Title: Many Roads
Author: Lily Ann
Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com
Chapter 7: I See Thee Better In the Dark
Afternoon lapsed into evening while Buffy slept. She awoke to a room painted in shadow and one lamp glowing on the mantelpiece, a tiny oasis of tangerine light to temper the darkness.
Surfacing in fits and starts, the first thing she was aware of was soft-woven warmth, draped over her arms and legs like a benediction. Followed by food smells--onion and spices and frying meat--that made her stomach clench from long neglect. But, it was the rhythmic, prick-pricking of claws, digging right through her thick, borrowed shirt, that finally pulled her fully back to the world. Tiny talons, hooking and releasing. Shallow but sharp.
Buffy's eyes flew open in alarm. And clashed, to her surprise, with another pair. Round, green, clear. Attached to the biggest cat that ever lived, outside of the Los Angeles Zoo. A bed pillow with legs: soft, plump, snowy white. And very content to remain sprawled on top of her, judging by the rusty sound effects.
"Hi, there." she murmured nervously, unsuccessfully attempting to de-pin her arms. "Nice, non-violent kitty. You're very...ample."
The animal graced her with her a withering look that was fairly easy to interpret. Couch-hogging human, you are very stupid.
Pinned down by several pounds of cat flesh, Buffy wasn't sure what to do next. Her experience with pets began and ended with an iguana named Chuck, who visited the Summers apartment over Christmas break the year Buffy turned eleven. A refugee of Mrs. Blixen's science classroom, Chuck panicked when she forgot to latch his cage one night, wandered into the kitchen, and became tragically lodged in the toaster. Come morning, the appliance leggo of Buffy's Eggo and crispy fried Chuck, to her lasting trauma.
But this was no iguana that could be effortlessly picked up by its tail. She was gearing up to shout for help–or a crane–when rescue appeared in the doorway, wiping wet hands on the seat of his jeans and snorting with amusement.
"Sid, get off the lady's tits b'fore I pan you good."
Barely able to see over the cat's bulk, Buffy tracked Spike's progress with her ears. Half a dozen booted steps across the hardwood, until he reappeared beside the couch, backlit by the warmer, white light spilling from the kitchen, and casually plucked the massive animal off her chest.
"Bloated sausage. Be in an arse load of trouble, you will, if the better half twigs you've been makin' a case with Buffy here."
From her vantage point, the scene was surreal. Like some alternative nature show. Dr. Doolittle for anarchists. Throwing the afghan aside, she trailed after man and cat as they made their way back to the kitchen. Hovered, a little uncertainly, in the doorway, watching Spike go about his business with the portly creature tucked under his arm like a hairy football.
"I think I met Sid's...better half...on the way in," She ventured forward, stroked the bony little skull.
Spike frowned at something bubbling under a silver lid. "Haughty little bag o' bones with colossal attitude? That would be–"
"Let me guess," Buffy cut in."Nancy, right?"
He replied in mock-delight."Why, pet! Teen Beat bumped the git Timberlake for tragic goth love? That August periodical? I'm perfectly gobsmacked."
Buffy frowned."I wasn't in an asylum on Mars or... some other planet without radios." She pinned Spike with the lofty look of womanly superiority. Added defensively, "I know some things."
"Other than how to jump around in your tighties yellin' 'rah rah sis boom bah? Do tell."
She wondered how the frilly hell he knew about her lost glory days as a cheerleader. That era of pom-poms and pep rallies that felt like a different lifetime. Perhaps, it was. "Don't mock my splits. They were brilliant." She couldn't suppress a nostalgic little sniff. "Too bad the coma thing terminated my meteoric rise."
Spike snickered in that hectoring way that made her temper flare."Bloody tragic for all mankind. Makes me want to bust into a chorus o' 'The Squad Will Go On.'"
Buffy planted her hands on her hips, put off by the rude lack of sympathy."Why are you being mean-and- snippy guy?"
He replied with a percussion of obnoxious pan-rattling. Then, "Heat. Kitchen. You know the sodding drill."
Buffy swallowed,"Yeah, I do." Her chest felt very tight. "I'll just go somewhere...frostier." She hadn't many options, since it was dark outside, and, they were miles from nowhere, but staying where she wasn't wanted appealed about as much as a mouthful of stitches.
She stepped toward the door, but a blur of motion dipped around to her left and materialized as Spike, looking somewhat abashed–and strangely vulnerable. Like he'd been shoved into her path, not chosen to block the way. "Not gonna bolt over a jot of teasing, are you? Was just takin' the piss, that's all."
Buffy stared up at him. Wondered if her heart was in her eyes. "No, you weren't. But thank you for saying it."
Spike sighed. Soft and soul-weary, which she wasn't expecting. "Suppose I'm just not used to house guests is all. Not for...awhile now."
Buffy remembered that closet, full of packed up dreams. It smelled of Woman. A blend of roses and languor and rain. Essence of life. "Since your girlfriend left? Or was she your wife?"
"No." Spike's sounded far away, buffeted by some bitter wind, full of memories. Older than the incorrigible boy she met in the driveway, beside a brace of maple trees. Wearier. "She wasn't my wife."
"I'm sorry," Buffy offered, watching the lightning flashes of remembered pain buffet his face. A storm in progress. Thought, how much willpower it must be to leave you. Or to stay.
Spike shrugged, visibly came back to himself. "S' not your fault. Can't fix what's always been busted." He turned off the stove with a hand that shook slightly. Whether it was from emotion or his natural hyperactivity, Buffy couldn't say. Pulling two plates out of the cupboard, he closed the subject with a final observation, reassuringly profane. "Only thing to do sometimes is move the fuck on. Remember what was good 'n leave the rest."
Buffy eyed him skeptically. Move on. Uh-huh. That's why you can't even look at her clothes without hotel-sized angst. "I guess that translates as you're not down with the wallowing."
Spike nodded his agreement. "Suppose not."
"Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky?"
"Sounds 'bout right."
"Master of the your domain?"
"Absolutely. Now, bin it before I pop you."
Buffy was on a roll. One more for the road. "Pretty much a non-brood-athon?"
Spike scowled, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the serving spoon in his hand "You're a total barmcake. Two bob short of a paycheck. Y'know that, right?' He flicked a napkin at her. Shook his head in mock-wonderment. "The things you say. Muddle any sane bloke's head, they would."
"We're darn lucky there aren't any around here, then." Buffy cheerfully stuck her tongue out at him.
Spike retaliated by flicking the stirring spoon, showering Buffy in greasy droplets. She shrieked and darted out of the way. "Now my clothes are all...foody! You are truly evil."
Spike responded with an even larger splat, right in the middle of her forehead. Buffy sputtered with indignation. "The evilest!"
Spike smirked. "You know it, baby." And before she could even process that particular endearment–more intimate, somehow, than the rest–he brought the spoon down across her rear. Lightly enough to be a friendly 'get-moving' gesture, but Buffy felt it to her core. A mad flush that spread out from the place he'd made contact and rolled through her groin and belly like warm butterscotch. Leaving her breathless.
Spike, meanwhile, had turned back to the stove, oblivious. "Sup's on, love. Park your fanny 'fore I have to paddle it again."
Staring at the softly curling hair at the nape of his neck, Buffy tried to gather herself. And failed miserably. She slid gracelessly into her chair, still trembling with...with...whatever he made her feel. She hadn't yet defined it. Might not have the chance at all, since all this was brief. Only till morning, lest she forget.
Spike was watching her with rare, soft eyes of concern. "Look a dot peaked, you do. Gonna throw a sickie, pet?"
"No. I'm fine, really." Buffy dropped her napkin in her lap. Took a deep breath. Chanted serenity now a couple thousand times on fast forward. "What's for dinner?"
***********************************************************************
Kidneys.
"Oh my God." Buffy stared at the plate he'd dropped in front of her. "That's an...organ.' She looked up at him like he might be kind and deny it. "From something no longer living. Here," she pointed at it. "On the table."
Spike rolled his eyes. "S'not like I tore it out myself. What're you bein' such a misery-guts for?"
Buffy closed her eyes. "Oh. Let there be no mentioning of guts. Please. I'll...throw a sickie."
"Okay, then!" Spike hastily removed the offending dish. "Let's not mither with these anymore, right?"
"Thanks." Buffy felt her stomach settle back into place.
"No fuss, love. Got a ton o' leftovers. Bound to be somethin' inoffensive in here." He pulled the refrigerator door open. Rooted in it's frosty depths. "Lamb cutlets? Egg and olive salad? Leftover faggots?"
"Faggots?" Buffy repeated incredulously. "In England, people actually go into a restaurant and order faggots?"
"Yeah," Spike pulled his head out of the freezer. "Right tasty, too. Liver, bread, beef fat all mixed tog–"
"Stop, please." Buffy held up a staying hand. "Officially revolted, here." She focused miserable eyes on Spike. "Sorry to be such an ivy league whiner."
He shrugged. "M' not whingin' about it." He left the refrigerator and moved on to the cupboards. Pulled out a familiar brown jar and held it up. "What say you to this?"
Buffy eyes widened. "Any other time? That it's really fattening and bad for you. Right now? I say hand over the peanut butter before there's violence."
Spike laughed and tossed her the jar.
Ten minutes later, she was on her third sandwich. And preparing another. Spike watched her with the kind of awed fascination one reserves for small children and monkeys at the zoo. At her baleful look, he'd set aside his own plate of kidneys and dug into the jar as well. The table was already a sticky morass of peanutty smears and spongy white bread crusts, cups of fruit punch, beer, and congealing grape jelly.
"Sorry," Buffy mumbled around a mouthful. "M' being a pig."
"Yeah," Spike agreed mildly. "It's grand. Just a branch, you are. Get any piddlin' smaller and I'll need the spy glass."
Buffy swallowed a bite of sandwich, "Says Mr. Bony Wrists himself. Look at this." She reached across the table, picked up his hand, and shook it at eye level. "Ichabod Crane, much?"
"Oi, Twiggy," Spike countered. "I'm fit as a butcher's dog."
His language fascinated her. "What does that mean?"
"Means if we wrestled, I'd win."
Oh. Oh.
The visual of that proffered match hit her like a violent impact, smashed through everything that was comfortable and safe. Relatively inexperienced, she had no idea that six words–six–could spin her to a place she'd never been. Into the burning place her thoughts had only touched on in passing. The place of men and women, twisting in sweat-soaked darkness, pulling sounds from each other that were old when the world was new. Wavering souls coming into balance, tangling in salt. Wrapped in each other and in the act of--
Buffy leaped to her feet, sending her drink flying.
Breaking out of the fantasy didn't really help, though, to her dismay. Because he was still watching her with those dusky eyes across the punch-splattered table. Seeing far too much for a wild boy she was going to be leaving, come daybreak. Whittling away at her pretenses by getting all lusty and charismatic. Making her want things she'd never had.
She wasn't ready. Not for the likes of him.
Deciding avoidance was the way to go, Buffy grabbed a wad of napkins, dabbed frantically at the spill.
"So sorry...I'll get with the cleanage--Mrs. Clean, here. Working hard.--Do you have any, um–"
Only dimly aware that she was babbling, Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin when he placed a hand over hers, halting her breathless efforts. Didn't say a word, just slanted his eyes toward her abandoned chair, and that was enough. Still clutching her soggy towels, Buffy slowly sank down into it. If he'd asked her to do back flips down the Hollywood Strip naked, she'd probably have complied.
A long moment passed before he spoke. He was the brave one, she thought. Always going first.
"What did you think you'd find here, Buffy?"
It was her turn to be brave, Buffy decided. She owed him her fragile truth, at the very least. Finding his eyes, she answered with as much honesty as she could. "I don't know, Will. Spike. I suppose I thought maybe...maybe you'd seen her, too. Aurora."
"Aurora, " he repeated slowly, shaking his head, "was born in my imagination. And there she stays. S'not like the chit's livin' up country and drops notes in the post."
"But–" Buffy began.
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Don't know why all that shite happened to you. How come you're seein' things. Got bollocks for answers, pet, if that's what you're mad for."
God, he was stubborn."I thought you'd at least listen to--"
"No, you thought I'd just nance along with your bampot story." He'd risen, started to throw dishes in the sink. Answered her not only with words but the slim expanse of his back. "Be a good little sidearm, tucked up all safe." Buffy heard something break in the sink. "Your bloody boy Friday."
"No, that's not–" Buffy gave up, let her denial lie. He wasn't going to believe her. And the blood dripping from his finger was really kind of distracting. Why did members of the male species always break things to prove a point? It was like a law of nature. Women rationalized, men got stitches.
"Here, let me see that." Wrapping a towel around his hand, she squeezed it tightly between her own. He started to pull away, but she held on. "Stop being a jackass." The plain language seemed to work. He stopped struggling. Emboldened, Buffy wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, forced eye contact. "And don't do that again. Please. Never, ever hurt yourself because of me." Her eyes pleaded with him. "It's not what I want."
Spike scoffed. "Then you're pretty fucking unique among women. It's all you lot ever do. Get a bloke's motor revving, then pull a runner. I won't do it again. I won't." There was a pleading edge to his voice, and Buffy wondered who he was trying to convince, her or himself.
"I think blood loss has gone to your head." Buffy steered him into a chair like a big, pliable doll. "Sit. Stay."
She found gauze and antiseptic in the bathroom. Unwrapped the wound and picked the shards of glass out while Spike pulled determinedly on another bottle of beer. Alcoholic tendencies to add to their fun, she noted, and felt the thrum of a massive tension headache coming on strong.
***************************************************************
"Stop squirming. Do you want me to poke you?"
"Oooh, dirty girl."
With a bit of the sauce in him, Spike's good humor had returned. He could almost get past her utter gall. Sodding Buffy, with her pert little body and bouncy blonde hair. Waltzing into his life like the bloody Queen of England. Not thinking about him at all, of course. Or how he'd feel when she waltzed out. Had her quest, she did. And that was everything. Wanted to find out where she came from, where she was going. Just like Dru. Beautiful Dru, drawing down the moon with her lovely, dark eyes and gypsy ways. Gifted with the sight. On a spiritual path he couldn't follow.
They all left. Bloody women.
Only girl he could count on was Nancy.
All curled up in his lap, she was. Glaring at the interloper with big, jealous peepers. The (admittedly small) part of his brain that wasn't mired in depression and alcohol recognized that he was putting a hell of a lot on a cat, who might get flattened by a car someday. Or catch a feline disease.
It hurt his heart to think about that. Darling little Nancy getting the leukemia and leaving him all alone. He shared this with Buffy, who stared at him like bats were flapping out his arse.
"What the hell are you talking about? As usual, I have no idea."
Hmmmphh. Figures, he thought grumpily. Looked all sweet bandaging his finger. Like a little nurse. Till she opened her sassy mouth and let fly.
"Hold still." It was an order, not a request. "I'm almost done."
"Smashing. Have I got any buggering skin left?"
"No. I pulled it all off with these tweezers. Big baby."
Spike scowled. Mouthy wench.
Buffy reached over him for the bandages, barely missing Nancy's swiping claws. Spike smirked. That's my girl.
"I don't think she likes me," Buffy observed.
Spike shrugged. "Course she doesn't. You're competition." He stroked the cat affectionately. "No need to be jealous, poppet. S' plenty o' Spike to go around."
Buffy reached over, tentatively petted the soft ears. Addressed Nancy one-on-one. Woman to woman. "You can't help it can you? I'd be cranky, too, with such a silly name." She valiantly ignored Spike's fit of coughing and continued. "Kitties should have names like Fluffy. Or Fifi."
"Oi," Spike cut in. "Nobody liked my other choices!"
"Do I dare ask?"
"Multiple and Orgasms, of course."
She turned ten shades of scarlet, to Spike's delight. "Did you ever have any shame to speak off?"
"Course, I did. Right up till the Doc slapped my pearly cheeks hello."
"Somehow, I doubt that." Buffy set the tweezers aside. Tied the bandage off with surprisingly nimble fingers. "All done."
"Jolly." Spike got to his feet, with minimal swaying, dumping an indignant Nancy on the floor. "Flaked out., I am."
"Yeah." Buffy still had her little face lifted up, all expectant-like. It took Spike a moment to figure out what she wanted. Been away from people too long, mate.
He held up his injured hand. "Ta. Good show."
"I'll assume that means 'thanks,'" Buffy rolled her eyes.
"Spot on, love." Spike yawned. "Clean this shambles up tomorrow, yeah? Look like you're fagged out, too, pet."
"Um, sure." The girl had that puzzled look on again. Like he was talking bloody Swahili.
Spike flipped the kitchen light out. Hovered, for a moment, inches away from her in the near-pitch darkness. Close enough to smell the peanut-butter on her breath. To breathe in girl-sweat and....fear? But, why? Sheltered, she was, he supposed. Her youth pretty much done in by what life dealt. A burst of tenderness accompanied this observation, which he ruthlessly clamped down on. Cause this, too, would pass. He wouldn't, couldn't be her rest stop on the way to something better. Convenient, till sanity returned with the morning light.
"Night, love." He forced breeziness into the words. For both of them. "See you in the morning."
Halfway to his lonely bed, Spike turned. She was still standing there, a silhouette in the inky darkness. Fragile little lady of flowers. Beyond ephemeral. Already half-gone.
With a groan, he turned and went back.
************************************************************
Buffy couldn't have been more surprised when he returned, tipsy but determined. In all honesty, she'd have been less shocked if he'd belted out a David Hasslehoff medley and declared himself king of Romania.
The kitchen was very dark. She could barely see him, but for his hair, shining like a streak of tears.
"What is it?" The hour was so late. Made for whispering. "Is something wrong?"
"No." White teeth flashed in the night midnight hour. A wolf grin. 'But you can't sleep in that."
Buffy relaxed. "Is that a nice way of telling me my clothes stink?"
"Wasn't meant that way. But, now that you mention it....Ouch! Mind the delicates, pet!" Spike evaded her stomping toes. "Why are you bloody women so mad keen on the violence?"
"Oh, bin it." Buffy affected a (very bad) cockney accent. "Drama queen."
"Crackpot."
"Pig."
"Bitch." Spike took the round with a classic.
"I hate you," Buffy lied.
"Mutual."
"Are we done, now?"
"Looks that way."
"Good." Buffy called the match on account of hygiene. "I'd like to de-stink."
********************************************************
While she lingered in the bathtub for a long, blissful hour, Spike took it upon himself to wash her clothes, which presented a problem. With her things spinning in "the cycle," as he so quaintly called it–like there was only one in existence–she had two options: stay in the bathroom all night, or borrow something of his. Obviously, the second choice was more logical. Yet, she balked. Wearing his flannel shirt was one thing. Sleeping in something that had touched his skin was a whole other kettle of fish. More intimate. Binding, somehow. The act of lovers, not two people whose short acquaintance made guerilla warfare look like a knitting class. Never in her life had anyone spoken to her like he did. They always deferred. Always. Out of fear and love and more fear.
He was talking to her now, through the bathroom door, which was cracked open just wide enough to pass in a black T-shirt. Buffy took it gingerly, imagining all the potentially embarrassing scenarios that might arise from that one piece of cloth. What if there was a fire? Or it got snagged on something?
"Um, Spike? I prefer to sleep in something more...more. Like a parka. We were very afraid of hypothermia in our family."
"Buffy." Spike sounded exasperated
"It's the silent killer. Brrrr."
"Look, shirt's long enough so your girly bits won't flap out, right?"
"I guess," Buffy grumbled reluctantly.
"Put the fuckin' thing on, then!" Spike exploded.
"Stop yelling at me!"
"Quit actin' like a belle!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
Buffy jerked the shirt over her head. "Happy, now?"
"Chuffed." He swung the door open without waiting for the official go-ahead. Leaned against the sink and raked Buffy up and down with those heady eyes that spelled trouble. "Look biteable in that rig, you do."
Buffy tugged self-consciously at the hem. Turned the color of cherry Lifesavers. But her stomach gave a funny little flip at his obvious approval. "I look like the ho of the universe."
Spike shook his head. "Leave off the sad-sack routine. M'not so much of a bumpkin that I can't appreciate a beautiful woman. We don't get much of your type round here."
Buffy lifted her chin. "And what's my type, exactly?"
Spike's eyes crinkled up around the edges when he smiled. Really smiled, without shields. She hadn't noticed that before. "Fiery," he clarified, adding the Head tilt of Doom–oh, not that--just to make her feel like she was hip deep in warm syrup. Evil, evil man.
Well, two could play at this game.
A slight mist still hazed the bathroom, hung in the air between them like a promise of heat. His hair was curling wildly from the steam, white as breakers, and a single droplet of sweat raced down the jut of one cheekbone like a liquid challenge. Buffy was naturally competitive; what else could she do but take it up? From somewhere outside of herself, she watched her hand go rogue, reach for that bead of moisture, pluck it away. It glittered on her fingertip like a jewel until Spike seized her wrist in his strong fingers and licked it away, oceanic eyes fixed on her the entire time.
She started at the rough-soft scrape of his tongue on her flesh. Instinctively pulled away as the sensation entered her being with a jolt, shredding cherished illusions about men. That the suitable ones were always polite and courteous. Up and coming in the world, weaving their magic on Wall Street or the stock exchange. Safe as houses, the better way to live and love. Because bad boys were fleeting and no woman wanted an eternal heartbreak like William Hunt.
Did they?
He scowled at her half-hearted attempt to disengage. Rumbled, deep in his chest. Bass thunder that Buffy immediately labeled the stay-put sound. Low, brief, and barely contained, it set off flares under her skin, shocking little blazes of primitive recognition. She'd never given much thought to her body's needs and wants. Its femaleness. But, there was something about him. No, him and her together –call it Kismet, call it chemistry; heck, call it magic–that made her want to exercise her power. Flirt and laugh and paint her toes a terrible, garish scarlet. Dance like it was the last day. Touch and be touched, until time was done.
Make Spike rumble some more.
She was being careless, and the part of her brain that wasn't fixated on steam, and soap bubbles, and Spike recoiled at the irresponsibility. But her hand was still a free agent, and the look in his eyes when she laid it on his damp forearm was well worth the mental anguish. The muscle spasmed, even at that light touch, and Spike groaned, like he was in pain. Buffy jerked her hand away, thrown by the reaction. The set jaw and imperceptibly shaking shoulders. Those trembling hands. She couldn't stop staring. Carol P. Christ, what would he have done if she'd used her nails? Had an aneurism?
He was made to be touched. How long had it been? She wondered. Probably forever, faithful to a fleeting memory of the girl who left him behind. The ghost of the closet.
The silence was thick as a shag rug, and Buffy attempted to cut it with humor. "Oops. Did I do that?"
Hoping another bold manoeuver wouldn't send him over the edge–not yet, anyway–she reached out and laid her hand over his wildly thumping heart.
Spike rolled his eyes. "No. It was bloody Bea Arthur on telly." Without turning around, he kicked the door shut and spun Buffy around. She eeped in surprise, dimly aware that she was now facing her own reflection in the mirror and he was standing behind her. Close. Too close. With the unyielding edge of the vanity in front, she had no choice but to stand there and wait for whatever happened next. There was no going back...literally.
Spike picked up a hairbrush. "Got snarls, pet. It'll be rat's nest by morning." He began dragging it through her wet tangles with an outrageous air of calm, like he brushed a woman's hair everyday.
Oh God. Buffy could see them in the half-misted mirror. Two false blondes, both rather short. Identically swathed in black. Every detail was suddenly overwhelming in its clarity: the tilt of his head, the hard, plastic pull of the brush, her white-knuckled grip on the sink. The way he was positioned like a buffer between her and the world.
Buffy liked the way they looked. She liked it far too much. This had to stop. Before that wily trickster, time, stopped it for them. She attempted to squirm away, only to bump into his...he had a...oh god. She knew men got...erections...easily, but they were barely touching. The inch of space he'd left between her bottom and his crotch saw to that.
Spike noticed her flaming face. Correctly guessed the source of her distress. "Sorry, poodle. It's a man thing."
He didn't sound very apologetic at all. Spike was obviously enjoying her embarrassment, which just wouldn't do.
Mentally shrugging off her doubts about what she planned to do next, Buffy dragged in a deep breath. When in Rome and all that. Then, she took a deliberate step back. "Sorry. It's a Buffy thing."
Spike made a different kind of sound, rough and high and helpless, when she pressed her rear into his groin. Spun her around and lifted her like she was a doll, utterly weightless, and settled her on the hard edge of the vanity. Buffy was acutely aware of her bare legs, hanging open around Spike's slim hips. The borrowed shirt was not overly long; if he'd been looking anywhere but at her face–which was bad enough–Buffy would have exploded into a big flaming ball of mortified.
But her–what was it he called them?–girly bits were safe. Spike, breathing like he'd just run the 10 K, had her chin in his strong fingers, pulling them both slightly off-balance. Buffy grabbed his shoulders, dimly aware that things were moving fast, too fast, and he was going to kiss her anyway. Right there, in the bathroom, right then. Standing easily in the vee of her knees, like he was buying beer, smelling like sweat and smoke and himself. Making her dizzy, making her want. Making her wish she was ready for the likes of him. But she wasn't, would never be, not even after. Because she was hurting and he was heartbreak and you couldn't fix was what was always busted.
Tangling her fingers in his shirt collar, Buffy leaned in, felt his startled puffs of breath on her face. Wanted them for herself, wanted—
BZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTT!
They both jumped at the sudden blare. Buffy lost her balance and fell into the sink. Spike just cursed, loudly and creatively.
"Ruddy hell, that's a fucking ball-ache, inn'nt? Radging cycle's got to pick now. Gonna banjax the bugger." He paced and muttered, brutally kicked the wall twice.
Buffy clambered down from the sink. "In good old American speak, that tirade would translate as 'Gee, there goes the washer.' And, if you're gonna...banjax...something, I vote for that shower curtain. It would be both merciful and stress relieving."
But, Spike was already gone, slamming out of the bathroom with enough force to rattle bottles in the medicine cabinet.
***************************************************
They parted a quarter of an hour later, in silence. She, to the couch and he to his bedroom. All good and fine and civil, but he couldn't stop thinking about the bathroom and how close they'd come to...what? A kiss, full stop? Or would they have gone on, followed the same fiery trajectory to its conclusion?
He'd never know. Because of the bloody spin cycle. Whose idea was it to make the buggering thing sound like a fog horn, anyway? Deserved a spectacular arse-kicking, whoever the fuck they were. Bastards.
In the laundry room, he'd kicked the machine, as promised. Then the dryer. Some buckets. Tore down a clothesline he didn't really like anyway. Unfortunately, appliance-related violence failed to work its usual mojo. He was still had the horn of the century, and a fair case of aggravation.
Once he'd savagely shoved her garments into the dryer, they said their goodnights in the hallway. She didn't seem pole-axed at all over what had happened. Kept smiling at him. Even squeezed his hand, which shouldn't have been all that earth-shattering, considering she'd just shoved her little fanny in his privates, But the gesture touched him, nonetheless.
Which wasn't good. Not good at all.
He didn't want to fall, not again. Not for her. Oh, the girl was beautiful, for sure. But her head was full o' dreams and schemes that would come to no good. There was no place for him there. And the alternative, a one-night shag? He wasn't built that way. Loved long he did, and well. If not wisely.
The sheets on his bed felt too warm, and Spike kicked them away. He usually kipped in his altogether, but he figured Buffy wouldn't appreciate the peep show, should they collide in the hall.
An all too attractive prospect.
An hour after he crawled into bed, Spike was still restless. Full of ominous jitters. The kind that were an omen, if not prophecy. Finally, he rose in the inky darkness and made his way to the door, tripping on a boot halfway. Grasping the straight-back chair Dru bought off an antiquey type, years ago, he wedged it firmly under the door and crept back to bed.
Sleep claimed him, then, and Spike rested for another hour. But, just the clock struck two, he rose again and made his surprisingly sure-footed way to the door.
***********************************************************
In the living room, Buffy heard a crash, like something knocked aside. The noise jerked her out of her light doze. Sitting up, she blearily examined her surroundings. Took in the sight of Spike, coming down the hall. But, not Spike as she knew him.
For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming.
No human being could move utterly without sound. The floors and the walls and even the dust motes wouldn't allow it. Like people, houses had nerve centers, pressure points. Spike, though, seemed to glide over the hardwoods like he had no weight at all. Like people moved in dreams, without substance or feet. Even in the half-light, she could see that his eyes were open, but full of glassiness that she might have mistaken for tears.
"Sp...Spike?" She called out, a little nervously.
He didn't respond, but walked right past her, a faint shadow of his usual purposeful stride. Buffy's scalp prickled, and a jolt of pure fear pierced her chest like a cold finger. Huddled on the couch, she didn't dare move a muscle. Not that Spike, the bizzarro version, was paying her the least attention.
He was spidering his fingers along the bookshelf, making furrows in the dust, a tiny frown marring the smoothness of his brow. Spike had one of those eternally young faces that the Gods must envy, but, unsmiling, in the odd stillness of a grey pre-dawn, he seemed older, sadder. Like he knew a terrible secret.
A thought occurred to her. More of a memory, really, of an Aunt on her mother's side who was known to leave her bed and go wandering.
Buffy approached him cautiously. Watched with interest as he lifted books and restored them to their proper place. "What are you looking for, huh? If there's porn stashed out here that is so hugely gross." As she spoke, Buffy waved her hand in front of his face, checking for a reaction. Nothing. Not even a blink. Just like she suspected.
Spike was asleep.
Buffy almost sagged to the floor in relief. Sleepwalking. Of course. Watching him stroll around like an escapee from Night of the Living Dead was scary, sure. But, at least he wasn't possessed. Resting her fore head on his bare shoulder, she rubbed it tiredly back and forth, since he was out of it anyway.
"Oh, Spike," she murmured. "This is your secret, then."
Not expecting any response, Buffy nearly leaped out of her skin when he replied, in a clear voice. A bit more well-to-do sounding, but definitely Spike, not some invading entity. "They've stolen my inks."
"Huh?" Clearly, they were on different tracks.
"The servants, Mother. They're picking us clean. It simply won't do."
Servants? She got to be dead in her dreams and he got servants? What the hell? She was going to have a word with somebody.
"Okay, ignoring the Momage cause it's bad to hit a guy with night terrors." She plucked at his arm. "Maybe your stuff's in the bedroom. You know, where you came from?"
He gave her the saddest look. 'It just--"
"Won't do. I get it." Buffy took his arm, steered them around the end table. "Why don't we just have ourselves an ink hunt.. In your own bed. How's that sound?"
Spike straightened an invisible cravat, which made her bite her lip to keep from laughing. "Am I properly attired?"
Buffy snorted. "Yeah. I wouldn't change a thing."
Buffy was priding herself on her fast-thinking and incredible poise, and Spike was docile as a lamb, until they began to manoeuver around the couch. When, without warning, he suddenly crawled onto the cushions, dragging Buffy with him.
"Hey!" Pinned between Spike and the back of the sofa, she struggled to get free. "This is not the plan! I plan! I'm a planner!"
Spike ignored her. Curling up in his corner of the couch, he dropped, almost immediately, into natural sleep.
Well, that was fun and informative.
She watched him for a long time, afraid to sleep herself, lest he wander again. The night was very cold, cast in a million shades of gray, and Spike was sitting on the extra blanket, head thrown back, deep, bruise-colored shadows filling out the hollows of his face. Twitching, every so often, or muttering something incomprehensible, until the hands on the clock crept around again, when he suddenly jerked violently, half-sprawling into Buffy's lap.
A nightmare then, she thought. Does it ever end?
His bright head came to rest on her thigh. Heavy, warm, and dangerously close to several erogenous zones, but Buffy wouldn't have moved him even if she'd wanted to. And she didn't want to. The coarse slide of his hair through her fingers was a drowsy and infinite pleasure. Too sweet to last.
She saw the first signs of waking along the divided plane of his back, where the skin was pale and translucent as a newborn's. A subtle shifting of vertebrae before he lifted his head, looked at her through bleary eyes that quickly cut to the side, taking in the room where he had most definitely not gone to sleep.
Understanding dawned, quick and fierce, and Spike once more retreated behind closed lids, exhaling on a sigh.
"Oh, balls."
TBC
T