Crossing into unchipped country (8/?) by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R
Timeline: Around AtS 5.09 or 5.10
Author's note: Big hugs to meko00, LadyAnne (you know what for, mommanerd) and Ayinhara.
Author's website:
Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
The Slayer ahead of him is stumbling and bumping into things. Spike brushes past her brusquely and takes her unwilling hand into his. Stubborn bint that she is! He can see so much better than she can in this murk, she should just have let him go first. She tries to wrench loose, still pissed about the little fiasco downstairs, he reckons, but he ignores it and forges ahead. They must be in the downstairs hallway but it seems unwontedly long. He bumps into a wooden barrier, which ought to be the front door. He kicks it open and sure enough they are on the porch. The reverberations of the kick go on for a long time. At last they die down and everything is silent again. It's still pitch dark outside but the snow reflects what little light there is. Almost midnight, he gauges. He's lost less than twenty-four hours and the portal device is already in his possession, pretty fucking good as adventures go. The Slayer is bringing him luck. He thinks ahead of the actual activation of the portal. It should be a piece of cake if his contact comes through as expected, and he considers possible courses of action afterwards.
Too bad he didn't manage to wangle some blood and pussy, and his own silly fault it had been too. He really should learn to keep his gob shut, but when his cock and fangs are doing the thinking for him his mouth pretty much tends to run away from him. However, the Slayer is still gently steaming under her borrowed clothes, angry or not, and that bodes well for the future. He'll simply not mention biting or drinking at all and strike when he's good and well inside her, when she's screaming for more. How difficult can that be? His hard-on is giving him plenty of grief, and the discomfort overshadows all other cuts and bruises, of which there are many. He's of a mind to try again right here and now, but he sees the Slayer stiffen up and shiver in the suddenly frigid air, and regretfully sets his plans aside until they find a more congenial venue.
The house creaks and settles again. The clear night sky indicates low temperatures, and he looks doubtfully at the Slayer in her jeans and flannel shirt. The first and biggest barn is no more than fifty yards away, but it's risky. They'd better search the house for some warmer clothes for the Slayer, maybe even use the rotted bed covers.
A deep sigh trembles through the house. Spike looks around and sees nothing out of the ordinary. The floor starts to rattle beneath them. A rumbling comes closer and closer. The Slayer doesn't react but stares with big unseeing eyes at the dimly lit expanse of snow outside. He decides they can't wait anymore and they should make a run for it. He seizes her limp hand and pulls her outside.
"Get a move on, Slayer. We'll look for a car in the big barn over there."
The Slayer mumbles something he doesn't want to listen to and hangs back, trying feebly to get her hand out of his. It's annoying to see her return to morose silence, especially when he was thinking she was some kind of alright as a fighter. He pulls on her arm sharply and they run stumbling and slipping to the shelter of the big wooden structure at the other end of the yard. Behind them there is a whooshing and a dull thud. Spike whips around to check out the danger and sees a softly billowing cloud of pale powder dust where the house used to be. There's a gust of warmer air over his face but it dissipates quickly. The dust clears from the air and the moon obliges them by popping into the sky from behind it. He sees there is nothing left of the farmhouse but a rubble-filled pit, still hazy with heat and settling house fragments.
Where the porch used to be there's a shapeless heap of a different substance. Spike pokes it gently and it falls apart into their own discarded clothes. His duster! With a shout of joy he fishes it out of the heap and shrugs it on. He is taller and more commanding when the soft old leather falls in its accustomed folds around him. He strides towards the barn with strong easy steps.
The moon's appearance brightens the whole scene so much he can make out the details of the cast iron weather cock on top of the barn. Spike jumps on top of the structure in one big leap, just because he feels like it. He balances on the roof beam and looks around at the white world spread out beneath him like a pristine table cloth, with only the picnic missing, although the Slayer would make a damn fine starter. The quarter moon throws long shadows away from the barn and the other outbuildings that are still standing, until they finally peter out and the silent plains begin, glittering eerily and seeming infinite.
Spike throws his head in his neck and hollers upwards, "Look Ma, no hands!" He jumps down with a back flip, down into the white mound of sugary snow that the wind has blown against the side of the barn, arm outspread. He disappears into a cloud of powdered sugar that enters his nose and mouth and ears. He waits until the snow clears up and he can see the stars again. They pierce the dark blue porridge bowl of the night with their prying eyes. When he was a young boy he believed that the souls of his father and sisters looked down upon him from above and would tattle to his mother if he was naughty. Now he knows there is no one looking down on him, because with all the things he's been up to they would have been raining fire on his head on a daily basis.
He never really believed it even as a young man, but went to church every Sunday nonetheless, his mother on his one arm, the prayer book filled with his father's scribbles in the other. There will never be names and dates of William's children on the flyleaf, like his father meticulously kept adding. "A son and heir!" his father's careful script announced behind his name. He'd shown more restraint in writing down his daughters' particulars, all of whom he subsequently buried during his short lifetime. Spike remembers their funerals, remembers his love and sadness, but the memories have lost their sting and seldom intrude when he rifles through his past.
He spreads his arms and makes swimming motions. "Look Slayer, I made an angel in the snow."
She hovers at the edge of his vision, a black blot against the spangled splendor of the sky. He can tell she's wearing her disapproving expression just by her hunched-up arms crossed body language. She may be this great warrior, but she's not very playful, is she?
He wishes Dru could be lying beside him, and they would stay like that for hours, impervious to the cold, free as night birds. He'd name the stars for her and make up stories about them because Dru didn't like the real ones. She always got mad if he forgot the ones he'd made up before, like the one where Cassiopeia was a beautiful princess who lived happily in a castle with her Daddy, tending her little babies and roses and nothing exciting or bad ever happened to her.
A boot in his ribs reminds him of his present circumstances, Dru-less and bound to the serious straitlaced Slayer. She's standing over him and glowers at him. Under other circumstances he might think it was a sexy glower, but the cold makes her look pinched and worried.
"Car, Spike? Cleveland? Getting back your minion?"
Does she really think he gives a shit about his stupid minion?
"What are you waiting for, then, Slayer? Can't get the barn door open with your own lilywhite hands?"
"Can't start it," she admits stiffly. "And it's an old car, probably won't run at all."
Spike leaps up with a showy flip, which is wasted on his unappreciative public, but a man's got standards to keep up. The car in question is a perfectly respectable looking pick-up truck, no more than twenty five years old. How convenient that it didn't fall apart with the house. He climbs into the driver's seat and flips down the rearview mirror. Of course there is a key taped there, not a lot of car thieves in the middle of those endless cornfields. The truck starts at the third try, but shows a nearly empty tank.
He jumps out and winks at the Slayer, who looks daggers at him. May the best man win, he thinks, knowing that it's him. He potters about the barn, whistling a cheery tune, and finds several neatly lined up gallon-containers of gas. He just loves these neat and careful people, who are now gnashing their teeth in hell as they watch him escape. He fills up the tank and climbs back in. The Slayer sits slumped on the passenger seat, still lost in her own unhappy thoughts, if her furrowed forehead is any indication.
He turns the truck to the north and strikes out for the highway. In less than a mile they're there, and it's even been swept clear of snow. He stops the car and debates with himself whether to go back for the DeSoto or not, and decides the risks of it being towed away or stolen are minimal and he can retrieve it on the way back. He climbs out and walks around to the passenger door. The Slayer stares back sullenly. He climbs in and sits next to her.
"Your turn to drive."
"It's still dark!" she protests.
"Our friend from Bedrock banged me up pretty good back there. I need some time to heal," he says.
She doesn't answer but slides silently over to the driver's seat and drives off.
Spike shifts around until he's found the least uncomfortable position and closes his eyes.
When he opens them again there's something lying over his face that smells of Slayer and a past meal. His aches and pains have abated for the most part, and now he's just really hungry. The Slayer's scent so close makes his mouth water and he has to force his game face back into hiding.
He lifts the jacket up and has to close his eyes to the bright light. Still day. He checks out the rest of him and sees the Slayer has covered him with a rough grey horse blanket as well as her down jacket, and has hung something on the side window to protect him from the sunlight. How thoughtful of her. If she keeps this up he's gonna think she has soft spot for him.
"Where are we, Slayer?" he asks softly, so as not to startle her. Not a very reliable driver, this girl. She has to have been driving for at least eight hours straight.
"Couple of hours from Cleveland," she says and yawns widely.
Spike ponders his options for a few moments and then suggests, "Why don't you find another motel? You need to be fit and alert if we're to get you back home. Kip for a few hours."
"Is kip like sleep?" She yawns again.
She gets them to the next motel in one piece and is still yawning when she gets back with their room key. Spike runs for it while she holds the door open for him. Very efficient and all.
The Slayer stumbles to the bead and crashes down fully clothed. "Wake me in a few hours, 'kay?" she mumbles and passes out.
He might as well grab a couple of more hours, it's still light outside anyway. He wakes himself up just after sundown and has almost succeeded in stealing outside, shoes in hand, when the damn woman suddenly blinks awake and is on him in an impressive display of alertness.
She has him in an iron grip. "No killing people," she says grimly.
He tries an elbow, wants to step on her feet, but she's got everything covered. He never realized just how strong she was.
"Perhaps," she says silkily, "you've been underestimating me, because I'm not a very experienced driver and don't much like the cold. Perhaps you don't realize what it means that I'm the oldest surviving Slayer ever. Let me spell it out for you: you will not kill people, not on this trip. Understood?"
He nods and she releases him. He doesn't understand how, but she manages to block his vicious headbutt backwards and the crippling blow to the midriff he had in mind, and now he's lying on the floor with his cheek in the polyester carpet and his arms cruelly twisted behind him. Okay. He'll accept that she is his equal in the person to person fighting stakes, but she has other vulnerabilities.
"Ow," he says. "You're giving me carpet burn."
"Stop whining," she says, not unkindly.
Spike wiggles his hips, trying for her weak spot, and for a moment thinks he's succeeded when she gets off him with a muffled exclamation. He rolls over and faces a stake, poised at exactly the right place. He'd forgotten she must have recovered it with her clothes. Her face is soft and warm from sleep but glows with determination. If she wasn't standing between him and a much needed meal, he'd like her more.
"Slayer," he says, softly and reasonably. "How could you possibly enforce that? You'll need to sleep once in a while. You could really use a shower right now for instance, and what would keep me from popping out for a bite?"
She quirks an eyebrow. Summers, Buffy Summers, licensed to kill him. "Your word. Again."
"I couldn't have eaten those ghosts anyway, now could I?"
The Slayer doesn't answer, just shifts the position of the stake minutely so she's more comfortable. She's obviously not gonna take no for an answer. He doesn't think she'll stake him, not really, but the boredom of facing her off a minute longer is already threatening and he'd really like something to eat.
"But what will I eat? I need blood or I won't be able to function properly to fulfill the mission!"
"Pig's blood," the Slayer answers. "We'll find a butcher."
"Don't tell me the poor sod drank pig's blood for all those years?"
Silence from the Slayer.
"He did?"
He tries to think of a good reason not to go for it. "Isn't that really fattening?"
Her voice darkens. "He was always lean as a whip."
He relaxes and looks up at her. She's sitting across his thighs, and her hand is still holding the stake, but her other hand is splayed on his stomach. He doesn't think she even knows she's doing it. She's staring straight through him, her eyes dark green with remembrance and grief, the emotions scudding across her face like storm clouds. If he wasn't so hungry this would be the best moment to take advantage of her, but he lets it go.
"Get off me, Slayer," he says gruffly. "Let's grab a shower and get going to find my contact. I've had it up to here with the Midwest already, let's not extend our stay longer than necessary."
The Slayer returns to the here and now and looks at him silently. Then she nods and gets up. She gathers her recovered clothes and heads for the shower. Spike shucks his coat and is sinking down in a chair, preparing to wait for her when he sees her look back at him. He wipes the scowl from his face and tries to look blank, a canvas for her to draw on. She doesn't extend her hand or say anything but he knows it's an invitation anyway, or as much of one as she can allow herself to give. He gets back up and walks towards her slowly, unbuttoning his shirt, not saying anything, because he knows he'll fuck up again if he does.
They have to stand close together in the cramped little bathroom and he can see every tremble of the Slayer's hands as she undresses. This is not the heated aftermath of battle, nothing here to create a mood, just plain bathroom fittings and ugly tile. It only serves to make the living breathing woman in it more beautiful to him, filled to the brim with the gentle simmering of life, a myriad fragrances swirling around her body like a ball dress, a cloud of warmth exploding from her breath.
The hardened points of her small breasts almost brush his chest as he slides the shirt from his shoulders and he sees her catching her breath. He moves his hands down slowly, very slowly, doesn't want to scare her off, and undoes the first button of his fly. Her bloodwarm hands slip under his and finish the job for him. He's in a hurry now, yanks the jeans of his legs and follows the Slayer into the shower. Her heat throbs against the palms of his hands moments before he actually touches her and he stifles a moan. When his hands do meet her flesh everything happens in a blur, handfuls of hot Slayer ass, she's climbing him and eating him alive, her hot mouths draw him in and devour him.
"Slayer, you're so…" Shut up, shut up, he sings to himself on the rhythm of his hips, don't talk you fool, don't think of dinner, just fuck and shut up. He closes and opens his eyes, dark red from the inside of his closed lids alternating with flashes of fluorescent lighting on white tiles, while the Slayer vibrates under his hands, slick with water and need, saying unintelligible things to him.
When they finally make it out of the shower he can hardly stand. How long have they been at it? The Slayer is like a demon in her insatiable lust, wringing the last scrap of stamina out of him, and he drops down at her knees where she sprawls on the bed covers like a lewd goddess and worships her anew. He crawls up on the bed beside her and collapses. He can do no more, but she's merciless and forces him in again. He's covered by warm pliable slayer flesh like a blanket and her smooth neck rests with the unmarked side against his lips. He hardens again at the thought, it would be so easy, his whole body tautens like a bow, ready to twang and let go, and the Slayer flutters around him at the slight movement. He's about to explode again himself, he won't need more than a couple of strokes when he thinks of drinking her dry, feeling the blood hit his parched throat like a blessing, but he won't, bound by his word like the gentleman he once was.
TBC