Crossing into unchipped territory (5/?) by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R
Timeline: Around AtS 5.09 or 5.10
Author's note: Big hugs to my wonderful betas, mommanerd, meko00, LadyAnne and Ayinhara.
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
Spike brushes the snow off her, and she does the same for him. It's curiously intimate. She leans on his shoulder while he lifts one of her boots to get the snow off the soles, her mittened hand receiving impressions of creaking leather and a solid shoulder as through a layer of cotton wool. Her own shoulder is gripped securely by his big hand, the touch of which she remembers well, but she doesn't feel the cold of it through her stolen jacket and thick layers underneath. It's matter of fact, and he's not smirking or nudging her with his elbow or anything, but it's as personal as a kiss.
She and the real Spike had that together for a few short months, before every touch became scintillating and dangerous. And then afterwards, her Spike never came this close to her again all the time he lived in her basement. Even when they slept against each other he kept his hands away and the moment she got up the distance was back. In fact, it never left, she sees that now, and she's getting a glimmer why he didn't believe her when she said she loved him. Their hands coming together and bursting into flame was the most intimate thing they did. The other Spike doesn't sense any of this, she's sure of that, he's not shy or contained around her, and if she reminds him of vampire Buffy it doesn't seem to set off any embarrassment or great feeling. Which is kind of sad in itself. Poor other Buffy. As if Spike is the only person in the world who can offer her this enormous all-defying love, and if he doesn't there's nothing.
Mrs. Andersen escorts them to her guestroom, a plain space with a wooden floor and throw rugs. There's just one bed in it. Buffy doesn't think that would be a good idea at all, and turns to Mrs. Andersen, but Spike's iron grip on her upper arm halts her.
"We're much more innocuous when we're a couple instead of people traveling together," he hisses in her ear.
Buffy doubts this, but as Mrs. Andersen babbles on about hot showers and is putting out towels and spare clothes on the bed the right moment slips by.
She gathers up the acid-washed narrow-ankled jeans and check shirt that have been laid out for her and walks briskly after Mrs. Andersen to the bathroom. This is going to be so weird, sharing a room with evil Spike, whom she doesn't even know, and pretending to be his wife? Rampant ickiness. She checks her face in the mirror and has to conclude Spike was right about her nose. It's now bright red and itches. Very attractive, especially with the icicles of snot melting and running down. On the other hand, it's a good and safe thing to tone down any attraction around him. There be worms in the shoals of physical attraction to any Spike. She showers, relaxing in the heat and realizing she's both hungry and sleepy. Spike should be hungry too. Crap, Spike's without her supervision right now. He could have eaten Mrs. Andersen while she's been showering. She dresses hastily, seeing by her reflection that a too big check shirt and dark circles under her eyes do nothing for her looks.
Spike's lounging naked in the wicker chair, a feat of endurance in itself, smoking slowly and pensively. There are no bloodstains or drained bodies lying around. Just to be sure she asks.
"What are you going to eat, Spike?"
He lifts heavy lids over eyes that are bluer than the smoke of his cigarette.
"Making the difficult choice between chicken and mice, unless you're offering? Thought not. That is if they have a chicken coop."
Buffy doesn't know what to say. I'm glad you didn't eat our hostess sounds lame. Maybe he will keep his word.
"Don't they have cows or sheep or something?"
"This is Iowa, love, they're farming grain. Might have a couple of heads of cattle for the milk, perhaps, but not great big herds like you're imagining."
"I'm imagining nothing, Spike. The only worthwhile knowledge I have is about slaying and shopping," she says bitterly.
"Self pity doesn't become you, Slayer," Spike answers unfeelingly. "Have you no pride in what you are?"
He gets up to leave for the bathroom stark naked.
"I see you have big plans for Mrs. Andersen," Buffy remarks.
Spike gets a faintly revolted look on his face and rolls his eyes. "You act like we're actually married," he complains, but dons a towel. "D'you miss it so much, fussing over your pet vampire? Did you hold his willy for him when he had to pee? "
He leaves the room with the broad swagger of a man who knows he's scored a hit. Buffy wonders for a few moments if she should follow him and make sure he doesn't eat anyone, but her instincts are completely dormant on the subject and mostly nudge her to go down and have breakfast. Enticing odors of fried sugary dough are wafting up and she's hoping for waffles or pancakes. Her search for a dryer yields nothing, and she braids her wet hair to get it out of her face.
Buffy finally ventures down the stairs on her thickly stockinged feet. Mom and Pop are already waiting for her at the breakfast table.
"You hungry?" Mrs. Andersen smiles her pearly white dentures at her and indicates a chair.
Strangely enough, when you think that the last thing she did before falling asleep was eat, she is. She nods silently, and watches the homely comforting actions of Mrs. Andersen's hands, which pour coffee for her in a flowered mug and deposit a stack of pancakes on her plate. There's a carafe of maple syrup, she sees. She really wants blueberry, but something tells this is a one-syrup household.
She's halfway through her stack when Spike comes down and slides in next to her, smelling of wet hair and cheap shampoo. Waves of fabric softener waft up from his blue and white plaid shirt. He looks smaller and more harmless in the farmer get-up; even his face seems blander than before. She looks closely and registers the absence of eyeliner, which makes the blue of his eyes less noticeable and dramatic. His hair's bubbling off his head in unlikely lemon sorbet curls, which she last remembers from an insane basement moment.
Mrs. Andersen pours him coffee, but he refuses the pancakes, which is no great surprise.
"I'll just eat a bit off Buffy's plate."
His refusal to eat is met with frowns and disapproval.
"Son, you need to eat in this cold," Mr. Andersen tells him bluntly. "You're pale and skinny as it is. I'm sure the missus would like to see some meat on your bones."
For some inane reason Buffy blushes fierily at this remark, and covers up her confusion and irritation at her own blood vessels making fun of her by reaching for her coffee mug. It doesn't exactly smell like her favorite frappaccino, but it'll have to do.
Mrs. Andersen's sharp eyes rest on her. "You're not wearing a ring, honey. You two are married, you said?"
Another flush makes her sweat in her borrowed flannels. Next to her Spike makes a tiny sound of exasperation, which she knows only she recognizes, and puts his hand over hers. Thank god he's not wearing polish, she thinks, but below these sane thoughts another Buffy howls in anguish and tears up. Her hand twitches under his but he keeps it in place.
"We needed the money," he tells the Andersens ambiguously.
Buffy admires this. They can make up their own interpretation whether this was before or after the wedding, and the subject is so delicate they will likely not touch on it again. And she's right, an uncomfortable silence falls, disturbed only by the irregular ticking and whirring of an old clock somewhere in another room. The overly sweet sauce and the fatty textureless pancakes are making her nauseous but she can't stop eating, it's like a void inside her needs filling. She peers surreptitiously around her while she eats on, but the room is so bland there is nothing for the eyes to rest on. Everything the Andersen's have is generic, owned by millions of people across the country, the patterned plates, the dishcloths, the toaster.
There is only one thing missing and after another pancake she realizes it's music. There ought to be some kind of bland pop noise in the background, but there's only the clock, the buzz of the old model fridge and the furtive eating and moving sounds people make in a quiet room. She wishes they would turn the radio on but after practicing several requests for it she realizes that the storm is probably blocking all transmissions anyway.
She out-eats Xander in the pancake stakes and manages to finish the mug of coffee. It does nothing for her alertness. Her head is blanketed in snow and in spite of all the sugar and caffeine nothing much makes an impression any more. She can't hide her yawns and Mrs. Andersen sends her to bed.
"Sorry I can't offer you anything to occupy you, Spike," Mr. Andersen says. "I'm up to my ears in taxes and I already fed the pigs. Best get some rest as well."
Buffy slowly climbs back to her bedroom. Her socks slide silently on the polished wooden stairs and it's almost impossible to lift her foot to the next rung of the stairs. It takes an age for her hand to descend on the railing and she doesn't feel wood under her hand but felt or a thick moldy layer of decay. She decides to stop, she wants to turn around and tell Spike they have to get out of here, snow storm or not, but her feet go on doggedly ascending, almost obscured from her line of vision by a wisp of hair that swings in front of her eyes.
There is the guestroom door, a darkly stained affair with a red heart and the word 'Marilyn' fixed to it. Her hand comes up and presses the handle. Stumbling and yawning she shucks off her clothes, put on only an hour ago, and slides the flannel nightgown Mrs. Andersen has thoughtfully left for her over her head. The blue gingham sheets are cool and welcoming and she wriggles under the thick covers luxuriously. Sleep, just what she needs. She's so tired, although why this would be so when she slept away most of the night in the car she doesn't know. Maybe that trek in the snow took a lot out of her.
Spike slides in next to her, yawning just like she is and there's something not quite right about that, but she can't think what. He nestles against her back and falls asleep immediately. Buffy hangs on to consciousness by sheer force of will, fighting for another few seconds to think about this, but she feels so safe, so very safe that she lets go. Her dreams are ready and waiting for her.
There are little blue checks all around her, braids swinging, and so is her axe. She smoothes her little white apron and casts around for someone to kill. Oh, hey, there's Spike. For someone reason she never got around to killing him before, and it's totally okay because he's a vampire. She hefts the axe high and brings it down on his sleeping neck with a satisfying crack. Two more chops and it's done. There is very little blood. He wakes up, winks at her and blows out his last sigh theatrically. So typical, always tries to get in the last word, even when it's clear she's won.
"Won't be enough, you know," Spike remarks conversationally from behind her.
He fastidiously swirls the duster closer around himself to avoid the blood that is fountaining up from his other body. There is suddenly a lot of blood spraying around and she looks at her little white apron in dismay. It's now a little red apron.
Spike tweaks her left breast casually and lights a fag. "I'll just wake up again and start over. No keeping me down, pet."
He's up in every sense of the word, that's true. She might as well since her apron is stained anyway. With a sigh she cranks his engine, going on patiently until the engine starts with a great roar and he's off to the horizon.
Well, that was different. Still, ultimately not very satisfying, like most dreams. A girl likes to get her hands on some real meat, after all. No matter how many baloney sandwiches you eat in a dream, you still wake up hungry.
TBC