Chapter Eight
Dawn Summers opened the apartment door and let herself in. Then she screamed.
"Jesus," Anya yelled, "don't do that!"
She and Dawn stared at each other.
"I thought you were in Britain for the next couple weeks," Dawn said gingerly.
"Yes," Anya said, brushing down the sofa ostentatiously, "well, we had a change of plan."
"What kind of change of plan?"
"We came home and we're never going back."
Dawn blinked. "Okay... Didn't you like England?"
"Oh, it was very nice," Anya said dismissively, "but it rained too much."
"You're home because of the weather?"
"Well, of course."
The two girls looked at each other for a while.
"You're still here," Anya said.
"I came to water your plants," Dawn explained.
"Oh. Yes." Then, "Thank you," Anya added, with a bright smile. "You run along now."
Dawn turned to the door. Then she turned back: "How's Xander?"
Momentary panic flickered across Anya's face. "He's fine," she said, her smile plastic. "Why wouldn't he be fine? How dare you suggest he's anything but fine?"
Dawn, by now used to Anya's odd outbreaks, nodded slowly. "Good. Glad he's fine. Is he here?"
"Sleeping."
Another long pause. Dawn felt like she was in one of those plays they had to read in English.
"Great," she said brightly, "well, I'll go now..."
Anya smiled encouragingly.
"I'll be off," Dawn said, and went to the door.
Outside in the corridor, she frowned to herself. Anya was always weird, of course, but today she'd seemed extra odd. Was that what jetlag was like?
Dawn left the building and looked up at Xander's apartment. There was a wall outside and if she climbed on it, she could see inside his bedroom...
It took her five minutes to get up there and she peered inside. And then she nearly fell off the wall, because she saw Xander lying there with bandages around his head and a Hannibal Lecter thing in his mouth.
Dawn raced home and met her mother in the kitchen.
"Dawn, what's wrong?"
She could hardly breathe from running so fast. "Xander," she panted. "He's - Anya - face - jaw - can't breathe..."
Holding onto the work surface for support, Dawn got her breath back, and told her mother, "Anya and Xander are back early."
"I know, sweetie, Giles called."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"He only called a couple of hours ago," Joyce Summers said, pouring some water for her younger daughter. "You were at school. I thought about calling to tell you not to go round there, but I knew you'd already be on your way. What's this about Xander?"
"He's in big trouble," Dawn gulped. "She has him locked up in his room, he's got his jaw wired shut, Mom, she's gonna kill him?"
Joyce regarded her daughter strangely. "Have you been watching late night TV again?"
"He looks really bad, Mom. And Anya was being all weird."
"Anya's always weird, honey," Joyce laughed.
"Mom, I'm serious."
Joyce sighed as her smile faded. "I know you are. And I'm glad you're worried about him. But Anya hasn't hurt him."
"How do you know-"
"Because Giles warned me," Joyce said. "He called and told me."
"Told you what?" Dawn said. "I don't understand."
"There's a lot to tell," Joyce said. "Sit down, honey. This could take a while."
They'd told Spike he should rest for six weeks and take no strenuous exercise while his ribs healed and the tissue damage caused by Riley's bullet sealed itself over. But he was not a resting sort of person, especially with someone like Buffy around.
Giles had a friend with a cottage in the Scottish Highlands, by a loch, miles from anywhere. Buffy had a car to take her to the village for supplies, and a big hat and sunglasses to hide her face when she left the cottage, but this wasn't often. She and Spike had a stack of videos, a crackling fire, and a big soft bed to amuse them.
And amuse them it did.
They'd picked the car up at the airport, registered in Spike's name since Buffy didn't have a driving licence (she'd sneaked a peek at Spike's and it was in the name of one William Henry Dashwood. She also saw he was ten years older than her. Eek!), but despite his protestations, he was totally unable to drive. Sometimes he had trouble breathing, which scared the hell out of Buffy, but he said it was just that deep breaths hurt his ribs. Buffy figured a few weeks of the unbelievably clean Highland air would cure him of that.
The cottage was small, just two rooms, but thankfully there was also a modern bathroom attached.
"Thank God for that," Buffy said, "I am never using an outhouse again."
"Worked out okay for you last time though, didn't it, pet?" Spike said as he followed her into the cottage. He was walking okay now, although his first steps had been shaky. His only severe injuries were the broken ribs and the bullet wound, but both, astonishingly, considering the state of the cellar, were reasonably clean and would heal without complications. He still had bruises all over his face, but they were fading now and just made him look sexy and shadowed.
Buffy glanced over at him and shivered. She'd be lucky if she lasted six minutes alone with him, let alone six weeks. But the doctors had been firm: Spike had to abstain from any kind of exercise while he was recuperating. And this meant no sex.
She looked around the cottage. Small, but cosy, with tartan throws everywhere and amazingly welcome secondary glazing to keep out the cold breeze from the loch. The view was incredible, Buffy thought as she stood by the window and looked out. She'd never imagined anything as beautiful as this really existed in nature.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, a hot body pressed up behind hers, and Spike's soft kiss on her ear.
"Great view," she said, looking out at the loch as the sun came down.
Spike looked at Buffy's reflection in the glass. "Fantastic view," he said, and kissed her neck. Buffy bit her lip and drew in a sharp breath as he nipped the soft skin of her neck with his teeth. His hands slid up her body to cup her breasts through her sweater, then, frustrated with the heavy fabric, dipped down and skimmed up underneath, over her skin to finger her lacy bra.
"God, Spike," Buffy tried to turn in his arms, but he held her steady, only letting her turn her head so he could kiss her, a long deep kiss. She'd spent a lot of time sitting with him in the hospital, arranged for this cottage, driven him all the way up here, although she didn't have a full licence and was terrified of the English roads, but she'd only kissed him the once, when they'd been interrupted by the nurse.
Now Spike held her against him, her tight curvy body fitting against his hard, lean muscles, and drove his tongue into her mouth as he slipped one of her breasts out of its lacy cup and fingered the nipple.
"No," Buffy gasped, "we can't, you have to rest-"
"Fuck that," Spike growled, and while he rolled her nipple between his hard fingers, his other hand slipped down to her jeans and expertly undid the fastening. The denim was tight, and there wasn't a lot of room for his fingers, but he found her wet already and stroked her briefly through her damp knickers, before working his fingers inside the fabric and touching her clitoris.
Buffy let out a sharp gasp and Spike, excited, sank his teeth gently into her earlobe.
"Oh God," Buffy moaned, one arm back around his neck, the other on his backside, holding him to her. He was hard under his jeans, she could feel it against her back. More than anything in the world, she wanted him inside her.
She reached between them to unzip his fly and free his erection, which sprang into her hand and hardened even more as she stroked it.
"Jesus, Buffy-" Spike abandoned her breast and used both hands to push down her jeans, his fingers quickly finding her again under her knickers, by now soaked through. Buffy pushed herself against his hand, squeezing her thighs together to keep him there. But he lifted one of her legs and held it up, slipping his finger deep inside her before she realised what he was doing, and hitting something so good Buffy nearly came there and then.
"I want you inside me," she panted, rubbing her thumb over the little slit at the top of his erection.
"That makes two of us," Spike said, and moved her raised leg wider, feeling her guiding him into her. But Buffy got excited and moved her hand up his back, pushing him into her, and Spike cried out as she pressed against his broken rib.
"Oh God," Buffy sprang away from him, "Spike, I'm so sorry..."
His arm around his waist, Spike nodded, his face pale. "It's okay," he gasped.
"Really?"
A pause, then he shook his head. "Maybe not."
He fell back onto the bed and lay there, pulling in deep breaths. Buffy watched anxiously, part of her concerned that he was hurt and the rest of her desperate to finish what they'd started.
"Spike?"
"Yes, love?" He opened his eyes and she was standing there in just an Aran sweater and knickers, leaning over him, her hand gentle on his ribs.
"Does it still hurt?"
He shook his head, although it did. Christ, if he didn't have her soon he'd go mad.
"It's just that I," Buffy lifted the sweater over her head and dropped it on the floor, and Spike drew in his breath at the sight of her half-naked, her breasts spilling out of her bra, "I was sort of on my way somewhere with that, you know?"
"Uh-huh," Spike said, unable to think of anything more complex to say.
"But if you shouldn't be doing anything strenuous-"
"Doesn't have to be strenuous," Spike said very quickly.
"Well, yes," Buffy smiled nostalgically, "I think, if you remember-"
Spike reached out and ran a finger up her thigh, slipped it inside her knickers, and Buffy stopped talking.
"We could be slow," Spike said, watching her face, suiting his actions to his words, "really slow."
Buffy gulped and closed her eyes. "How - how might that work, then?"
Spike smiled slowly. "Well, we could just do this for a while," he said, teasing her labia with his finger.
"This is good," Buffy squeaked.
"And, maybe, you could return the favour?"
Buffy slid her hand down his arm, over his t-shirt, down his stomach, and wrapped her fingers around him, her eyes still closed
"Like that?"
"Yeah, like that," Spike breathed as she stroked him and he fought to keep some control.
"Then what?" Buffy was asking, her fingers tracing delicious patterns on the most sensitive skin he had.
"Then-" Spike tried to clear his mind, but if he thought about it too much more he might just come. "Then you come and sit on the bed, maybe, kneel over me?"
Buffy, her eyes opening, climbed easily onto him and straddled him, all without losing her grip on him. She knelt over his thighs, legs wide, and placed his hand back where it had been.
"How's that?"
Spike's eyes were dark blue now, his pupils huge. "Take your bra off," he husked, and Buffy unhooked it one handed and threw it across the room. Spike reached up and stroked her breasts, one then the other, running his thumb over her nipples, watching her eyes close as she let out little gasps of pleasure. For a while they stayed like that, stroking each other, Spike watching in fascination as Buffy arched her back and threw her hair back, her breasts standing out lush and proud.
"And then," he faltered, his fingers inside her, "and then..."
"And then?" Buffy gasped, writhing against his hands.
"Fuck me," Spike breathed, pulling her hips towards him, lifting her as she pushed aside her knickers and guided him into her, so slippery he glided right in, and then she closed around him and Spike let out a cry.
"God, you feel so good!" Buffy's hands were under his t-shirt, her fingers tweaking his nipples. "Buffy, I can't stand this, I'm going to-"
"No," she pleaded, "not yet."
"You feel so-"
"Shh," she laid a finger over his lips. "Close your eyes."
She sat very still on him, only her hands moving as she traced her fingers down his arms, past the bandaged skin where the manacles had rubbed his wrists raw, right to his bare hands. She pressed her fingers against his palms, then squeezed him very slowly with her internal muscles.
Spike let out a ragged breath.
"And then?" Buffy asked teasingly.
"Can I touch you?" Spike asked desperately, eyes still closed, and Buffy laughed and said, "Of course."
"Thank fuck for that." He opened his eyes and slid his hands up her thighs, letting one continue to her breasts while the other found her clitoris and stroked it.
"You can do anything," Buffy breathed, "so long as you stay still," she touched his ribs lightly, and Spike very gently pinched her clitoris, making Buffy cry out.
He stroked her, slowly at first, then faster and faster, as Buffy started to rock her hips and Spike bit his lip, determined not to come before she did. He wanted to thrust into her, wanted it so much his eyes clouded over as he stared at her, willing her to come.
And then she did, tightening around him, crying, "God, Spike-" a flood of wetness over him, and then her body relaxed against his hands, and she was still.
He looked up at her for a while, her eyes closed, her hair mussed, her nipples swollen and red, still wearing her little lacy white knickers, pushed aside where he was inside her.
And then he started to move, holding her tight to him, and Buffy opened her eyes and smiled and started to move on top of him, and Spike forgot about his ribs, forgot about the bullet wound, forgot about everything as his mind went blank of everything but a consuming pleasure, something he'd waited for and wanted for weeks, since Riley took her away from him, wanting and dreaming about it, he wanted it so much and it was so good, so fucking good...
When Spike's mind returned he was lying back on the bed and Buffy was climbing off him, taking off her sodden knickers, and curling up beside him, her arm over his bruised ribs.
"Jesus," he said.
"No, just me."
He turned his head. "I'd almost forgotten."
"What?"
"How good it was." He kissed her. "We're going to be doing that again, right?"
"Hell, yeah," Buffy said.
Forty-five days later Spike sat by the deserted shore of the loch, Buffy on his lap, bringing herself to climax as he held on and rode out his own orgasm. They'd spent the last few weeks doing little but have sex and sleep, taking occasional trips into the village for food and wood for the fire, often pulling over on the way back because Spike got so turned on by Buffy in her driving glasses that he wormed his hand between her legs and Buffy couldn't concentrate. They had fast, furious sex in the back seat of the little car, on the grass outside, against the car, or on a stone wall with heavy bearded cattle looking on.
In the cottage, they exhausted every possible location within a week, and as Spike's ribs healed, moved from different places to different positions, making love in front of the fire, in the bath, while watching a video. Buffy could hardly believe she'd ever thought sex with Riley was amazing. Sure, he'd had stamina, but nothing compared to Spike, who could go on for hour after hour, until Buffy could hardly move, her entire body one throbbing mass of pleasure.
Sometimes she thought of Riley, wondered if he'd read the note she left him, if he'd gone after her, if he'd spoken to her mother or to Giles. Her little mobile had no signal at all in the cottage, and she was reduced to using the village payphone every now and then to reassure Giles she was still alive, and to lie to her mother that she was off travelling with a couple of student friends she'd made, good kids, very sensible, friends of Giles's.
The fifth or sixth time she called, Dawn picked up the phone, and she was very taciturn with Buffy.
Eventually, having run out of lies to tell her sister, Buffy asked, "So what's up?"
"Nothing," Dawn said.
"Come on, Dawnie, you've been really quiet. Something must be happening in Sunnydale."
Even as she said the name, Buffy looked out at the cold landscape, breathtaking in the mist, and she wondered if she could ever go back to living in the middle of the desert.
"Nothing," Dawn said again.
"Did I talk about Ireland too much?"
"No," Dawn said. "Tell me again about the Blarney Stone?"
"Oh, um, it was very stony."
"Did you lick it?"
"What?"
"The legend. You have to lick it for luck."
"Oh. Oh, yeah, I did that. It was gross. Really unhygienic. I don't know what they're-"
"Buffy," Dawn broke in coldly, "you're supposed to kiss the Blarney Stone. And it's not for luck, it's for eloquence. But then you seem to have lots of that, 'cos you've been lying about everywhere you've been ever since you started calling. And it's always from the same number. You're not moving around at all."
Damn, Buffy thought, when did my sister get so smart?
"What are you trying to say, Dawn?"
"Why are you lying to me? I know what's going on."
"Oh, do you?" Buffy asked, thinking Giles had probably let slip that she was with a male companion.
"Yeah. Someone's trying to catch you for that ring Riley gave you, because it's a mega antique and it's worth millions, and you're on the run with this guy Mom hired to look after you."