'Got a knife to disengage
The voids that I can't bear
To cut out words I've got written
On my chair.'
Despite the heat of the night, enhanced by the pulsing mass of bodies, Buffy found herself and her friends seated in the Bronze. Buffy sighed, her mind wandering away from the conversation and Riley's wandering hand, which had settled weightily on her knee. The music washed over her, and she closed her eyes, losing herself in the rhythm. A contented look crossed her face as she reopened her hazel eyes and took a small sip of her drink.
She had been completely right in telling Spike how it stood today. Buffy inwardly frowned as Riley squeezed her knee before managing a small smile at him. She hadn't been lying when she said they had their problems and if her physical reaction, or lack thereof, was any indicator they weren't going to be easily swept aside.
But is that really so bad, she mused, her mind flashing back to the last two men she had been involved with. She'd been driven to Angel by sweeping need, a desire to capture the emotion that he had so readily evoked in her young body, by some unfathomable promise. He hadn't delivered. Parker had been worse, her relationship with him stemming from her need to prove to herself that she was desirable enough to be wanted. Not just by anybody, but by someone normal, someone human ... Someone with a soul.
And look how that turned out, she thought bitterly; the wounds were still painfully tender despite the passage of time. Based on her past experience she was more than positive that nothing based so completely on lust, especially passionate all-consuming lust, could be of the good. Spike was definitely about that type of lust. And those relationships, she reminded herself, always end in the bad for Buffy.
Which explained why she was willing to accept Riley despite their lack of physical chemistry. He might not leave her breathless and starry eyed but he was dependable, solid, human. Everything she should want.
While Spike -- intense, wicked, unpredictable, not to mention undead -- was everything she should avoid. No matter that his touch sent her reeling, no matter that his kisses promised unimaginable pleasure, no matter that, even now, surrounded by her friends and boyfriend, she couldn't put him out of her mind. He was bad for her, of that she was sure. She had done the right thing in throwing Riley, and his humanness, in Spike's face.
Then why, her inner voice protested, all this doubt?
* * *
"Stupid bloody bint."
Spike poured himself another shot of Tequila and downed it swiftly, ignoring the burn as it spread down through his throat. He poured another. And another.
The cemetery was eerily quiet, the intense heat had driven most of the demons to their comparatively cooler domains below ground. Only the desperate, or insane, remained above ground, scorched by the unrelenting summer heat. Spike had made a small sacrifice to the heat, his beloved and omnipresent leather duster hung absently over the sarcophagus in the middle of his newly acquired crypt.
Spike himself sat with his back against the cool stone of the sarcophagus, contemplating the shot glass in his hand. In one violent, frustrated gesture, he sent the small glass flying against the opposite wall, the shattering tinkle of the glass soothing his beleaguered nerves. A situation he fully credited the Slayer with causing.
Spike growled under his breathe and took a long drink from the tequila bottle before leaning his head back against the stone and closing his eyes. Immediately a picture of the Slayer, flush with passion, materialized before him. His body hardened as he recalled the way he'd taken her earlier in the day, her responses betraying her own rising lust, a need that grew with each and every episode. His palms itched to touch her again, his body burned with the need to be buried fully within her, her heat engulfing him, his mouth drinking in her cries of pleasure.
"This is bloody ridiculous," his eyes opened as he glared at the empty space before him, "She's the bloody Slayer for crissakes." His words rang empty through out the crypt, mocking him. He knew that what she was only added to his excitement. She was a challenge, his equal. He wanted her and the devil take all else.
In his defense, it wasn't as if his attraction to her hadn't, in a sense, been predicted. Grimly, his mind turned back to his final meeting with Druisilla and her damning, mocking words. Her prophecy. He shook his head, chasing the memory from his mind. It didn't matter now, the only thing that did was the delectable Slayer and how he was going to get her into his arms.
* * *
Buffy paced her room restlessly, the quiet house settling around her. She'd been spared the ordeal of Riley's bed when his cell phone had gone off and he'd been summoned to an important and pertinent meeting. A thread of uneasiness made it's way through her but she shook it off. Whatever Riley was about she knew he wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone. She just hoped he wasn't thinking about getting involved with the Initiative again. The first time he'd done that had been a debacle.
Buffy sighed the events of those last two nights, the fight with Adam and the subsequent visitation by the First Slayer vividly running through her mind. Buffy frowned at the memories, the unease creeping back into her mind. It didn't make sense. The First Slayer was gone and they had survived. Everything was back to normal. Or was it?
She'd withdrawn after her encounter with the First Slayer, meeting with her friends but not really being there and when Riley came back she'd found herself unable to connect sexually with him. He just wasn't enough anymore. Add to that her increased strength, something she'd only recently noticed when, during one of Riley's lengthy and boring monologues she'd looked down to find her fingers bending the metal railing on the Bronze catwalk without even trying. Whatever mold she had fitted into before wasn't enough any more. She was growing, expanding, changing -- for better or worse.
Tension built up in her body at the thought, a heavy weight demanding to be dropped. She gave a resigned sigh and made her way down the stairs and out of the house. There was one definite way she knew she could count on to get the job done.
Slaying.
Any other options had been officially squelched.
The voids that I can't bear
To cut out words I've got written
On my chair.'
Despite the heat of the night, enhanced by the pulsing mass of bodies, Buffy found herself and her friends seated in the Bronze. Buffy sighed, her mind wandering away from the conversation and Riley's wandering hand, which had settled weightily on her knee. The music washed over her, and she closed her eyes, losing herself in the rhythm. A contented look crossed her face as she reopened her hazel eyes and took a small sip of her drink.
She had been completely right in telling Spike how it stood today. Buffy inwardly frowned as Riley squeezed her knee before managing a small smile at him. She hadn't been lying when she said they had their problems and if her physical reaction, or lack thereof, was any indicator they weren't going to be easily swept aside.
But is that really so bad, she mused, her mind flashing back to the last two men she had been involved with. She'd been driven to Angel by sweeping need, a desire to capture the emotion that he had so readily evoked in her young body, by some unfathomable promise. He hadn't delivered. Parker had been worse, her relationship with him stemming from her need to prove to herself that she was desirable enough to be wanted. Not just by anybody, but by someone normal, someone human ... Someone with a soul.
And look how that turned out, she thought bitterly; the wounds were still painfully tender despite the passage of time. Based on her past experience she was more than positive that nothing based so completely on lust, especially passionate all-consuming lust, could be of the good. Spike was definitely about that type of lust. And those relationships, she reminded herself, always end in the bad for Buffy.
Which explained why she was willing to accept Riley despite their lack of physical chemistry. He might not leave her breathless and starry eyed but he was dependable, solid, human. Everything she should want.
While Spike -- intense, wicked, unpredictable, not to mention undead -- was everything she should avoid. No matter that his touch sent her reeling, no matter that his kisses promised unimaginable pleasure, no matter that, even now, surrounded by her friends and boyfriend, she couldn't put him out of her mind. He was bad for her, of that she was sure. She had done the right thing in throwing Riley, and his humanness, in Spike's face.
Then why, her inner voice protested, all this doubt?
* * *
"Stupid bloody bint."
Spike poured himself another shot of Tequila and downed it swiftly, ignoring the burn as it spread down through his throat. He poured another. And another.
The cemetery was eerily quiet, the intense heat had driven most of the demons to their comparatively cooler domains below ground. Only the desperate, or insane, remained above ground, scorched by the unrelenting summer heat. Spike had made a small sacrifice to the heat, his beloved and omnipresent leather duster hung absently over the sarcophagus in the middle of his newly acquired crypt.
Spike himself sat with his back against the cool stone of the sarcophagus, contemplating the shot glass in his hand. In one violent, frustrated gesture, he sent the small glass flying against the opposite wall, the shattering tinkle of the glass soothing his beleaguered nerves. A situation he fully credited the Slayer with causing.
Spike growled under his breathe and took a long drink from the tequila bottle before leaning his head back against the stone and closing his eyes. Immediately a picture of the Slayer, flush with passion, materialized before him. His body hardened as he recalled the way he'd taken her earlier in the day, her responses betraying her own rising lust, a need that grew with each and every episode. His palms itched to touch her again, his body burned with the need to be buried fully within her, her heat engulfing him, his mouth drinking in her cries of pleasure.
"This is bloody ridiculous," his eyes opened as he glared at the empty space before him, "She's the bloody Slayer for crissakes." His words rang empty through out the crypt, mocking him. He knew that what she was only added to his excitement. She was a challenge, his equal. He wanted her and the devil take all else.
In his defense, it wasn't as if his attraction to her hadn't, in a sense, been predicted. Grimly, his mind turned back to his final meeting with Druisilla and her damning, mocking words. Her prophecy. He shook his head, chasing the memory from his mind. It didn't matter now, the only thing that did was the delectable Slayer and how he was going to get her into his arms.
* * *
Buffy paced her room restlessly, the quiet house settling around her. She'd been spared the ordeal of Riley's bed when his cell phone had gone off and he'd been summoned to an important and pertinent meeting. A thread of uneasiness made it's way through her but she shook it off. Whatever Riley was about she knew he wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone. She just hoped he wasn't thinking about getting involved with the Initiative again. The first time he'd done that had been a debacle.
Buffy sighed the events of those last two nights, the fight with Adam and the subsequent visitation by the First Slayer vividly running through her mind. Buffy frowned at the memories, the unease creeping back into her mind. It didn't make sense. The First Slayer was gone and they had survived. Everything was back to normal. Or was it?
She'd withdrawn after her encounter with the First Slayer, meeting with her friends but not really being there and when Riley came back she'd found herself unable to connect sexually with him. He just wasn't enough anymore. Add to that her increased strength, something she'd only recently noticed when, during one of Riley's lengthy and boring monologues she'd looked down to find her fingers bending the metal railing on the Bronze catwalk without even trying. Whatever mold she had fitted into before wasn't enough any more. She was growing, expanding, changing -- for better or worse.
Tension built up in her body at the thought, a heavy weight demanding to be dropped. She gave a resigned sigh and made her way down the stairs and out of the house. There was one definite way she knew she could count on to get the job done.
Slaying.
Any other options had been officially squelched.