but he realizes that the fight would have ended in death for *someone*. He would have had to leave anyway. He begrudgingly accepts that it's probably better this way-- at least he's got Anya with him.
He stops pacing for a moment and stands, watching her as she sleeps in the queen-sized bed that takes up most of their $30 per-night motel room. She's got the ratty gray-and-slate comforter draped loosely over her body, her bare legs hanging out the bottom. Her hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail and her face is buried in the pillow. Spike wishes she'd wake up so he'd have some company to bide the night with; he's getting increasingly frustrated with his inability to sleep and growing equally bored. He thinks briefly about waking her himself but dismisses that thought-- she was so tired when they checked into the Windcrest Township Motel ("Looks more like the *Incest* Township Motel," she'd commented as they pulled into the pothole-laden parking lot) that she didn't even bother getting undressed before she collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. He'd taken her jeans off at one point so she wouldnt get marks on her stomach from the waistband, hoping that maybe she'd wake up and find him undressing her and want to have sex, but no such luck. It's been five hours and she still has yet to even stir.
He wonders idly why she's so drained when *he's* the one who's done all the driving. She's slept enough in the car-- albeit sitting up and for twenty minutes at a time-- but still, it's more sleep than *he'*s gotten. And now here she is, swathed in the depths of slumber, while he watches half-enviously, half-tenderly, exhausted beyond words. It's not fair.
He shakes his head. Of course it's fair. Leaving was harder for her than it was for him. The only thing that could have kept him there was Buffy, and, though he still wants her, his love for her isn't strong enough anymore to bind and gag him. He's free to get up and go whenever he pleases.
Anya, however, has left behind her entire life. Her shop, her friends, her only connections to the man she was going to marry. The first man she truly loved. And that's something.
To love and be loved in return is something Spike hasn't experienced in a long time. He's used to a reciprocation of caring and lust and friendship by now, but that deep, penetrating love has yet to come for him and his demon girl. He's waiting for it -- apprehensively, afraid it'll knock him over when it hits him -- but waiting for it all the same. He's missed it.
As these thoughts seep back into his subconscious and leave him by himself, Spike resumes his restless pacing. He counts his steps as he goes; it takes just nine to cross the room from the door to the far wall and back again. "This room isn't even *worth* thirty dollars," he mutters to himself. "Queen-sized bed, nightstand, and lamp, all of which was probably bought at the Salvation Army for fifteen dollars for the lot. Bloody rip-off, it is."
He peers into the tiny, closet-sized bathroom as he passes it, noting disgustedly that the toilet in his *crypt* is in better condition even after being used by demons and God knows what other kinds of creatures. He's surprised they even *have* indoor plumbing here.
'This is definitely a one-night stop,' he thinks.
It's another 189 steps before Spike is distracted from his pacing again. Anya's beginning -- finally -- to move around in the bed. She rolls over and lets out a quiet yawn, then reaches up to her face and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. After a moment or two she sits up, dazed, and squints through the pasty orange lamplight. "Spike?" she says, her tired inflections turning his name into a question.
"Anya. Welcome back to the world of the living," he deadpans. He walks to the bed and sits down on the edge of the uncomfortably flat mattress.
"What time is it?" She pushes the comforter away and feels the shock of cold air on her legs. "And what happened to my pants?"
"It's about three-thirty in the morning. And I took them off," he answers.
She frowns. "Why? Did we have sex? Because if we did I don't remember it."
"No," he tells her. "You looked uncomfortable. Can't get a good night's sleep in your clothes."
She smiles. "Well thank you for your consideration."
He shrugs. "Least I could do, seeing as you haven't slept lying down in two days."
"You haven't slept in two days, period," she reminds him. "What have you been doing this whole time?"
He leans back against the cracked headboard and sighs. "Trying to keep from trashing the bloody room. I'm crawling out of my skin with energy and I've never been more tired in my entire existence, life *or* death. I need to sleep."
Anya nods and rests her hand on his thigh. "I'd offer to help you get rid of that energy-- that's suggestion, by the way-- but I think I'm still too tired to give you a proper orgasm."
He closes his eyes and smiles. "Wanna give it a try anyway?"
He's only half-serious and she knows it, but she feels bad that he's so wound up. She slides her hand up his leg to his fly and unzips it. He's already hard.
Spike knows the gentlemanly thing to do would be to protest and tell her he was just kidding. She's so fresh form sleep that she's still groggy, for God's sake, and here he is asking her for sex.
But Anya's mouth is on him already, hot and engulfing and moving lower with each breath. Her lips reach their destination and surround him, and all he can manage to choke out is "Uhhhhhmmmmm..." Her tongue goes to work, and soon he's clutching at her hair with one hand and at the pillow with the other. "Anya," he gasps. "I'm gonna... I'm... I'm..." She comprehends and takes her mouth away, then spits on her palm and wraps her hand around him, finishing the job with a few firm strokes.
She was wrong. She wasn't too tired to give him a proper orgasm. He comes with a loud moan into her hands, arching back into the headboard and digging his fingers into the mattress. "Thanks," he breathes. "That was a big help."
She smiles as she gets up to go to the bathroom and wash off. "Anytime," she says, then pauses. "Well, not *anytime*. Whenever I deem it appropriate."
He nods absently, returning her smile. "'Course."
When Anya returns from the bathroom, Spike's got his clothes off and he's stretched out beneath the blankets. She flicks the lamp off and climbs in next to him. "Are you going to be able to get to sleep now?" she asks.
"I think so," he replies.
"Good," she says. "Because I'm about to fall asleep again and I don't think I'd be able to help you out anymore."
He laughs softly. "Right, then. Good night, Anya."
"Night, Spike."
*************************************
TBC
Disclaimer: You know the drill. Joss, ME, Fox, all them people. Lucky bastards.
Distribution: Someone Who Understands (http://spankya.homestead.com) and Too Hot (http://toohot.homestead.com) if Emily wants it. Anyone else is free to take it, just try and let me know so I can visit it :O) iNDiECHiCK5@aol.com
There are times when Spike hates the fact that he's nocturnal. Take *now* for example: his body is buzzing and crackling with predatory energy, but if he were anymore tired mentally, he thinks he'd bloody well be in a coma. He's exhausted from driving two full days and a night straight out of Sunnydale, stopping only for food and to refill the gas tank. He doesn't know what made him distance himself so far from the Hellmouth before taking a break; he doesn't want to feel like he's running away. Staying and fighting was a much more appealing option than leaving, but he realizes that the fight would have ended in death for *someone*. He would have had to leave anyway. He begrudgingly accepts that it's probably better this way-- at least he's got Anya with him.
He stops pacing for a moment and stands, watching her as she sleeps in the queen-sized bed that takes up most of their $30 per-night motel room. She's got the ratty gray-and-slate comforter draped loosely over her body, her bare legs hanging out the bottom. Her hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail and her face is buried in the pillow. Spike wishes she'd wake up so he'd have some company to bide the night with; he's getting increasingly frustrated with his inability to sleep and growing equally bored. He thinks briefly about waking her himself but dismisses that thought-- she was so tired when they checked into the Windcrest Township Motel ("Looks more like the *Incest* Township Motel," she'd commented as they pulled into the pothole-laden parking lot) that she didn't even bother getting undressed before she collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. He'd taken her jeans off at one point so she wouldnt get marks on her stomach from the waistband, hoping that maybe she'd wake up and find him undressing her and want to have sex, but no such luck. It's been five hours and she still has yet to even stir.
He wonders idly why she's so drained when *he's* the one who's done all the driving. She's slept enough in the car-- albeit sitting up and for twenty minutes at a time-- but still, it's more sleep than *he'*s gotten. And now here she is, swathed in the depths of slumber, while he watches half-enviously, half-tenderly, exhausted beyond words. It's not fair.
He shakes his head. Of course it's fair. Leaving was harder for her than it was for him. The only thing that could have kept him there was Buffy, and, though he still wants her, his love for her isn't strong enough anymore to bind and gag him. He's free to get up and go whenever he pleases.
Anya, however, has left behind her entire life. Her shop, her friends, her only connections to the man she was going to marry. The first man she truly loved. And that's something.
To love and be loved in return is something Spike hasn't experienced in a long time. He's used to a reciprocation of caring and lust and friendship by now, but that deep, penetrating love has yet to come for him and his demon girl. He's waiting for it -- apprehensively, afraid it'll knock him over when it hits him -- but waiting for it all the same. He's missed it.
As these thoughts seep back into his subconscious and leave him by himself, Spike resumes his restless pacing. He counts his steps as he goes; it takes just nine to cross the room from the door to the far wall and back again. "This room isn't even *worth* thirty dollars," he mutters to himself. "Queen-sized bed, nightstand, and lamp, all of which was probably bought at the Salvation Army for fifteen dollars for the lot. Bloody rip-off, it is."
He peers into the tiny, closet-sized bathroom as he passes it, noting disgustedly that the toilet in his *crypt* is in better condition even after being used by demons and God knows what other kinds of creatures. He's surprised they even *have* indoor plumbing here.
'This is definitely a one-night stop,' he thinks.
It's another 189 steps before Spike is distracted from his pacing again. Anya's beginning -- finally -- to move around in the bed. She rolls over and lets out a quiet yawn, then reaches up to her face and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. After a moment or two she sits up, dazed, and squints through the pasty orange lamplight. "Spike?" she says, her tired inflections turning his name into a question.
"Anya. Welcome back to the world of the living," he deadpans. He walks to the bed and sits down on the edge of the uncomfortably flat mattress.
"What time is it?" She pushes the comforter away and feels the shock of cold air on her legs. "And what happened to my pants?"
"It's about three-thirty in the morning. And I took them off," he answers.
She frowns. "Why? Did we have sex? Because if we did I don't remember it."
"No," he tells her. "You looked uncomfortable. Can't get a good night's sleep in your clothes."
She smiles. "Well thank you for your consideration."
He shrugs. "Least I could do, seeing as you haven't slept lying down in two days."
"You haven't slept in two days, period," she reminds him. "What have you been doing this whole time?"
He leans back against the cracked headboard and sighs. "Trying to keep from trashing the bloody room. I'm crawling out of my skin with energy and I've never been more tired in my entire existence, life *or* death. I need to sleep."
Anya nods and rests her hand on his thigh. "I'd offer to help you get rid of that energy-- that's suggestion, by the way-- but I think I'm still too tired to give you a proper orgasm."
He closes his eyes and smiles. "Wanna give it a try anyway?"
He's only half-serious and she knows it, but she feels bad that he's so wound up. She slides her hand up his leg to his fly and unzips it. He's already hard.
Spike knows the gentlemanly thing to do would be to protest and tell her he was just kidding. She's so fresh form sleep that she's still groggy, for God's sake, and here he is asking her for sex.
But Anya's mouth is on him already, hot and engulfing and moving lower with each breath. Her lips reach their destination and surround him, and all he can manage to choke out is "Uhhhhhmmmmm..." Her tongue goes to work, and soon he's clutching at her hair with one hand and at the pillow with the other. "Anya," he gasps. "I'm gonna... I'm... I'm..." She comprehends and takes her mouth away, then spits on her palm and wraps her hand around him, finishing the job with a few firm strokes.
She was wrong. She wasn't too tired to give him a proper orgasm. He comes with a loud moan into her hands, arching back into the headboard and digging his fingers into the mattress. "Thanks," he breathes. "That was a big help."
She smiles as she gets up to go to the bathroom and wash off. "Anytime," she says, then pauses. "Well, not *anytime*. Whenever I deem it appropriate."
He nods absently, returning her smile. "'Course."
When Anya returns from the bathroom, Spike's got his clothes off and he's stretched out beneath the blankets. She flicks the lamp off and climbs in next to him. "Are you going to be able to get to sleep now?" she asks.
"I think so," he replies.
"Good," she says. "Because I'm about to fall asleep again and I don't think I'd be able to help you out anymore."
He laughs softly. "Right, then. Good night, Anya."
"Night, Spike."
*************************************
TBC