He's the light in her fridge (1/?) by dutchbuffy2305
Pairing: Faith/Spike
Rating: R
Author's note: Sequel to His voice is like a Mars-bar
Author's website:
Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
Faith always rattles the door first. Anything for a chance not to have to take off her gloves and fish for the icy cold key with her bare hands. But her luck's out, and maybe so is Spike if the door's locked. Her fingers are clumsy and stiff, and the itchy bored feeling doesn't help. She really needs Spike to scratch the itch for her, but she already sort of knows he won't be home. The empty rooms confirm this.
Okay. Faith peels off gloves, hat and scarf, and unzips her jacket, basking in the warmth of the little house. She isn't taking the jacket off yet for some reason, and if she just waits it out the hunch'll become clearer. She pauses in front the fridge, thinks of fixing herself a snack, flips on the TV, flips it off again. The restlessness is because of not getting in a good slay, and she should just plunk down on the couch and get some rest, but a deep uneasiness about Spike won't let her.
Oh. The hunch is about Spike. She zones off, thinking about him, what she wants him to do to her right now, like give it to her straight with her legs in the air. With a shock she realizes she's been standing stock still in the middle of the kitchen for at least five minutes, gnawing her knuckles all the while.
That settles it. She suits up again against the fiercely chilly Cleveland night air and heads off to his favorite sleazy dive. It's not like with her Mom, who had to be hauled home blind drunk nearly every evening, nothing like, Spike's just hurting. He needs time to get over losing Buffy, and she's damn well gonna give him that time. She'd better get his drunken grieving ass home. He can miss B. just as well in their nice bed together, with his sweet dick up her pussy, as he can on a barstool in some provincial wannabe biker bar.
It's a hefty slog towards the bar, as their home is located for convenient closeness to cemeteries and local Hell mouths and not for nightlife accessibility. Faith is cold and her boots are wet and she's so tired that she almost turns around. But she doesn't, because taking care of Spike is still numero uno on her private list, and has been since the Sunnydale cave-in, or the "Sunny Dale of Death' as some newspaper coyly called it. He's her lodestone, her thermometer, the light that went on when he opened the door of her freezer. As far as she's concerned, defrosting is a permanent state now in Faith country. She wishes she was surer of what Spike's getting out of their being together. He fucks her long and hard and often, which she was kind of counting on, he holds her tightly in bed, which she's getting used to, but for the rest, he doesn't seem to be there so much anymore. He's lost his taste for violence, and just slouches in front of the TV all day, drinking and smoking. He's not a lush like her ma, of course, but it still worries her.
She hears the bar before she sees it, tinny disjointed strands of music flying on that fucking chill wind they've got going here. When she's about a hundred yards from the sagging shed the locals call Stinky Ned's, a macking couple lurches out of the door. The girl, a tiny brassy blonde, leans the guy against the dumpster and unbuttons his jeans, stripping him with practiced hands. The guy's head is in shadow but Faith would know the big hands that come to rest unsteadily on the girl's shoulders anywhere. She turns as cold inside as the Cleveland night. So that's what he's been up to.
She approaches softly, slowly, reluctant to witness this but unable not to.
Spike pushes the girl down in the snow, obviously expecting a blowjob. Faith suppresses a hysterical giggle when the girl slaps his hands away indignantly.
"Are you crazy? I'm not getting down in the slush with these pants! Your dick's not worth a pair of suede pants! Come on, gimme a leg up!"
There's a lot of stumbling and near falling, and Faith could almost find it funny, this little woman holding up her super strong helplessly drunk vampire, but it's very unfunny because he's hers. Or she thought he was. She inches closer, sick to her stomach but needing to see and hear it all.
The girl is standing on a pair of flimsy crates now, and pushing and pulling at Spike's ass. Spike is shaking his head, mumbling something Faith can't catch.
"That's right, you big old stud," the girl pants. "All the way in. They all said you were the best, and you sure have something big going for ya."
Faith can't believe she hasn't bashed the damn woman to the other side of the parking lot yet. She must be insane, standing here listening to her guy fuck another woman. What's he saying?
"It doesn't burn. You're not her. Are you the right woman for me?" Spike is saying. Oh, is that so? His hips are moving all by themselves, then, huh?
Faith's had enough. She's going to walk away and when Spike comes home, she'll be gone. Cut her losses. He never loved her, obviously. People who love you don't fuck other people.
The girl moans. Spike moans. He pushes himself away from the girl and fall ass-backwards in the not quite solid slush. The girl tumbles down from her crates as well. Still Faith's boots seem frozen to the lot.
"Who are you?" Spike says dazedly. "Go away. You're not her."
Faith is walking towards him before she's realized she's going to. Good thing she did, because the angry slut is starting to kick her Spike, and Faith really hates that. If someone gonna be whaling on Spike it's her, not fake five foot tall blondes in pink stretch polyester.
God. Spike looks beautiful, even lying in the snow on his bare ass with his jeans to his knees and his shirt around his ears. His hair looks very yellow against the snow's dirty grey. She can feel something inside her twitch at the sight of his cock, which is stupid enough to stand up straight in the freezing air.
She hauls up the chick by the scruff of her neck and tells her to get the hell way from her man.
"What you want that jerk for, honey?" the bitch yells back, trying to get her ugly pink pants over her puckered blue butt. "He's been doing half the town!"
Faith wouldn't really care, normally. People get itchy sometimes, no harm in scratching it. He can have his fun if he needs to, as long as she knows he's hers. Which she doesn't, so yeah, this does hurt.
Spike looks at her as if he's gonna puke. Faith doesn't think vampires do that. She gets him to his feet, stuffs his dick back into his pants, which isn't easy, as the damn thing won't go down. It makes Spike giggle. She doesn't slap him, which should get her major Brownie points. Vampires don't feel the cold, but she puts his clothes back to rights anyway. She's the one that's gonna suffer from a stone cold vampire in her bed, and she wants to minimize the warming up time.
She spots his stupid bike, and finds the key in his pocket. The way back seems to take even longer than when she was walking up here, which can't be true, but then she's being very careful not to slip. Don't wanna break the precious vampire.
She pushes Spike in the direction of the front door. She puts on the lock, gets out the bike's cover from the shed and yanks it over it. When she's done she stomps to the front door, pissing mad all over again because of all these little responsible tasks, which aren't like her, but which she does for him. Spike's still standing outside.
Stubborn drunk idiot. Faith pushes him inside, straight toward the bedroom, strips him off and tumbles him in bed, not saying a word. All she wants is to sleep, she thinks while struggling out of her own cold stiff jeans and boots, but the block of ice lying next to her will make that impossible. She needs to get an electric blanket or something.
She crawls in, in no mood to make nice. Spike's apparently oblivious to all this because he snuggles up to her with a satisfied grunt, all five foot ten of him stone cold and reeking of beer. Faith holds herself stiffly, not pushing her ass in his groin the way he likes. She's so not getting any sleep tonight.
When Faith wakes the whole bedroom is lit with an eerie soft grey light, and she can hardly hear the highway traffic zooming past. In bed all is warm and comfy and silky skin against hers, and she feels pure bliss for about a whole second before memory kicks in. She peels off the vampire limpet roughly and sits up jerkily.
Spike half wakes up, fuzzily grabbing after his living hot water bottle, and then slowly becomes fully awake, no doubt sped up by her furious glare.
"Oh," he says guiltily.
"Yeah, oh!" Faith snarls back. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"
Spike looks very remorseful. "I was drunk?"
"I don't mean that. Why d'you get drunk alone?"
As soon as she's asked that Faith realizes the answer. She draws her knees to her chest and clasps them tightly. "You think I don't know you're still thinking of Buffy?"
"Faith, I'm…You're the sweetest thing ever happened to me. But I'm no shining hero. I'm evil. I'm a bad boyfriend."
Faith knows her eyes are filling up and she turns her head away to stare at the windows. She's forgotten to pull the drapes last night and she has a full view of the white flakes that are twirling down. Great. Snow. The California bunnies would love it, but she much prefers to be warm. Damn Cleveland. Why didn't she leave last night? She could have been on a bus heading south right now, instead of letting her guy break her like glass with his sad blue eyes. She's been broken before, but she always did it out of sight of people she cares about. And she was right; this hurts more than being alone.
Besides, Spike's lying. He's not good at that, so he shouldn't even try. He thinks she wants him to be over Buffy and forget about damn B. already.
"I think you're the perfect boyfriend," she says, her voice muffled in her arms. "I just don't know why you want to hide from me. I know you still love Buffy, that you don't love me. It's okay."
Spike doesn't speak, just slides up to her from behind and puts his arms around her. He kisses her neck softly, just at the nape, one of her favorite spots to be kissed on. That's sweet, and when he gently uncoils her from her tight huddle, and makes love to her, it's very nice. Or even fucking brilliant, actually, because they are amazing together, always. But she just wishes he'd say he loved her sometimes. She wishes he didn't lie so badly, so she could pretend it was true.
He nips at the place where neck and shoulder join and Faith can't help arching her back. He makes a small growly sound and okay, she's made from KY jelly and just slides around him. She can't help it, he's so fuckable. They're like these little obscene magnets figures; if the distance is small enough they will just click together and fuse. Faith rolls onto her back and makes Spike do most of the work, her new secret joy. He's the only guy she's ever met she can count on to look after her pleasure. There's just this edge of scariness and bad memories about it to make it zing for her. She hoists up her knees as far as she can and grabs his velvet ass. Harder. He's being mean about it and taking his time, which she know will make it better in the end, but right now she's short attention span girl and wants it pronto. Not as if he can't do seconds, or gazillions even. She squeezes her Slayer muscles and sees him close his eyes and his stomach muscles quiver for a moment. When his eyes are open again they're a darker blue that burn holes in her soul just by looking.
After, Faith is sprawled out on her back, still faintly tingling, while Spike traces poems on her breasts, murmuring them into her neck. The words sound so pretty but she can never remember them. If she could she'd speak poetry back to him, but she doesn't have the words to capture his prettiness and the feel of his skin or the way he smells of himself and strip caps and hot metal.
TBC