Chapter 6
A/N – Okay, this story is definitely getting more and more "R" rated. So, Mom, if you're out there, please turn back now! This is not for your eyes!
A/N 2 – Sorry for the delay. I had major problems with this chapter and just I couldn't stop tweaking it. It's kind of like getting carried away with the tweezerman and then being left with a horrible mess (or just terribly thin eyebrows). Anyway, I had to step away for a while and give it some air. It's still not quite right, but I'm tired of tweaking and just wanted to move on. If anyone out there has some constructive comments/ideas, they'd be greatly appreciated. Thanks!
His loins were on fire
With a manly desire
That burned in his heart
Like a hot, hot, pop tart…
But his kisses were sparing. Light, little gold-fish kisses that went 'pip' instead of 'smack'. This was by design. Although 'his loins were on fire,' he was determined to show restraint this time. After all, he knew almost nothing about this girl, and she, he surmised, thought him to be someone else—someone named 'Spike'. The flappy-eared fellow had also referred to him by this rather unusual name and William was suddenly feeling guilty about his unintended deception. Taking advantage of this poor, er, innocent girl was simply…wrong.
He had to tell her the truth. No. Truths. There was more than one. The first and most obvious, his identity. But the second…
He hadn't yet come to terms with, or understood them himself; still he knew they were there.
Feelings.
And it was more than just lust—although physical attraction was a large part of it. But beyond that, he could feel a connection between them. A bond. Perhaps…possibly…could it be?
Surely, it must. Yes, there was no denying it. The stirrings of love. Sweet, warm, passionate…'butt crazy' love.
He had to tell her the truth, his feelings…everything. And then he'd find out about her. He already knew of her body, but what of her mind and soul? There was intelligence in her eyes—and strength. But was it only an illusion? He had to find out.
There was just one problem though, every time he opened his mouth to speak, her tongue got in the way.
Sighing inwardly, he pondered the situation. Buffy had said she wanted talk when she'd first entered the room, but her actions had proved most contrary. She'd barely spoken five words before she'd rushed at him like a charging bull, grabbed his shirt and pulled. His breastbone still smarted from their chest-to-chest collision and he found himself feeling a bit mournful of the fact that she wasn't as bosomy as Cecily.
But Buffy was beautiful. Gleaming. And even—effulgent.
He so admired her pearl white teeth; her hair, fine and glowing like spun gold. And her body—so sleek, so nubile, so totally smooth. He remembered how his eyes had roved up and down her perfection the previous night, and how surprised he'd been to discover that her secret place, i.e. her hidden treasure, was as smooth as the rest of her body. How strange! She was completely shaved, sheared like a lamb—and down there! Eyes glued to the fleshy folds, he'd cried out in astonishment. She'd responded with a quizzical look, mumbling something about it having been his handiwork, and that the hair used to make his nose itch.
"Nose itch?" he'd asked, baffled. Then in response, she'd grabbed his head with both hands, and smashed his schnozzle into her bald cleft.
Just thinking of their previous encounter gave him a shiver, a rush and a tingle. But before pip turned to smack, he dug deep within himself, garnering every scrap of willpower he had. There wasn't much left, but it was just enough to push her away.
"Please," he breathed, "Buffy, I…I wish to speak with you, if I may."
She looked up at him, shocked, confused, annoyed and for a moment, speechless. "Excuse me?" she said finally, eyeing him as if he were an insane asylum escapee.
"I…" he began, smiled nervously, fingered a lock of her hair, then smiled again, "I wish to get to know you better. Have a conversation."
Her mouth opened, bottom jaw slack, but she didn't answer.
His eyes were earnest, studying her face. His fingers went from her hair to her cheek, grazing it with gentle, loving strokes. "I…er, we…know each other in the way that men and women throughout the ages have known one another. And though, I stand here in awe of your beauty and er…um, talents, I…I wish to form a connection with you that goes much deeper." William paused, noting Buffy's frown. He smiled weakly, then continued. "I am not like many of my sex, who think that women are most appealing when silent. I believe that they are our equals—in all respects—mind, body, soul. Marriage, after all, is a partnership of two halves, joined together—"
"Whoa!" Buffy held up her hand, stopping his chatter. "Spike, where's all this coming from? You're talking about wives, marriage, getting to know me? What's with you?"
"I, uh, I…" William stammered. "I wanted to tell you how I feel...about you."
Buffy paused for second, then looked at him with a hint amusement. "But I already know how you feel about me," she said suggestively.
"Yes, but—"
She snatched his hand away from her cheek, pulling it down so that it hovered just above her shaven place. "And you know how I feel about you," she continued in a low voice, unbuttoning her jeans, then sliding his hand beneath her silky underwear.
He frowned. "No, actually I don—"
She guided his fingers further down, cupping them, and curving them into the Bath-like hot springs.
"Oh yeah, you do," she murmured.
"But, but…" He gulped. He dug deep again. This was hard. He was hard. But he couldn't go on with this charade; he had to tell her. "I have a little confession to make," he half-panted. He withdrew his fingers, which now felt slippery.
"A confession?" she asked, eyes closed, biting her bottom lip. Her hand went down to fill the void that had been left by his.
"Yes," he said, swallowing hard, "I'm not who you think I am."
"You're not…" Her eyes opened, looking dreamy, but sharpening by the second.
He took a deep breath. "I'm not Spike."
* * *
Smiling was difficult. But he tried. Mostly, he just nodded his head and mumbled things like "yes, Mother," "you don't say, Mother," and "I totally agree, Mother." Rarely during the excruciating thirty-minutes that was breakfast did he shake his head. He certainly didn't do the characteristic head tilt with the sly 'bad boy' look. And he absolutely did not utter the words 'bloody hell.' Though he'd thought them at least twenty or so times.
Bloody Hell! There, he'd thought them again.
At the moment, Mother was droning on about his Aunt Clara, a woman whose sole purpose in life seemed to be getting struck with one malady or another, and thus being visited by her many relatives. Her sister, Spike's mum, was one of the malingerer's most devoted of caregivers. "The poor dear," she said in her high, nasal manner, "has gotten a bad case of influenza. She's been bedridden for almost two weeks now. I stopped by her home just yesterday and I daresay, she looks positively ghastly. She appears to have lost a great deal of weight, and her eyes…her eyes have taken on that dull, lifeless quality that can only signal…"
Spike leaned forward, waiting for his mother to finish her sentence. Sitting across from him, smiling and nodding at all the wrong times, Emily hummed to herself under her breath. She was obviously not paying attention, her mind on new dresses or shoes or even hats, no doubt. But Mother ignored her and stared at Spike.
A second ticked by. Was she waiting for him to speak? He cleared his throat. "Signal what, Mother?"
Mother grimaced and her eye twitched as it often did when she was irritated. What, he wondered, what did I say? Another second ticked by before she spoke.
"Oh, how can one be so insensitive to the plight of another?" she asked, obviously annoyed. "My poor sister…" She inhaled shakily. "It's difficult for me to say this." She glared at her son. "But I fear I must, as I am most unfortunate to have a son who…who simply cannot spare the time to visit an ailing aunt."
"But, Mother—" Spike began, but she cut him off.
"She's near death, William!" Mother's words were an angry squawk. "There, now, you've made me say what I've been afraid of for so long. My sister is dying."
Spike couldn't help but roll his eyes at his mother's last statement. "Bollocks!" he muttered without thinking. "That old bird has been…" His voice trailed off as he saw the look on his mother's face. Oh, now you've done it!
Her eyes were like saucers in their hollow sockets. "What did you say?" she hissed. She didn't wait for an answer. "How dare you speak in such a manner. Oh, I am utterly appalled! What has come over you?" Again she gave no chance for response. "It's this woman…this Cecily…isn't it?"
At the mention of Cecily's name, Emily suddenly became attentive, eyes focusing on her mother. Spike scowled. "No, Mother, I assure you—"
Mother's normally pallid face, was now flushed with color. "You foolish, foolish boy. You think this girl cares for you? You, and your bloody awful poetry! You're wasting your time writing that mindless drabble. She's laughing, I tell you. Laughing at you. How could one not?"
Spike couldn't help but flinch. The words stung. Despite the fact that he was really a 120-year-old vampire trapped in the body of a twenty-one-year-old would-be poet, Mother's criticisms still got to him. But he wasn't the fool she'd always thought him to be. He knew that. There were gits out there far more foolish then he. A world of stupid gits! Take, say, Xander, for example. Now, if Mother were to meet that loser, he'd look like a bleeding genius in comparison! Hell, if only someone would sweep Xander back in time.
Ah, I wish…
He paused in mid-thought and frowned. Now, wait a minute. When had he been thinking along this line recently? And who had he been talking to when…
"Bloody Hell!" He slapped his forehead. Of course! How had he been so stupid? He'd made a wish. Halfrek! This was all her doing! His face darkened as he thought about taking revenge on the demon. But wait! He paused in his ruminations. Halfrek, the vengeance demon didn't exist yet. She was still Cecily. Beautiful, vain, human Cecily. How would he ever go back home? How—
His mind raced, barely aware of his mother's face, almost purple with displeasure. His eyes then narrowed, thin lips curled into a smile filled with sinister hope. He had an idea.
* * *
She felt surprised, horrified, and angry all at once. He wasn't Spike! But how did this happen and who was he? She should've known. He'd been so different last night.
Oh god. Oh god! Oh god! Last night!
She'd just had sex with a complete stranger! Then the first two feelings subsided, and there was only the last one left—anger. Her eyes narrowed and she clenched her fists. Her first impulse was to strike him down and pummel him senseless, but she quelled it; he was no use to her unconscious.
"Who are you?" she demanded, "What have you done with Spike?"
His eyes widened and he took a step back. "I'm…I'm…" he blubbered, backing up until he hit the wall.
She advanced on him, grabbed him by the throat and leaned in menacingly. "Spill!" she yelled.
"I…I don't know anything about this Spike fellow, but my name is…I mean I'm…"
"Yes?" she prodded, tightening her grip.
"William," he said finally, quiet and fearful.
Buffy frowned. "William?" She recognized the name. William the Bloody. Wasn't that what Spike had been called in his early days. But, what did it mean? Could it be that…
"Where did you come from?" she asked.
"Well, it's a rather odd story," he replied. "One minute, I was at a party with some friends—"
"What city? What year?" she barked impatiently.
He looked at her in a way that was so familiar, eyes questioning, lips slightly parted, head tilted to one o'clock.
Oh God, could it be?
His mouth twitched before he answered. "Why London, of course."
"And the year?" Her voice was now a whisper and most of the anger had been replaced by wonder.
"The year? Why, it's…1880."