CHAPTER 3
TITLE: Choices (3/?)
AUTHOR: OneTwoMany (Sabre)
SUMMARY: I'll think of something clever to write here eventually...in the meantime, I changed Chosen a little and went from there.
RATING: R
DEDICATION: Monanotlisa and Scarlettfish.
THANKS TO: Alanna, LadyAnne and Hesadevil, who all rock.
FEEDBACK: onetwomany@bigpond.com
PREVIOUS PARTS: This is the R version of this chapter. The NC-17 version is available on my website (www.orchestratedchaos.net). If you read it there, you warrant that it is legal for you to do so where you live. Really, you're not missing out on that much :)
*********************
"Yes Dad. Yes. Really. I'm fine. We're both fine. Uh-uh...."
Buffy twirls the phone cord around her fingers and tries to keep her voice even. Dealing with her father is never easy, and she's seriously not in the mood tonight. The initial pleasure she felt at hearing his voice - and the relief, nostalgia of sorts, a sense of home - is fading fast. Funny that, how she use to adore him, but now feels little more than that vague, reluctant tolerance you're expected to show relatives with whom you have nothing in common but a handful of genes.
"'m not sure yet. The insurance probably doesn't cover acts of God..."
Or acts of Gods. Or whatever the hell the First Evil was, other than apparently really stupid and not too great in a crisis.
"Yeah, I've got some cash and my ATM cards..."
Money, her dad is talking money, and he's good at that. Sums and numbers and formulae, precise little details. 'Real world stuff,' he calls it, stuff she needs to 'grow up and pay attention to.' Yeah huh. Buffy wants to laugh, cause it's not like she just averted apocalypse number seven or anything. But instead she reads off the policy details that she'd hastily scrawled on scraps of paper that night before the end of the world; house, car, furnishings, their value reduced to a number. Huh, she's a refugee.
"Car registration? Damn...Let me check."
She listens as her Dad promises to talk to the right people, get them fixed up, be a father. That's a definite good, and she reminds herself that he's not a bad man, a little absent minded, maybe, immature and desperately in need of some parenting lessons. But he's moving past the mid-life crisis and he does care for them; for his delinquent daughter with her pyro tendencies and the perfect younger one, who he doesn't really know, hasn't even met. Maybe for Joyce too, although not enough to leave that Mediterranean yacht and come home for her funeral...Oh yeah, there's that anger again, accompanied by resentment and, oh, jealousy too, mainly over ... what's her name? Stupid skanky husband-stealing ho bag...yeah, that'll do.
Buffy's glad of the sudden knock on the door and Giles' soft "Buffy?"
"Gotta go, Dad. Giles wants his phone back....what? Me - and Giles? - Eeew! No, nothing like that. God! Okay, really going now. I'll call you later. Yes, promise! Goodbye, Dad... Okay, going. Really. Bye!"
She slams to phone back into its cradle as Giles struggles through the door, large bags of...something, in hand.
"Willow made me go shopping," he explains in response to her quizzical look. "She is apparently under the delusion that food enough to feed an army can be stored in a hotel mini bar. Presumably she thinks I have a dimensional vortex in the refrigerator..."
"A what?"
"Never mind. Foolish game..."
Buffy watches as he makes his way to the minibar and starts pulling out alcohol to pile in milk and juice, food enough to feed an army, which is actually appropriate. He pauses to reads a couple of the labels on the microscopic bottles of liquor. She watches, vaguely amused, as he breaks the seal on something yellowy-looking, shrugs, and tosses back a generous mouthful without so much as a grimace.
"Giles, you're a total lush. And definitely a bad example."
He merely raises an eyebrow. "Well, it was almost the end of the world today. I think I've earned a congratulatory drink."
"What is it with British men and alcohol, anyway? Spike's practically a walking brewery..."
She watches Giles stiffen slightly as the name falls from her lips. "Yes. Spike."
He doesn't quite spit the word out with the level of bitter disgust mastered by Xander, but it's hardly dripping with affection. She can already tell he's preparing for another lecture. This is always a sore spot between them, and she can't deal with it now.
"Yeah, and how about that apocalypse aversion, hey? Definitely party time!" She says, quickly. "Take a couple more gulps of that icky -looking yellow stuff!"
Giles glances up from the bottle, stern-face still in place. "Buffy, are you trying to get me pissed as a newt or is this really just a rather unsubtle attempt to avoid talking about Spike?"
"What if I say I just wanted the pretty little bottle?"
"Buffy..."
She shoots him her best Summers Look of Pain. "Please, let's not do this. Not over Spike. Cause, you know, that way only lies an argument that will probably involve you using big words and me storming out and slamming that door. And there are other things I want to discuss instead. Like, what we're gonna do tomorrow. And next week. And...hey, is that chocolate?"
Giles smiles and throws her a bar he removed from the bag. "Willow said you'd like it."
Buffy beams and she tears into the packet. Chocolately goodness. "Willow should always be listened to. Well, except when she's addicted to magic and trying to destroy the world."
"Yes," Giles agrees, voice flat. Another sore-point, and Buffy curses herself. She knows he blames himself for what happened that year, for Willow, for Spike. Giles, too responsible to ever truly accept that everything went back so much further than that.
He continues, "But right now, I don't think Willow is the issue. Or chocolate bars, for that matter. No matter how much you like them. Spike is."
"Giles..."
A raised hand silences her. "No, hear me out. I'm not going to say anything worthy of a door-slam."
He hasn't started taking, but she's sure she's heard it all before. "You know what? If you're gonna lecture me on how he's bad, and evil, and a danger and blahdy blah blah vampirecakes, then I think this is about Willow, 'cause she did the same thing." She knows she's stepping into dangerous territory here, but she's on a roll. "And you're all 'second chances' and 'yay forgiveness' when it comes to her. Not that I'm disagreeing with that, cause, hey, it's Will, and no explanations needed. But if she gets the benefit of the doubt, for stuff she did with a soul, why not Spike, for stuff he did without one?"
A pause, and Giles frowns. Twirls the amber liquid and takes another drink. "Yes, good questions, and ones I can't give you an answer you now - or not an answer that you'll accept, at any rate. But that last part is rather the issue, isn't it? Vampires with souls. As I seem to recall, they're rather easy to misplace."
It's an effort, but Buffy resists the urge to eyeroll. "There's no curse."
The meaning of the phrase clearly isn't lost of Giles; she watches him shift a little uncomfortably. Sex with vampires probably sits somewhere around sex with gerbils on the Watcher decency scale; maybe lower, given the whole evil thing.
"Perhaps not a curse," Giles says slowly. "But there will be a catch. There always is." He pauses again, starts to adjust his non-existent glasses, ends up running his hand through his hair. This probably isn't any easier for him than it is for her. She wishes he'd just stop it.
"I know you think I'm closed-minded. Maybe even bigoted. But how can I not be Buffy? Having seen what I've seen, what I've experienced, courtesy of your...courtesy of 'souled' vampires?"
It's a low blow, and Buffy opens her mouth to reply, but she feels the sharp words evaporate on her tongue. There's nothing more to be said about this, nothing that can be said when she's still so thankful, so very thankful, that she didn't kill Angelus sooner.
For a brief, furious moment, she almost hates Giles for dredging such memories up.
But it passes, and Giles continues. "I don't blame you for that, Buffy. I've made it a rule not to interfere with your private life, and I won't do so now. You and Spike and...whatever it is that you do together, that's not my concern. However, you're a Slayer. It's in your blood, what you are. " He meets her eyes, expression filled with genuine concern. "And, Buffy, I don't want to see you go through what happened with Angelus again. None of us does."
And, God, that's the last thing she wants too. Her greatest fear, to let Spike back in, take him on trust, get hurt again. But she can't think about that now.
"I know that. You can't think that, after all that's happened, I don't know that." And it's not a lie, not really. She's just not entirely sure it's true.
Giles watches her closely, as if searching her soul. Then, finally, he sighs. "Very well." Apparently, reluctantly, that's enough. "Non sequitor conversation: Have you spoken to Dawn about what you want to do now?"
Buffy shakes her head, only too happy to move on. "No."
Truth be told, she hasn't thought beyond the battle for so long now. She'd known they'd win, somewhere deep down, but making plans? That was tempting fate.
"All I've thought about for so long now was last night. Didn't really stop to think what'd happen when the party was over.'
She takes another bite of the chocolate, feels the milky sweetness melt on her tongue. How long has it been since she'd actually taken the time to savor anything? Taste the sweetness of life? God, could she be any more melodramatic?
"I'm returning to England," Giles announces, breaking her thoughts. His tone makes it clear that the decision has been made. It takes a moment for that to sink in, but Buffy finds she's not surprised, maybe not even concerned. Nothing much for him here now, not with a closed Hellmouth and a slayer who doesn't need a teacher...
"And I'd like you to come with me," Giles continues.
Buffy blinks, almost chokes. Okay, that was a surprise.
"What?"
"Buffy, all these girls, running around, directionless. They're dangerous, to themselves and to others. It just won't do. We need something, some structure, a place of calm in the chaos. Not control, but guidance. We need to rebuild the Council."
She's not quite sure what to think, beyond 'Council, bad'. And 'Council go kaboom'. She swirls a piece of chocolate around her mouth, this time barely tasting it, as she contemplates the possibilities.
"Giles, I..."
"I know what you're thinking. But please, hear me out."
And she does. Sitting on the bed, picking the last crumbs of chocolate crumbs off the tinfoil wrapper, she listens to Giles outline his plans for the future. Much to her amazement, she's actually impressed.
*****
An hour or so later, Buffy closes the door to Giles' room with a soft 'click'. She moves down the corridor, before pausing outside the door to Dawn's room. Hand on the handle, she wonders whether it's a good time to talk. She'd expected to hear giggling, the sounds of the television, but it's silent within. The girls probably crashed the minute their gangly bodies hit the crappy polyester sheets. So much for Dawn's plans for a late night.
Some teenagers.
It's mildly disappointing, typical that Dawn would actually crash early on a night when Buffy actually wanted to talk. But she supposes that the big 'London here we come' announcement can wait till tomorrow.
Buffy pauses outside her door too, fingers resting on the warm wood of the door. Kinda scary, this whole thing with her and Spike and doors. Probably metaphoric or something, but she's never been very good with that kinda thing. Still, she remembers standing outside his crypt, tracing the patterns on marble, wondering if he really could feel her as he said he could; denying that she could feel him even though his presence enlivened every nerve in her body. She remembers, too, the look on his face when she'd finally barred him from the house - she's still not sure why she waited so long - and, then, his stunned gratitude when she'd let him back in. Kinda hard to keep thinking of him as evil when he'd thanked her for treating him like a man, and vowed to give his life for her little sister, but she managed to do it. She managed also, much, much later, to throw away potential friendship when she'd thrown him through the rotten wooden door and into that grungy abandoned house. And that, right there, was the point when everything went to hell. From there, they'd just spiralled down the layers.
Taking a deep breath, Buffy twists the door handle, finds it unlocked. Typical of Spike. But then, he probably used to welcome intruders as home delivery.
The room is nearly identical to Giles', except that Spike's clothing, such as it is, is scattered on the floor. Her eyes follow the trail to the bathroom. The shower is running, and she can see tendrils of steam weaving and dancing in the light spilling from the slightly open door. For a second she wonders if he's guess her plans and is being seductive, but figures it's more likely he's just being a slob.
Sitting on the plain quilt on the uncomfortable bed, Buffy begins to pull of her shoes. Apocalypses are hell on footwear. Her fingers trace the outline of leather as she glances toward the bathroom.
"Way to screw up a perfectly good plan, Spike."
She'd expected to find him in bed, probably drinking, 'cause that's what Spike does. She'd come in, sit down, talk. He liked to talk these days, always running his mouth. Softer words, though, more hesitant. And if she's honest, sometimes she misses the old spark. Still, she can work with this, can take that step off the safe, firm ground, into the dark beyond.
She flashes another glance at the door and concentrates on the sound of splashing water; imagines it running over too-pale skin, smooth chest, slim hips. She's fantasising about Spike. Nothing new, but it's been a while she's let herself do that. He'd been so...damaged, when he came back. And whatever they have, they'd been together, was totally wrecked. She'd thought it unsalvageable, and it probably should have been.
But here she is, anyway, waiting for him. More proof that she's screwed up, and probably not in a good way, but right now she cares not a bit. Despite everything he's done to her and her friends, everything she's done to him, as bad as they got, he still fills her stomach with fire. And, God, how she longs to give into that warmth, to let it consume her again.
She'd thought about that fire last night, as they'd lain in together in his basement cot; considered several lame means of seduction. She thinks he probably would have gone with it; she'd certainly felt the evidence of his desire as he'd pressed against her, arms around her and his fingers intertwined with hers. Yet so many moments simply passed, opportunities for kisses missed, hesitant caresses suddenly withdrawn, eyes that said so much suddenly cloaked and dropped. She didn't know where to start, and he...well, who knew what Spike thought anymore, really?
Well, only one way to find out.
With a final glance at the bathroom door, and a determined breath, Buffy pulls her still-bloodied shirt over her head.
************
He can smell her when he turns off the water. Slayer. Buffy. Her presence still makes him tingle.
She's waiting for him. Has to be, no other reason for dallying in his room, is there? Right satisfying that; proves he's earned a little respect. No more waltzing in, dragging him out, yellin' at him to get his arse in gear, and why wasn't he always at her beck and call? He's a little disappointed that she didn't peek, wander in and help herself to the view...
Only then he remembers with a blinding flash; white tiles and raised voices; his fingers tearing at her grey robe as she cried beneath him.
The satisfaction is instantly gone.
What the fuck could he really expect?
Hands on the basin, Spike takes a calming breath; waits for the inevitable rush of nausea to hit him and for the blasted voice of his conscience to start with the rant. But the pain's not as strong as it once was; just a constant low, dull throbbing; chronic it's become, rather than acute, and far easier to ignore. A few more moments, just to be sure he's not going to be hit with a surprise attack of the guilts, and Spike can raise his face to the foggy mirror. It's empty of course, but if movies are anything to go by, that's probably a good thing. Helps not to have to look at yourself.
Helps, too, that the Slayer trusts him again. Holding her, being near her again, he never quite expected that. Not exactly the dream relationship, no white picket fence and moonlight shags, but better than he'd ever dared hope before, and quite the improvement on doin' tricks for treats on command. This time the memory stirs a surprising anger in his stomach, a simmering little sensation of lingering resentment, the likes of which he hadn't felt for quite a while. Or maybe he just hadn't noticed. Whatever e stamps the feeling down, hard, pushes it back to some dark recess where it can simmer in silence. He'll just have to be careful not to get pissed off again, not to say something stupid in a fit of anger, not to push his luck and do anything unforgivable again.
With a shake of his head Spike pushes himself away from the basin and sets about pulling the remaining shreds of confidence and dignity together. It takes a few more seconds, but he accomplishes a passable façade.
"'s fine." He says softly. "Not perfect, can live what she offers. Work with it, anyhow..."
Still may as well give her a taste of what she's missing. He pulls the towel around his hips and settles it low. He's no choice but to wear nearly his birthday suit, not with his kit scattered all other the bedroom floor within view of her blushing eyes. Not even gonna try to feel bad about that.
Determinedly, Spike plasters on his on his best smirk as he pushes open the door. "Shoulda just come and gotten me, luv. Ain't nothing you haven't...seen."
The door opens, and his last word comes out as a squeak. He's almost afraid to blink, lest the vision before him vanish, because he's sure it can't be real. Finally lost those few remaining marbles. Cause he can't really be seeing a beautiful, naked Slayer in his bed, skin gold against the quilt cover, breasts bare, just the curve of a slender leg hiding Heaven. He feels the blood run south, and his brain melts.
Can. Not. Be. Real.
He's not sure how long he's been standing there, but he's suddenly aware of the thunderous beating of her heart, its tempo pounding and rushing; blood throbbing through her beneath flushed skin. She squirms a little, and with a Herculean effort, he forces his eyes to her face. Her look is strangely vulnerable, nervous, like she's ready to vault.
"Buffy? I um..." Fuck, was that his voice? He'd clearly lost all motor control when the blood rushed south. "I think, maybe, you wandered into the wrong room pet." Probably about the bloody stupidest thing he could've said, but he's sure there's no blood left in his brain.
Buffy suddenly looks terrified. "Okay, maybe not such a good idea..." she stammers. He half expects her to realise she's made just that mistake and drag the sheets around herself at any moment. Yet her hands stay still, white where her fingers grip the sheets, but making no move to raise them. Then her breasts rise as she takes an audible breath. "But it's no mistake," she says firmly, and he's not sure whether she's talking to him, or to herself.
"No?"
"No." She says calmly. "No mistake." He can see her drawing back confidence as she speaks, that self-assurance that takes his breath away. "And before you start with honourable defensiveness stuff - which really doesn't look that great on you, by the way: I'm not drunk, not stoned, not depressed, not possessed, no longer fearing the imminent passing of the world, and definitely not just seeking a last comfort shag or a way to pass the time till the next apocalypse. I'm just me. Total, one hundred percent unadulterated Buffy."
"Ready and willing and waiting..." he murmurs, transfixed.
His feet take an involuntary step toward the bed; the bed with the naked Slayer. They are tentative steps, like he's walking on fire, waiting for the hot coals to scorch. Any time now, that irritating little voice inside him will start up again; the one that'll tell him this is wrong, that she's mad, that he can't do this; that's it all wrong.
But there's nothing but silence.
The tingle in his groin is suddenly an ache, and he's not sure whether he'd be able to stop this anyway. Kinda hard to take the high road with a massive hard-on tenting your towel.
Buffy shoots him a coquettish look that instantly fizzles and evaporates the last shred of his willpower. "Spike, I'm tired of being proper, and waiting, and sticking to rules and everything else. So get that scrawny ass over here and ... ompf"
Her breath is cut off as he leaps, lands on her, pins her wrists to the mattress and presses his body against her, skin on skin. He's had it with goddamn fucking rules, too. She wants him, and it's enough. No, who's he kiddin'? It's more than enough.
The effect of the contact is explosive; that ever-present chemistry leaping and buzzing between them, sending searing-hot flashes of pleasure through his body. He's sure his heart contracts even as his body convulses, every inch of him longing for contact with warm, soft Buffy. He feels his cock grow incredibly, painfully hard.
And he'd thought the other type of touching was good!
Their gazes lock, arms grappling, bodies held together with supernatural strength. Her eyes are saucer-wide, and he feels himself drowning. Unable to resist, he leans over and licks a path from shoulder to ear, lapping at the salty trail of sweat. She shudders beneath him, hands clenching beneath his grasp.
"I dunno what's come over you lately, Slayer," he whispers into her ear. "But I like it."
"Yeah. So do I."
*******
"Thank you..." he says simply, sometime later, when nothing else seems appropriate.
She smiles softly, then runs her fingers down his flank, along the side of his thigh. "Well, wasn't exactly a chore. 'Sides, my seduction, so I think I should be thanking you for going along with it."
"Well, when you put it that way..." He smirks, almost Cheshire cat. "Takes a lot to make you smile. Know that. So I think I deserve to feel right good about myself, yeah."
And, yeah, he does feel good about himself. Saving the world, getting the girl, shagging her senseless, actually makin' her smile. All in a day's work for the new, improved Spike.
"Wanna feel even better?" She asks, placing a kiss on the sensitive hollow of his neck and her hand moves south.
He recognises a distraction technique when he sees one. She's not in the mood for seriousness, and times like this, trying to have a conversation with her could be a bit like playing chicken with a flame thrower. But then he's never gone for safe.
"In a bit..." He says, and she frowns, fingers hesitating in their caress. She doesn't fancy compromise, his slayer.
Spike grinds his teeth and briefly considers whether that makes him feel guilty or annoyed. He has the same emotions as always now, but sometimes it's harder to recognise them. The soul certainly added a degree of unpredictability to his life.
"I don't just mean thanks for this, although, yeah, it's a big part of it," he says. "More: thank you for trusting me again. Didn't think...well, wasn't holding my breath for you to ever let me near you again. Metaphorically speaking."
She shrugs. "Neither was I. And not just because of what you did to me, although that was a big part of it. But we were just badness together."
And he's no problem recognising the emotion that follows those words. Shame, burning in his stomach, a bitter taste in his throat and lead in his heart. "Shouldn't be makin' excuses for me, luv."
"No, I probably shouldn't. And you probably shouldn't forgive me, either. We probably all shouldn't do a lot of things..." She shakes her head. "But everything was so fucked up last year, and we've both changed and...God, Spike, you've changed so much. And screwed up or not, I still want you. So I'm gonna stop making excuses and start doing what I want to do a bit more, rather than what I should. Live for the moment, you know?"
He nods. There's truth in her words, hidden amongst the confusion, and he can feel that annoying little bubble of hope begin to swell inside him. "And when we leave this room, close that door behind us. What happens then?"
She drops her gaze, hair falling over her face. Now that's the Buffy he knows only too well, evasive and reticent and beholden to her friends. Except that she surprises him once more. "I'm not hiding you -us, if that's what you're asking. Wouldn't do that again."
The bubble nearly bursts. "Bloody right," he says, with far more confidence than he feels. "Sick of that crap. Not gonna let you." He knows he couldn't live like that again; a fellow had to have a sense of self-preservation, if not a shred of dignity.
Her fingers find his again, and she grasps his hand, her other hand tracing, drawing his gaze to hers. "Good. And Spike - don't. Let me."
"Not a chance." He nods. "And, after we've strolled outta here, hand in hand, smiled at Droopy Boy and the Watcher?"
"We get on the bus, go to LA. Giles has tickets for us all, and most of the girls have passports. We're flying outta here."
"Right." He should be happy, but Spike wonders when this was decided. Last night? Today? When he was in the shower? He struggles against another burst of that mercurial emotion, the sudden wave of resentment that no one thought to ask him. "You all off someplace?"
"London," she answers, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Giles wants me to come 'home' with him. Restart the Council, maybe..."
"Bunch of wankers, better off without 'em..." he says in disbelief. Maybe it's not the best time for thinkin', but he can hardly believe that Buffy, barely free from the blighters, would want them back again.
"I was going to say 'the Council, or something like it.' Different, somehow. Fewer stuffy old men giving orders from above, more democracy. Better pay."
"And your part in this will be...?"
"I think the term was 'consultant.' Means I get paid to advise and stuff. Maybe even help train. It sounds fun, and useful, and Giles says I can go back to school and they'll foot the bill. Or he will really, cause he has all the money now. I mean, how great is that? And I get away from here for a while. Away from all this. Time for a change. Never even been out of California, you know."
He nods, forces out words that stick in his throat. "Right. That's good..."
Buffy frowns slightly. "You don't like the idea?"
"No! I..." It's good news, he tells himself firmly. Slayer'll get an education, get a decent job, get out of this life. He should be right happy. But his heart feels like lead. "Oh, fuck it. No, it's not all right. Bloody unacceptable. When was this decided anyway? Takin' off, half-way 'round the world. No way to carry on anything..."
His voice fades as he watches her expression change from confusion to surprise.
"You don't want to come to London? With me?" She asks, her voice small and hurt.
He blinks. Wonders if maybe he misheard. "That an invitation?"
"Of course it is..." And then she laughs. "Oh my God, you thought I'd...? That I wouldn't take you with me? After that?"
"Never know what to think with you..." he says honestly.
She rolls her eyes dramatically, then leans over and kisses him so deeply he's left with no doubt about her intentions. "Spike, I hadn't even thought of going without you." And pause, then, "provided you, um, want to come..."
He laughs briefly, then summons as much false dignity as he can. "Have to think about that. Thinkin' I might need incitement, something to make it worthwhile."
She grins, rises to the bait. "How about some persuasion?" Her eyes are still bright and happy, almost gleeful for once, as she moves her hands lower to trace the contours of his rapidly hardening cock, to stroke his balls.
He groans, then smirks, and makes a show of lying back, hands behind his head.
"Okay, Slayer, give it your best shot and I'll give the proposition my full consideration, yeah?"
It's hours before it occurs to him that she never really doubted he'd follow.
TITLE: Choices (3/?)
AUTHOR: OneTwoMany (Sabre)
SUMMARY: I'll think of something clever to write here eventually...in the meantime, I changed Chosen a little and went from there.
RATING: R
DEDICATION: Monanotlisa and Scarlettfish.
THANKS TO: Alanna, LadyAnne and Hesadevil, who all rock.
FEEDBACK: onetwomany@bigpond.com
PREVIOUS PARTS: This is the R version of this chapter. The NC-17 version is available on my website (www.orchestratedchaos.net). If you read it there, you warrant that it is legal for you to do so where you live. Really, you're not missing out on that much :)
*********************
"Yes Dad. Yes. Really. I'm fine. We're both fine. Uh-uh...."
Buffy twirls the phone cord around her fingers and tries to keep her voice even. Dealing with her father is never easy, and she's seriously not in the mood tonight. The initial pleasure she felt at hearing his voice - and the relief, nostalgia of sorts, a sense of home - is fading fast. Funny that, how she use to adore him, but now feels little more than that vague, reluctant tolerance you're expected to show relatives with whom you have nothing in common but a handful of genes.
"'m not sure yet. The insurance probably doesn't cover acts of God..."
Or acts of Gods. Or whatever the hell the First Evil was, other than apparently really stupid and not too great in a crisis.
"Yeah, I've got some cash and my ATM cards..."
Money, her dad is talking money, and he's good at that. Sums and numbers and formulae, precise little details. 'Real world stuff,' he calls it, stuff she needs to 'grow up and pay attention to.' Yeah huh. Buffy wants to laugh, cause it's not like she just averted apocalypse number seven or anything. But instead she reads off the policy details that she'd hastily scrawled on scraps of paper that night before the end of the world; house, car, furnishings, their value reduced to a number. Huh, she's a refugee.
"Car registration? Damn...Let me check."
She listens as her Dad promises to talk to the right people, get them fixed up, be a father. That's a definite good, and she reminds herself that he's not a bad man, a little absent minded, maybe, immature and desperately in need of some parenting lessons. But he's moving past the mid-life crisis and he does care for them; for his delinquent daughter with her pyro tendencies and the perfect younger one, who he doesn't really know, hasn't even met. Maybe for Joyce too, although not enough to leave that Mediterranean yacht and come home for her funeral...Oh yeah, there's that anger again, accompanied by resentment and, oh, jealousy too, mainly over ... what's her name? Stupid skanky husband-stealing ho bag...yeah, that'll do.
Buffy's glad of the sudden knock on the door and Giles' soft "Buffy?"
"Gotta go, Dad. Giles wants his phone back....what? Me - and Giles? - Eeew! No, nothing like that. God! Okay, really going now. I'll call you later. Yes, promise! Goodbye, Dad... Okay, going. Really. Bye!"
She slams to phone back into its cradle as Giles struggles through the door, large bags of...something, in hand.
"Willow made me go shopping," he explains in response to her quizzical look. "She is apparently under the delusion that food enough to feed an army can be stored in a hotel mini bar. Presumably she thinks I have a dimensional vortex in the refrigerator..."
"A what?"
"Never mind. Foolish game..."
Buffy watches as he makes his way to the minibar and starts pulling out alcohol to pile in milk and juice, food enough to feed an army, which is actually appropriate. He pauses to reads a couple of the labels on the microscopic bottles of liquor. She watches, vaguely amused, as he breaks the seal on something yellowy-looking, shrugs, and tosses back a generous mouthful without so much as a grimace.
"Giles, you're a total lush. And definitely a bad example."
He merely raises an eyebrow. "Well, it was almost the end of the world today. I think I've earned a congratulatory drink."
"What is it with British men and alcohol, anyway? Spike's practically a walking brewery..."
She watches Giles stiffen slightly as the name falls from her lips. "Yes. Spike."
He doesn't quite spit the word out with the level of bitter disgust mastered by Xander, but it's hardly dripping with affection. She can already tell he's preparing for another lecture. This is always a sore spot between them, and she can't deal with it now.
"Yeah, and how about that apocalypse aversion, hey? Definitely party time!" She says, quickly. "Take a couple more gulps of that icky -looking yellow stuff!"
Giles glances up from the bottle, stern-face still in place. "Buffy, are you trying to get me pissed as a newt or is this really just a rather unsubtle attempt to avoid talking about Spike?"
"What if I say I just wanted the pretty little bottle?"
"Buffy..."
She shoots him her best Summers Look of Pain. "Please, let's not do this. Not over Spike. Cause, you know, that way only lies an argument that will probably involve you using big words and me storming out and slamming that door. And there are other things I want to discuss instead. Like, what we're gonna do tomorrow. And next week. And...hey, is that chocolate?"
Giles smiles and throws her a bar he removed from the bag. "Willow said you'd like it."
Buffy beams and she tears into the packet. Chocolately goodness. "Willow should always be listened to. Well, except when she's addicted to magic and trying to destroy the world."
"Yes," Giles agrees, voice flat. Another sore-point, and Buffy curses herself. She knows he blames himself for what happened that year, for Willow, for Spike. Giles, too responsible to ever truly accept that everything went back so much further than that.
He continues, "But right now, I don't think Willow is the issue. Or chocolate bars, for that matter. No matter how much you like them. Spike is."
"Giles..."
A raised hand silences her. "No, hear me out. I'm not going to say anything worthy of a door-slam."
He hasn't started taking, but she's sure she's heard it all before. "You know what? If you're gonna lecture me on how he's bad, and evil, and a danger and blahdy blah blah vampirecakes, then I think this is about Willow, 'cause she did the same thing." She knows she's stepping into dangerous territory here, but she's on a roll. "And you're all 'second chances' and 'yay forgiveness' when it comes to her. Not that I'm disagreeing with that, cause, hey, it's Will, and no explanations needed. But if she gets the benefit of the doubt, for stuff she did with a soul, why not Spike, for stuff he did without one?"
A pause, and Giles frowns. Twirls the amber liquid and takes another drink. "Yes, good questions, and ones I can't give you an answer you now - or not an answer that you'll accept, at any rate. But that last part is rather the issue, isn't it? Vampires with souls. As I seem to recall, they're rather easy to misplace."
It's an effort, but Buffy resists the urge to eyeroll. "There's no curse."
The meaning of the phrase clearly isn't lost of Giles; she watches him shift a little uncomfortably. Sex with vampires probably sits somewhere around sex with gerbils on the Watcher decency scale; maybe lower, given the whole evil thing.
"Perhaps not a curse," Giles says slowly. "But there will be a catch. There always is." He pauses again, starts to adjust his non-existent glasses, ends up running his hand through his hair. This probably isn't any easier for him than it is for her. She wishes he'd just stop it.
"I know you think I'm closed-minded. Maybe even bigoted. But how can I not be Buffy? Having seen what I've seen, what I've experienced, courtesy of your...courtesy of 'souled' vampires?"
It's a low blow, and Buffy opens her mouth to reply, but she feels the sharp words evaporate on her tongue. There's nothing more to be said about this, nothing that can be said when she's still so thankful, so very thankful, that she didn't kill Angelus sooner.
For a brief, furious moment, she almost hates Giles for dredging such memories up.
But it passes, and Giles continues. "I don't blame you for that, Buffy. I've made it a rule not to interfere with your private life, and I won't do so now. You and Spike and...whatever it is that you do together, that's not my concern. However, you're a Slayer. It's in your blood, what you are. " He meets her eyes, expression filled with genuine concern. "And, Buffy, I don't want to see you go through what happened with Angelus again. None of us does."
And, God, that's the last thing she wants too. Her greatest fear, to let Spike back in, take him on trust, get hurt again. But she can't think about that now.
"I know that. You can't think that, after all that's happened, I don't know that." And it's not a lie, not really. She's just not entirely sure it's true.
Giles watches her closely, as if searching her soul. Then, finally, he sighs. "Very well." Apparently, reluctantly, that's enough. "Non sequitor conversation: Have you spoken to Dawn about what you want to do now?"
Buffy shakes her head, only too happy to move on. "No."
Truth be told, she hasn't thought beyond the battle for so long now. She'd known they'd win, somewhere deep down, but making plans? That was tempting fate.
"All I've thought about for so long now was last night. Didn't really stop to think what'd happen when the party was over.'
She takes another bite of the chocolate, feels the milky sweetness melt on her tongue. How long has it been since she'd actually taken the time to savor anything? Taste the sweetness of life? God, could she be any more melodramatic?
"I'm returning to England," Giles announces, breaking her thoughts. His tone makes it clear that the decision has been made. It takes a moment for that to sink in, but Buffy finds she's not surprised, maybe not even concerned. Nothing much for him here now, not with a closed Hellmouth and a slayer who doesn't need a teacher...
"And I'd like you to come with me," Giles continues.
Buffy blinks, almost chokes. Okay, that was a surprise.
"What?"
"Buffy, all these girls, running around, directionless. They're dangerous, to themselves and to others. It just won't do. We need something, some structure, a place of calm in the chaos. Not control, but guidance. We need to rebuild the Council."
She's not quite sure what to think, beyond 'Council, bad'. And 'Council go kaboom'. She swirls a piece of chocolate around her mouth, this time barely tasting it, as she contemplates the possibilities.
"Giles, I..."
"I know what you're thinking. But please, hear me out."
And she does. Sitting on the bed, picking the last crumbs of chocolate crumbs off the tinfoil wrapper, she listens to Giles outline his plans for the future. Much to her amazement, she's actually impressed.
*****
An hour or so later, Buffy closes the door to Giles' room with a soft 'click'. She moves down the corridor, before pausing outside the door to Dawn's room. Hand on the handle, she wonders whether it's a good time to talk. She'd expected to hear giggling, the sounds of the television, but it's silent within. The girls probably crashed the minute their gangly bodies hit the crappy polyester sheets. So much for Dawn's plans for a late night.
Some teenagers.
It's mildly disappointing, typical that Dawn would actually crash early on a night when Buffy actually wanted to talk. But she supposes that the big 'London here we come' announcement can wait till tomorrow.
Buffy pauses outside her door too, fingers resting on the warm wood of the door. Kinda scary, this whole thing with her and Spike and doors. Probably metaphoric or something, but she's never been very good with that kinda thing. Still, she remembers standing outside his crypt, tracing the patterns on marble, wondering if he really could feel her as he said he could; denying that she could feel him even though his presence enlivened every nerve in her body. She remembers, too, the look on his face when she'd finally barred him from the house - she's still not sure why she waited so long - and, then, his stunned gratitude when she'd let him back in. Kinda hard to keep thinking of him as evil when he'd thanked her for treating him like a man, and vowed to give his life for her little sister, but she managed to do it. She managed also, much, much later, to throw away potential friendship when she'd thrown him through the rotten wooden door and into that grungy abandoned house. And that, right there, was the point when everything went to hell. From there, they'd just spiralled down the layers.
Taking a deep breath, Buffy twists the door handle, finds it unlocked. Typical of Spike. But then, he probably used to welcome intruders as home delivery.
The room is nearly identical to Giles', except that Spike's clothing, such as it is, is scattered on the floor. Her eyes follow the trail to the bathroom. The shower is running, and she can see tendrils of steam weaving and dancing in the light spilling from the slightly open door. For a second she wonders if he's guess her plans and is being seductive, but figures it's more likely he's just being a slob.
Sitting on the plain quilt on the uncomfortable bed, Buffy begins to pull of her shoes. Apocalypses are hell on footwear. Her fingers trace the outline of leather as she glances toward the bathroom.
"Way to screw up a perfectly good plan, Spike."
She'd expected to find him in bed, probably drinking, 'cause that's what Spike does. She'd come in, sit down, talk. He liked to talk these days, always running his mouth. Softer words, though, more hesitant. And if she's honest, sometimes she misses the old spark. Still, she can work with this, can take that step off the safe, firm ground, into the dark beyond.
She flashes another glance at the door and concentrates on the sound of splashing water; imagines it running over too-pale skin, smooth chest, slim hips. She's fantasising about Spike. Nothing new, but it's been a while she's let herself do that. He'd been so...damaged, when he came back. And whatever they have, they'd been together, was totally wrecked. She'd thought it unsalvageable, and it probably should have been.
But here she is, anyway, waiting for him. More proof that she's screwed up, and probably not in a good way, but right now she cares not a bit. Despite everything he's done to her and her friends, everything she's done to him, as bad as they got, he still fills her stomach with fire. And, God, how she longs to give into that warmth, to let it consume her again.
She'd thought about that fire last night, as they'd lain in together in his basement cot; considered several lame means of seduction. She thinks he probably would have gone with it; she'd certainly felt the evidence of his desire as he'd pressed against her, arms around her and his fingers intertwined with hers. Yet so many moments simply passed, opportunities for kisses missed, hesitant caresses suddenly withdrawn, eyes that said so much suddenly cloaked and dropped. She didn't know where to start, and he...well, who knew what Spike thought anymore, really?
Well, only one way to find out.
With a final glance at the bathroom door, and a determined breath, Buffy pulls her still-bloodied shirt over her head.
************
He can smell her when he turns off the water. Slayer. Buffy. Her presence still makes him tingle.
She's waiting for him. Has to be, no other reason for dallying in his room, is there? Right satisfying that; proves he's earned a little respect. No more waltzing in, dragging him out, yellin' at him to get his arse in gear, and why wasn't he always at her beck and call? He's a little disappointed that she didn't peek, wander in and help herself to the view...
Only then he remembers with a blinding flash; white tiles and raised voices; his fingers tearing at her grey robe as she cried beneath him.
The satisfaction is instantly gone.
What the fuck could he really expect?
Hands on the basin, Spike takes a calming breath; waits for the inevitable rush of nausea to hit him and for the blasted voice of his conscience to start with the rant. But the pain's not as strong as it once was; just a constant low, dull throbbing; chronic it's become, rather than acute, and far easier to ignore. A few more moments, just to be sure he's not going to be hit with a surprise attack of the guilts, and Spike can raise his face to the foggy mirror. It's empty of course, but if movies are anything to go by, that's probably a good thing. Helps not to have to look at yourself.
Helps, too, that the Slayer trusts him again. Holding her, being near her again, he never quite expected that. Not exactly the dream relationship, no white picket fence and moonlight shags, but better than he'd ever dared hope before, and quite the improvement on doin' tricks for treats on command. This time the memory stirs a surprising anger in his stomach, a simmering little sensation of lingering resentment, the likes of which he hadn't felt for quite a while. Or maybe he just hadn't noticed. Whatever e stamps the feeling down, hard, pushes it back to some dark recess where it can simmer in silence. He'll just have to be careful not to get pissed off again, not to say something stupid in a fit of anger, not to push his luck and do anything unforgivable again.
With a shake of his head Spike pushes himself away from the basin and sets about pulling the remaining shreds of confidence and dignity together. It takes a few more seconds, but he accomplishes a passable façade.
"'s fine." He says softly. "Not perfect, can live what she offers. Work with it, anyhow..."
Still may as well give her a taste of what she's missing. He pulls the towel around his hips and settles it low. He's no choice but to wear nearly his birthday suit, not with his kit scattered all other the bedroom floor within view of her blushing eyes. Not even gonna try to feel bad about that.
Determinedly, Spike plasters on his on his best smirk as he pushes open the door. "Shoulda just come and gotten me, luv. Ain't nothing you haven't...seen."
The door opens, and his last word comes out as a squeak. He's almost afraid to blink, lest the vision before him vanish, because he's sure it can't be real. Finally lost those few remaining marbles. Cause he can't really be seeing a beautiful, naked Slayer in his bed, skin gold against the quilt cover, breasts bare, just the curve of a slender leg hiding Heaven. He feels the blood run south, and his brain melts.
Can. Not. Be. Real.
He's not sure how long he's been standing there, but he's suddenly aware of the thunderous beating of her heart, its tempo pounding and rushing; blood throbbing through her beneath flushed skin. She squirms a little, and with a Herculean effort, he forces his eyes to her face. Her look is strangely vulnerable, nervous, like she's ready to vault.
"Buffy? I um..." Fuck, was that his voice? He'd clearly lost all motor control when the blood rushed south. "I think, maybe, you wandered into the wrong room pet." Probably about the bloody stupidest thing he could've said, but he's sure there's no blood left in his brain.
Buffy suddenly looks terrified. "Okay, maybe not such a good idea..." she stammers. He half expects her to realise she's made just that mistake and drag the sheets around herself at any moment. Yet her hands stay still, white where her fingers grip the sheets, but making no move to raise them. Then her breasts rise as she takes an audible breath. "But it's no mistake," she says firmly, and he's not sure whether she's talking to him, or to herself.
"No?"
"No." She says calmly. "No mistake." He can see her drawing back confidence as she speaks, that self-assurance that takes his breath away. "And before you start with honourable defensiveness stuff - which really doesn't look that great on you, by the way: I'm not drunk, not stoned, not depressed, not possessed, no longer fearing the imminent passing of the world, and definitely not just seeking a last comfort shag or a way to pass the time till the next apocalypse. I'm just me. Total, one hundred percent unadulterated Buffy."
"Ready and willing and waiting..." he murmurs, transfixed.
His feet take an involuntary step toward the bed; the bed with the naked Slayer. They are tentative steps, like he's walking on fire, waiting for the hot coals to scorch. Any time now, that irritating little voice inside him will start up again; the one that'll tell him this is wrong, that she's mad, that he can't do this; that's it all wrong.
But there's nothing but silence.
The tingle in his groin is suddenly an ache, and he's not sure whether he'd be able to stop this anyway. Kinda hard to take the high road with a massive hard-on tenting your towel.
Buffy shoots him a coquettish look that instantly fizzles and evaporates the last shred of his willpower. "Spike, I'm tired of being proper, and waiting, and sticking to rules and everything else. So get that scrawny ass over here and ... ompf"
Her breath is cut off as he leaps, lands on her, pins her wrists to the mattress and presses his body against her, skin on skin. He's had it with goddamn fucking rules, too. She wants him, and it's enough. No, who's he kiddin'? It's more than enough.
The effect of the contact is explosive; that ever-present chemistry leaping and buzzing between them, sending searing-hot flashes of pleasure through his body. He's sure his heart contracts even as his body convulses, every inch of him longing for contact with warm, soft Buffy. He feels his cock grow incredibly, painfully hard.
And he'd thought the other type of touching was good!
Their gazes lock, arms grappling, bodies held together with supernatural strength. Her eyes are saucer-wide, and he feels himself drowning. Unable to resist, he leans over and licks a path from shoulder to ear, lapping at the salty trail of sweat. She shudders beneath him, hands clenching beneath his grasp.
"I dunno what's come over you lately, Slayer," he whispers into her ear. "But I like it."
"Yeah. So do I."
*******
"Thank you..." he says simply, sometime later, when nothing else seems appropriate.
She smiles softly, then runs her fingers down his flank, along the side of his thigh. "Well, wasn't exactly a chore. 'Sides, my seduction, so I think I should be thanking you for going along with it."
"Well, when you put it that way..." He smirks, almost Cheshire cat. "Takes a lot to make you smile. Know that. So I think I deserve to feel right good about myself, yeah."
And, yeah, he does feel good about himself. Saving the world, getting the girl, shagging her senseless, actually makin' her smile. All in a day's work for the new, improved Spike.
"Wanna feel even better?" She asks, placing a kiss on the sensitive hollow of his neck and her hand moves south.
He recognises a distraction technique when he sees one. She's not in the mood for seriousness, and times like this, trying to have a conversation with her could be a bit like playing chicken with a flame thrower. But then he's never gone for safe.
"In a bit..." He says, and she frowns, fingers hesitating in their caress. She doesn't fancy compromise, his slayer.
Spike grinds his teeth and briefly considers whether that makes him feel guilty or annoyed. He has the same emotions as always now, but sometimes it's harder to recognise them. The soul certainly added a degree of unpredictability to his life.
"I don't just mean thanks for this, although, yeah, it's a big part of it," he says. "More: thank you for trusting me again. Didn't think...well, wasn't holding my breath for you to ever let me near you again. Metaphorically speaking."
She shrugs. "Neither was I. And not just because of what you did to me, although that was a big part of it. But we were just badness together."
And he's no problem recognising the emotion that follows those words. Shame, burning in his stomach, a bitter taste in his throat and lead in his heart. "Shouldn't be makin' excuses for me, luv."
"No, I probably shouldn't. And you probably shouldn't forgive me, either. We probably all shouldn't do a lot of things..." She shakes her head. "But everything was so fucked up last year, and we've both changed and...God, Spike, you've changed so much. And screwed up or not, I still want you. So I'm gonna stop making excuses and start doing what I want to do a bit more, rather than what I should. Live for the moment, you know?"
He nods. There's truth in her words, hidden amongst the confusion, and he can feel that annoying little bubble of hope begin to swell inside him. "And when we leave this room, close that door behind us. What happens then?"
She drops her gaze, hair falling over her face. Now that's the Buffy he knows only too well, evasive and reticent and beholden to her friends. Except that she surprises him once more. "I'm not hiding you -us, if that's what you're asking. Wouldn't do that again."
The bubble nearly bursts. "Bloody right," he says, with far more confidence than he feels. "Sick of that crap. Not gonna let you." He knows he couldn't live like that again; a fellow had to have a sense of self-preservation, if not a shred of dignity.
Her fingers find his again, and she grasps his hand, her other hand tracing, drawing his gaze to hers. "Good. And Spike - don't. Let me."
"Not a chance." He nods. "And, after we've strolled outta here, hand in hand, smiled at Droopy Boy and the Watcher?"
"We get on the bus, go to LA. Giles has tickets for us all, and most of the girls have passports. We're flying outta here."
"Right." He should be happy, but Spike wonders when this was decided. Last night? Today? When he was in the shower? He struggles against another burst of that mercurial emotion, the sudden wave of resentment that no one thought to ask him. "You all off someplace?"
"London," she answers, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Giles wants me to come 'home' with him. Restart the Council, maybe..."
"Bunch of wankers, better off without 'em..." he says in disbelief. Maybe it's not the best time for thinkin', but he can hardly believe that Buffy, barely free from the blighters, would want them back again.
"I was going to say 'the Council, or something like it.' Different, somehow. Fewer stuffy old men giving orders from above, more democracy. Better pay."
"And your part in this will be...?"
"I think the term was 'consultant.' Means I get paid to advise and stuff. Maybe even help train. It sounds fun, and useful, and Giles says I can go back to school and they'll foot the bill. Or he will really, cause he has all the money now. I mean, how great is that? And I get away from here for a while. Away from all this. Time for a change. Never even been out of California, you know."
He nods, forces out words that stick in his throat. "Right. That's good..."
Buffy frowns slightly. "You don't like the idea?"
"No! I..." It's good news, he tells himself firmly. Slayer'll get an education, get a decent job, get out of this life. He should be right happy. But his heart feels like lead. "Oh, fuck it. No, it's not all right. Bloody unacceptable. When was this decided anyway? Takin' off, half-way 'round the world. No way to carry on anything..."
His voice fades as he watches her expression change from confusion to surprise.
"You don't want to come to London? With me?" She asks, her voice small and hurt.
He blinks. Wonders if maybe he misheard. "That an invitation?"
"Of course it is..." And then she laughs. "Oh my God, you thought I'd...? That I wouldn't take you with me? After that?"
"Never know what to think with you..." he says honestly.
She rolls her eyes dramatically, then leans over and kisses him so deeply he's left with no doubt about her intentions. "Spike, I hadn't even thought of going without you." And pause, then, "provided you, um, want to come..."
He laughs briefly, then summons as much false dignity as he can. "Have to think about that. Thinkin' I might need incitement, something to make it worthwhile."
She grins, rises to the bait. "How about some persuasion?" Her eyes are still bright and happy, almost gleeful for once, as she moves her hands lower to trace the contours of his rapidly hardening cock, to stroke his balls.
He groans, then smirks, and makes a show of lying back, hands behind his head.
"Okay, Slayer, give it your best shot and I'll give the proposition my full consideration, yeah?"
It's hours before it occurs to him that she never really doubted he'd follow.