| Blood and Mistletoe by Holly |
| Chapter #4 - IV |
A disastrous half hour later saw them shelved into the lavatory, Spike having prompted Buffy atop the counter as he wet a washcloth. Like all others, it was an odd but comforting positing; his left arm resting in her lap and their fingers entwined. Strange how that was becoming familiar. That small side effect that was not a result of the glue at all; rather a growing closeness that had somehow formed in less than twenty-four hours. And they still had days to go… “Come on,” he prompted gently, raising their hands to the hem of her shirt. “I gotta see it if I’m gonna clean it, right?” A pout crossed her lips. “It’s not even that bad,” she said. “Just a scratch.” He arched a brow. “I don’ mean to be crude, luv—” “That’s a first.” He ploughed right ahead, ignoring her. “But I can smell how bad it is. Vamp, right? You haven’t stopped bleedin’ yet.” The look in his eyes convinced her resolve to waver; she didn’t believe she had ever seen him so concerned over anything. With a sigh and a short nod, Buffy conceded her grip and he moved between her thighs. Okay, so patrolling while glued to a vampire was not a good plan. She should have known and she admitted that, but the alternative had been too nerve-wracking to pursue. Dancing with her enemy with her attraction for him on the steady increase instead of dithering away as it should have. She was inches from collapsing her head against his shoulder in despair. How was it that Spike treated her like a woman while Angel had always insisted on treating her like a girl? Buffy shuddered a deep breath, her eyes taking in the serious look on the vampire’s face as he methodically doctored the few scrapes she had sustained in the very opportunistic vampire attack on patrol. The small, feathery touches against her skin were enough to rage any inferno while simultaneously drawing the fire down to a cool hum of satisfaction. Regardless of their situation, there was no reason for this. No reason Spike should be with her at all. No reason for him to care that she was hurt. To help her stop her bleeding. His nostrils flared, but he asked for nothing in turn. “Why are you doing this?” she asked softly, startling them both with her brashness. His hand froze against her. “What?” “This.” She motioned between them emphatically. “I know we’re…but why do you care? You could’ve let that vamp off me if you’d wanted to.” “Oh, so now everyone who saves your life has to pass the Buffy Summers loyalty quiz?” She frowned. “I never—” “I jus’ did. All right? Can we drop it?” “No, we can’t drop it. Not only did you save my life, Spike, you also put yours in danger. Have we forgotten the chip?” As if to make doubly sure the chip was not forgotten, Buffy tapped the side of his head with skeptical condescension. “Granted, yes, knowing that your little handicap doesn’t apply to non-humans is a good thing, but you could’ve…you didn’t know that. And you could’ve—” Spike perked a brow. “You really think I woulda jus’ stood there an’ let those vamps take a chunk outta you?” She stared at him blankly. “Well…yes?” “You’re off your bird.” “What does that even mean?!” “It means sod all else before I stand aside an’ watch you get hacked to tiny bits by baby vamps not worthy enough to lick your shoes. God, you really think I could stand for that?” He was wound tight; his body wound tight with the need to pace. “You think I’d let you be offed by some two-bit act?” “Yes!” She took some pride in the wounded look that flashed behind his eyes, though not exactly knowing a reason. “You’re Spike, remember? The Slayer of Slayers? Any of that ring a bell? And me. Buffy. Vampire Slayer, the. You’ve only tried to kill me since the day we met, and now you’re saying you don’t want to see me dead?” “No.” The answer surprised them both. Spike blinked numbly at the truth behind it, glanced to her with some apprehension, but seemed otherwise invigorated by the resilience of shameless acknowledgment. And when he spoke again, his voice had lowered and the fire behind his gaze had softened. She became dangerously aware of their proximity; his free hand having settled on her arm, caressing her gently in a manner that was somehow more intimate than any other touch granted from the men in her life. “No, Buffy. I don’ want you dead.” He was calling her Buffy again. Oh God. “Why?” Spike’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Why? Does a bloke need a reason?” “It’s you, so yes. Your mission is to kill the Slayer.” “Changed my mission.” He shrugged. “Don’ know when it happened. Jus’ did. Don’ wanna kill you anymore. Don’ know ‘f I ever did.” “Can I weigh an opinion on that?” He quirked his head. “It ever occur to you, kitten, that I have had experience killin’ Slayers? I know you know it, but do you have any idea what that means? I’ve had chance after chance to kill you…managed to bollocks it up some way or another. Hell, ‘ve been invited to your home, for God’s sake. Chance after chance…” A hand moved up to brush a few unruly locks of hair from her face. “An’ I never did it. Never went through with it. You’re better than the others, sure. Best I’ve ever seen. But ‘f I wanted to…’f I really wanted to…I’d’ve done it by now. I haven’t.” The words should have disgusted her. Should have revolted her. Should have convinced her to stake him then and there and solve her problem. And, if nothing else, should have definitely eradicated any remnants of her stupid crush once and for all. Of these things, it did none. Rather, it set her heart pounding so hard she was certain it could be heard through walls. Made her clothes uncomfortable and set her skin aflame. Made her clench her thighs—made her want to throw him against the wall to do all sorts of naughty, inappropriate things to him. Made her want. “I haven’t…” Buffy looked down, unable to maintain the demand of his gaze. She was afraid she would blurt out something she wasn’t yet prepared to face. “I haven’t killed you, either.” “You haven’t?” She looked up. He was smirking. “Yeh, kinda noticed that one, luv. Any idea why?” “No. You’re annoying and evil and by all logic accounts, you should be dust.” “An’ yet…” He was moving in dangerously close. Oh god oh god and no mistletoe to blame it on. “Here I am.” His right hand reached at her cheek and wiped away some residual dirt from patrol. “Sweetheart, I know what you’re gonna say, but I think you need a bath.” “I stink?” “No. It’d help with the achies.” “You want me to bathe like this?” She held up their joint hands. “Huh?” “What, you were gonna go four days without a shower?” Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You thought I’d go four days without a shower? Honestly, Slayer.” Her cheeks flushed. “I hadn’t thought about it.” “Well, come on then. Hop up.” “No! No, I’m not…showering with you.” Naked Spike. Wet naked Spike. She wouldn’t be able to control herself. “You’ll have to stand outside the shower while I do it, okay? Quick, painless—” “With the nozzle pointin’ that way—” He gestured discernibly, “—an’ your right hand glued to yours truly?” “I am not getting naked with you!” He scoffed indignantly, his face hardening from the sweet resolve she had been treated to all night. “I swear, Summers, you have some ego. Like that’s what’d I’d be thinkin’ about.” “Well it’s what I’d be thinking about!” They froze and gaped at each other. Buffy closed her eyes and wished for the counter to swallow her whole. Spike’s gaze, in turn, had softened again. “Slayer—” “Don’t. Don’t read too much into it or flatter yourself. Y-you just get two people naked, and…wet…and shower…and…you think about it. It happens. Case closed.” “Buffy.” He was smiling at her now; a kind smile. An almost adoring smile. So far off from the smiles she had ever received from him. A smile reserved only for spells when happiness was the mode of operation. A smile she had only seen when they were planning wedding arrangements. “I lied.” “What?” “Hello, guy here. I’d be thinkin’ about it, too. God, I’d be thinkin’ about it. How could I think of anythin’ else with…an’ you’re…” His eyes trailed the length of her, suddenly hazy with thought. Overwhelmed. “You’re…’m runnin’ the bath for you.” “I’m not getting in.” “You’ll get in ‘f I have to throw you in.” “No.” “Fine.” “Fine?” “Yeh—we’ll take a shower instead.” Buffy’s eyes went wide. “Spike!” The vampire sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look. We’re gonna have to do this eventually, right? Might as well get it outta the way.” He waited for a minute as she debated inwardly and lost every argument against the voice of rationality. Ultimately, he was right. Even if they did not do this tonight, there was tomorrow to think about. Tomorrow and the days following. God. “Right,” he said, evidently reading the concession in her eyes. “So…’m startin’ the shower.” The air around her was suddenly very hot. A stymie burn from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her hair. He turned from her as best he could and flicked the water on—leaving her to her own devices. For her part, Buffy stood at an awkward standstill, unsure what to do with herself. What, if anything, would suggest too much. They had decided to take a shower together—okay, her mind was already filled with much promise of naked goodness, but what exactly did this mean? Was he acting purely on behalf of her aches and pains, or was he looking for an excuse to get her naked? It seemed too radical to stop now and ask if this was still a part of the date or if they were back to being two reluctant victims of industrial strength adhesive. By the time Spike had turned back to her, she had done nothing to disrobe herself and he wasted no time setting the pace for her. He raised his hands to the hem of her shirt wordlessly, sending a cautious glance to her face before edging the material upward. She knew he could read her nervousness; could feel it rolling off her in waves of irrepressible uncertainty. With whatever else they had done to this point—spell or no spell, glue or no glue—there was something about the intimacy of nudity that deepened the significance. Cold air hit her like a bucket of ice. Strange. The air hadn’t felt cold before. Perhaps that was accredited to the fact that she was standing in the bathroom of Giles’s apartment with a vampire she had too recently hated, wearing nothing waist-up but a skimpy lace bra. Her festive top adorned from nowhere was currently bunched where their hands were fused together. The room reverberated with the pounding of her heart. “You’re gonna have to rip it,” she murmured, surprised at how husky her voice sounded. He looked up at her with wondrous awe and something she had never seen before guiding him through a blur of recognition. “Yours, too. We’ll have to rip it.” “Buffy…” Her eyes met his and what she saw took her breath away. So close. When had he gotten so close? A yank and her top was gone for good; sailed to the floor as his free hand steadied her arm. Then slowly skimmed up the length of her and paused at her shoulder, fiddling with the strap of her bra. He whispered her name again, eyes drifting to her face for another nod of permission. And she must have granted it for his fingers itched to the swell of her breast and stroked her lightly through the thin material, a low, throaty moan rumbling through his body. Then he raised his other hand to work the front clasp, and her breasts spilled into his welcoming touch, eager digits automatically pulling at her nipples, sending small jolts of pure lust to her core. God, this was really happening. He was really touching her. There was awe masked with hunger in his gaze, and he was touching her. “’m gonna kiss you,” he said suddenly. The Slayer looked at him numbly, heart throbbing just beneath his caress. As though carrying on a rational conversation while being fondled by a gorgeous vampire was remotely possible. “What?” “’m gonna kiss you.” It was not a question. He was going to kiss her. He was staring at her mouth like a man starved, offering her a sheepish smile when he couldn’t stop. “Jus’ thought I’d let you know.” This was one moment out of a million, but it would be one to always remember. Mind hazed, Buffy nodded best she could. “Oh. Okay.” It was amazing how weightless she felt. Even more amazing that that was the first thought that seized her mind as Spike’s good arm jerked an anchor around her waist as his mouth found hers with more fervor compacted into a single kiss than she had ever before experienced. Kisses were simple. Sweet. She had shared kisses with a number of boys—tentative ventures with nameless faces met back at who-knows-where before she left Hemery in ’97. She remembered the name of her first kiss was David Greenbrier and that he had thought his tongue was some blessing from Heaven. The few that followed before Angel, she didn’t remember. Couldn’t place. They existed where all the forgotten kisses existed. Shelved forever in some cupboard labeled for those she had once known and would likely one day forget altogether. There were kisses that established foundations and others that halted construction. Then there were kisses like Spike’s, where all memories of those stolen moments in the past were suddenly made meaningless. Spike’s exploration of her; gentle but hungry. Forceful but yielding. His tongue taking to her mouth with softness that counteracted the need behind every stroke. His lips danced against hers—forming poetry without words. His fingers curled around hers where they were joined, his other hand at her breast, stroking her with craving she had never thought she could inspire. For every touch he gave, every sweep his mouth made against hers, he made her feel in seconds more desirable than she had in the full of her experience. Where this would make Angel lose his soul, Spike for all accounts seemed to gain one in mindless seconds. The notion was dangerous, she knew, but could not find it within herself to care at that moment. Her legs were around his waist, grinding into his hardness and nearly weeping with relief when he thrust back into her. The sounds rumbling needily from his throat tugged at every nerve in her body. She mewled in protest when his mouth finally wrenched away, though her lungs were grateful. They stared at each other, stunned for a few endless seconds. Watching; waiting for the other to speak. Daring themselves to put a name on something so powerful. Buffy braved it first even if she didn’t feel confident enough. “I…there’s no mistletoe,” she said lamely. Spike’s eyes darkened with passion and neared her mouth again. “Sod the mistletoe,” he growled. They were kissing again, and none of the rest mattered. Long, wet, heated kisses—the type that stole minutes, hours, half days for the want of something more. His velvety tongue stroked her to points of ecstasy she didn’t know kisses could bestow. Then she felt him nip at her breast, drawing one ruby nipple into his mouth and reality collapsed altogether. His teeth teased her lightly, only to be fended off with an angry tongue. Buffy cried aloud and grasped at his head, her own finding the surface that had suddenly appeared behind her and her body wrenching a lever that was protruding from the wall. The shower. They actually were in the shower. She hadn’t even noticed the change of scenery. And even with the water running, had he not pulled away for that fraction of a second, she doubted she would have anytime soon. It didn’t matter the next second, though; his hand had dipped to her trousers and tugged with some instance. “Gotta get you outta this,” he murmured, thoroughly occupied at her breast. “Gotta get you clean.” “Clean…” Somehow her clothing disappeared, and she was naked in his arms. She didn’t know how it had happened; when he had managed to do it. Never had he pulled away from her, dragged his mouth away from her aching skin to tend to the menial, however anxious concerns about clothing. It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered except the feel of him against her body. Spike dropped alternative kisses on either breast, his eyes trailing heatedly to her face. Then he was working up her throat, mouth lavishing every inch of skin until he reached her lips again. “You’re beautiful, Buffy.” He pulled back to see her eyes. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” She swallowed hard, and if it was possible, her blush deepened. Why did it not seem like a line? It had to be a line. “I mean it,” he said, as though reading her hesitation. “I look at you…’f the sun shone so bright, I’d be a dead man. No creature of darkness could hide when she smiles like that. There’d be no shadows.” His head tilted. “’ve…this means somethin’ to me.” Buffy’s head spun, floundered with poetry. “I—Spike…” A few seconds passed and words failed her, but she remembered herself as his head ducked with the initial stain of embarrassment, and she lifted him to her eyes once more. “It means something to me, too. I don’t know…I…” “Shhh.” He smiled warmly, head dipping so that he might nibble at her throat with soft sensationalism. His right hand became more boisterous, scaling over the flat of her stomach to cup her mound with nimble fingers. He swallowed her gasp of surprise and moaned into her when she clutched at him tighter. “Spike—” “Shhh,” he mused again. “Spike…jeans…” Buffy wailed incoherently and dropped her hands; best she could while taking his with her, tugged at his belt in sudden desperation to free him of his confines. “Want…need to feel you.” “I—” She didn’t know if he meant to protest or encourage, but it was too late. She emerged the victor; his erection sprang into her hand with a liberated whimper, and he gasped as her grip tightened with need. The angle was awkward—her left hand employed rather than her right, but the pay off was that much more rewarding. Every pant that rumbled through his lips, every time her name rolled off the litany of pious observations, every second stolen: every everything. “Buffy.” Spike’s hand remembered itself after a few long seconds, his fingers massaging her sodden folds such gentle poise that it near drove her out of her mind. He studiously avoided where she craved his touch the most; her body cried out in desperate outrage before her mind could prevent it. The smile that touched his lips was tender, not mocking. “You’re even more beautiful like this,” he said. A strangled moan escaped her throat and her hand tightened around him, earning back some of her own. “So are you,” she murmured. “Christ, Buffy!” The sound sent shivers up her skin. Her name on his lips was sounding more and more natural. He was panting against her in a manner she would have found funny had he not suddenly skipped the pleasantries and plunged two fingers deep inside, earning a strangled gasp. “Uhhh.” “Wanted you,” he rasped at her ear, “so fucking long.” Buffy pulled back lightly, her thumb teasing the head of his erection. Words were beyond her now. Coherent thought was beyond her. How this had gotten so far, she did not know or care. Her body ached for his in ways it had never before ached. There had been nothing before this. “So long.” His thumb in turn finally found her clit; he swallowed her pleasure with his mouth, thrusting fingers pressing her further toward elation when it was no longer enough. Then everything came back to her; words, logic, everything. She needed it for this. Needed it to convey what her body craved. Something that somehow required verbal consent. It was a big step for anyone—for them, the gap between one extreme and the other would never close. Not so far off between love and hate—though no one had said anything about love—but large enough for her that she knew, even in a lust-filled haze, that everything would change after this. Everything. He knew it, too. He would have taken her by now had he not known it. Or rather, he would have taken her had he known it and simply not cared. “Spike,” she gasped. “Inside. I want you inside me.” The vampire’s eyes went wide. “Buffy…” “Please…” Her mouth found his ear. “Make love to me.” It was amazing what silence could do to a room filled with sound. The water splattering at her back before hitting the tub and trickling into the drain. The gasps of air stolen from one being that didn’t need it and another that couldn’t get enough. The bells in her head that she had always thought to be proverbial. All around her. Sound. She couldn’t get away from it. And yet, for the astonishment pouring through Spike’s eyes, she would have thought it all sold for a moment of silence. “Buffy?” Her nerve would have failed her had she not heard the hopefulness in his tone. And it took that to realize the significance of what she said. Make love, not fuck. She asked him to make love to her. It was what she wanted—she had not put any thought into the words. She had not considered what it meant, if anything. She had simply yielded to the wails of her body, to the ache stretching her insides that only he could quench. The hope in his eyes moved her more than anything he could have said. It meant something to him, and that thought nearly prompted her to tears. “Buffy…” His lips neared hers with near-reverence. “Are you sure?” “God, yes.” “Say it again.” He smiled when she shot him a questioning look. “I jus’ need to hear it. Prove to myself that this is real.” Buffy stared at him for a few awed, endless seconds. “Spike, I—” And then it happened. The thing happened. The breech between reality and this stolen paradise crumpled completely. Not even the running water could smother the sound. In an apartment such as Giles’s, the slightest hum carried without much measure. All sounds except those from the bath; that meant nothing for the sounds surrounding them. It was the front door. Someone was banging on the front door. Spike’s eyes went wide after the surprise waned. “Buffy…” He looked to her for an answer he had not issued a question for. And they stared repentantly at each other for endless seconds. “What…” Whatever she said next came out of pure panic. The sort of panic that strikes right before you do something that is meant to change the course of your life. Taking that final leap of faith. Naturally so, such leaps are usually given more time to work up to than a mere day. It seemed forever had passed, but it had only been a day. A day of stolen time. They had had their day. They had somehow gotten here. And now the outside world had come knocking to remind them kindly that it still existed. With all its ugliness and truth, the outside world still existed. The world outside the bathroom still existed. So she panicked. “It might be Giles.” And instantly regretted it the minute the words escaped her lips. It wasn’t Giles. They both knew it wasn’t Giles. Were it Giles, he would have no earthly reason to knock. It was his apartment, after all. Spike saw this, of course. Read it in her eyes. Read the flicker of uncertainty and watched it spread into genuine alarm. Watched as she stopped at the edge of the cliff and looked down hesitantly at the height she had to jump. The depth of how much she had to trust him to catch her in case she should fall. And there was doubt. In that second, there was doubt. Buffy watched his resignation and it all came back. She opened her mouth to protest as he pulled away, but it didn’t matter. His eyes had gone distant. He was suddenly miles away from her. “Right,” he said shortly. “Might be Giles.” “Spike—” The water suddenly stopped running. “Come on. We gotta have a robe or somethin’ to cover you with, right?” “Spike—” It was no use. He wouldn’t listen. He jerked her out of the shower, and she followed as though watching her life being played for her by someone who no longer knew her lines. He dressed her as modestly as possible, and as closely as possible before pulling up his sodden jeans. The robe hung awkwardly off her right shoulder with the lack of an arm to go through, tugged at the bottom to cover as much flesh as she could manage. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t Giles. They both knew that going to the door. It wasn’t Giles. And it wasn’t Willow. It was a deliveryman. A deliveryman that smirked knowingly before he presented them with their package. The solvent, of course. It was the solvent. It was here now. Now of all times. Three days early. TBC |