Never Love Anything More than It Loves You
She is slowly tracing the column of his neck with her index finger. Light kisses along his collar bone make him anticipate her going lower and she does. Spike starts fondling her right buttock and explores further. Her skin is silky and warm; it almost makes him forget. Almost.
“Yeah, Slayer, mm... just like that, pet. You're so good... Oi, it tickles!”
He laughs. After some time of gentle teasing she finally reaches the area he hoped she would, and a low appreciative noise rumbles through his chest.
After they both have reached their peaks and come down again, Spike says, “Love, you’re awfully good at distracting me, but really. You know we need to talk about it.”
“Hush, Spike, I want your attention down here.”
She tries to push him down between her legs, but he doesn’t let her. Instead, he grabs her by the upper arms and kisses her hard on the mouth. Her dismissive tone irritates the hell out of him but very soon it doesn’t matter any more as he gives himself over to the pleasure.
* * *
Nothing more. There, he'd said it. (At least in his head.) It really was nothing more than what it seemed to be.
Buffy had welcomed him into his bed three weeks ago, but that was all he had gained. It didn’t matter that the Scoobies were perfectly aware of the relationship (if it could be called even that), they all still treated him just as before. He was just a demon to them; he couldn't feel. Buff never acknowledged that he could have any feelings towards her. He was still a vampire – a worthless creature except in a fight or in bed.
At first, he’d been fine with it; after all, it was a lot more than he’d hoped to get even a couple of months ago. And if he happened to dream about any kind of relationship with her, the farthest he had imagine was that they’d have a lot of mind-blowing sex. Only after she'd welcome him in her bed, had he started to dream of more. All the other stuff was supposed to follow soon, he'd thought.
He’d certainly never thought that Buffy Summers was the kind of girl to take herself a fuck buddy. Well, Spike had been wrong.
Ever since she’d told him that she’d been in heaven, their relationship had grown and developed. Or so he’d thought. Besides passion, there seemed to be friendship, understanding and acceptance. But all of it had evaporated as soon as the relationship turned physical. Now Spike had to face the truth.
The relationship was even less he had initially imagined.
* * *
‘Easy, Spike, easy’, he tells himself one more time.
“I just think you should try it before discarding the opportunity,” he says out loud.
“Jesus, Spike, will you stop bugging me? What's wrong with you, people?”
He smirks. “Willow said as much, didn't she?”
Her eyes aims daggers at him. “I'm not talking about it!”
Translation: 'I'm not talking about it with you.’
* * *
It was just like marriage, but without feelings. A formal relationship. Only with Buffy he didn't even get the polite consideration. What was really the difference between, 'Captain Westwood and his sister invited us to a luncheon tomorrow and I said we will be there.' and 'Spike! Patrol.'?
It seemed that nowadays he didn’t even get the courtesy of pretence. Instead of 'Would you like one more cup, dear?' he now got, 'So, what first, fight or fuck?' He didn't mind the straightforward approach, it wasn't that. It was a thought that counted, right? And with Buffy there was no thought, not really. It was her way or highway. Half the time, Spike was tempted. Except that he loved her. You didn't leave people you loved.
It would be wrong to say that Buffy and he never talked to each other outside of bed or that it happened only during slow patrol nights out of sheer boredom. They did talk. But it was never about anything really meaningful. The subject didn't even matter, it just never got personal.
Now it was still a few hours before sunset but Spike was already dying to see her. Pathetic. He just hoped that today wasn't the day they would have another fight. It had been over a week since the last one, so the next one was almost due. Spike sighed.
* * *
”Yeah, Slayer, please do that again, I'm not sure I remember what your arse looks like when you storm off!”
“Fuck you, vampire!”
* * *
He fished for a cigarette, threw the packet back onto the table and reached for his lighter. Two a.m. Too early for any self-respecting vamp to be up, but there it was; he was sleepless.
Suddenly Spike froze. Swiftly he made it to the door and listened. If his heart could beat it would work itself up into a hurried staccato right about now. After a moment, when the fleeting hope that it could be his girlfriend died, he calmly returned to the sofa. He didn't feel disappointed, just foolish. The smell was not even human; just a stray demon who had places to be. No more unusual than a lone human during the wee hours of the morning.
For about ten minutes he sat surfing the channels but there was nothing on TV, so he had to resort to a proved form of entertainment – a book.
Buffy was of half a mind of skipping the last class but overpowered her laziness and daydreamed through half of it. The other half she spent doodling and when she zoned out for too long Willow elbowed her into ribs. All in all, a wasted hour and a half.
When she got home, mum was still at work and Dawn was listening to that awful noise she called music. Personally, she blamed Spike. The guitar riffs, Buffy heard even downstairs, chilled her slayer bones. How could they even stand it?
As Buffy entered her room, a slight tremor ran down her spine. Her eyes darted around, but the room seemed to be empty. For a moment she thought of Spike, but he rarely turned up before nine and he certainly wouldn't have bothered to hide. Then the music from behind the wall ceased and there was silence. The blood in Buffy's veins ran cold.
She ran to the next door and wrenched it open.
“Hey! Don't I get any privacy around here?” Dawn was sprawled on her bed with her school things scattered around her.
Buffy leaped to the closet and opened the doors, then jumped down to see under the bed. Empty. Neither was there anyone outside the window as far as she could see.
“Stay here,” she ordered as she rushed back into the corridor.
For a moment Buffy stood frozen, all her Slayer senses extended. When she started moving towards her mom's bedroom she registered that Dawn had disobeyed her yet again by shadowing Buffy as quietly as she could. Which was not very, but it was just as well; this way Buffy knew where the girl was.
Carefully they checked the whole house, but they were alone and there was no sign of intrusion. Buffy exhaled noisily and threw herself into the living room armchair.
“What was that all about?” Dawn asked.
Buffy shook her head. “I thought I felt someone. I don't know.”
It was highly unnerving. Had she imagined it?
Her Mistress was sitting at the vanity and Heather was combing her hair. The rich raven strands were framing her beautiful oval face and her dark brown eyes were sparkling. But it was not a happy twinkle that would light her delicate features. Instead, it was a cold gleam, not lifeless but not exactly alive either; it was calculating, dangerous and... mad.
“Did they bring me the camera I requested?” the Mistress asked.
Her voice was melodic and beautiful, Heather thought. Mesmerizing, deep and soulful. She'd give anything to have half the beauty her Mistress had, but if she could exchange all her looks for only her voice, she would be tempted. A woman could achieve anything with that voice.
“Not yet, Mistress, but Jo and Bruno are on it. I think they will be back in an hour or so.” She finished one braid, pinned it on top of the woman's head and started with the second.
Her Mistress was tapping on the vanity surface with her ring finger. “What about Marcel? Is he back?”
“Yes, mistress. Shall I summon him?”
“No, no need. I'll go down myself.”
Heather thought that as long as shed known her Mistress, the woman had never been especially happy, but lately she'd been exuding a special brand of anxiety that made her lash out. Cruelly. Painfully. However she wished. Heather found it unfortunate, because seemingly the regal woman had everything anyone could ever want, but she was still always unsatisfied with something. Frowns rarely marred her face; it was calm and almost pleasant, if you didn't know her better. Heather had learned to be apprehensive of her smiles and her amusement could mean death.
Being a witch apparently paid off, because even very powerful demons feared her. Heather felt really sorry for the poor sap that her Mistress had set her eyes on this time. What she wanted with him Heather didn't know, but considering all the preparations she didn't think he would like it. Heather pinned the last of the braids into the neat coiffure and stepped back.
The other woman stood and turned to her.
“So, how do I look?”
The Mistress smiled when she heard the compliment she'd expected to hear. This smile wasn't quite as bone-chilling as some, but Heather shivered.
“He will not stand a chance. I have already won,” Eleanor said quietly and when her lips stretched into a smile again, Heather felt the need to swallow.
To Be Continued