Bleach



Written by: Juanita Dark

---

Summary: Buffy's caught between a rock and a hard place - and she's not complaining.
Spoilers: BtVS Season Six - Smashed through to Gone. Takes place post the latter in hypothetical Spoilerland.
Disclaimer: : Joss is boss, no profit, my loss. Ooh, look poetry!
Feedback: juanitadark@hotmail.com

---

We're apin' rapin' tapin' catharsis

You get torn down and I get erected

My blood is workin' but my, my heart is

Dead

Dead~Pixies




Somewhere between the time of locking up and the smelling of fried food from head to foot, the novelty of domestic bliss had worn off. The steady stutter of 'never again' was echoed, staccato, with the click of her heels moving down the otherwise silent streets.

Evening was long past, as was the theoretical bedtime hour. After a certain time, Sunnydale was dead. She was never quite sure what defined the time when people drew down their shutters and locked themselves away, but it happened at a certain hour every night. The time when ghosts could reclaim the town as theirs; and Sunnydale had as many ghosts as it had graves - if not more.

She moved like one.

There had been a time when she had simply stalked - instead of walked - her prey down past the lights, over the road, through the alleyways - in this world not haunted by it. She had gotten over it. Eventually.

Now she was more alert - and the slightest noise, no matter how nominal, drew her away from what sometimes felt like a gaping hole inside. She was glad for the distraction, and when she heard a scratching from a nearby side street, she was happy to investigate. Just doing her job - part two.

It only took a few steps towards the darkness to realise she was not needed there: a solemn-looking cat eyed her for a moment before returning to scraping the remains of a half-eaten burger from beneath a garbage can cover. The tiniest glimmer of a smile played on her lips as she asked:

"You got a reason to be here," before turning to face Spike. "Or is this official Brotherhood of Stalkers Unanimous business?"

There he was. All negative contrasts of black, leather and not-known-the- sun skin. Cocky smile in place, naturally.

"Depends what you're looking for in that dark and dirty alley, Slayer."

All chipper, she strode towards him. "Well actually, I'm..." Whipping out her stake. "Looking for something to stick this in - wanna be a candidate?"

Facing his posture of nonchalance, she concluded: "Didn't think so."

Returning the stake to her pocket she moved to leave. He, of course, was the resident obstacle course. She paused to take this in:

"So...you know you're in my way, right?"

"Looks like," he said, standing over her like some highschool bully - which was good because it had been so successful for the guys who had tried it there.

"Want to move?"

She stepped up so that they were only a footstep away from toe-to-toe.

The smile on his face pleasantly curled into a sneer:

"Why don't you make me? Scrapping makes me work up an appetite."

She unfolded the arms that had instinctively crossed over her chest, so that they aligned at her side, ready for any likely offensive. Yet she replied:

"As much as I would want to get in the way of you sucking the local abattoir dry..."

Without ending, her right hand shot out, catching Spike off-guard. He stumbled backwards suddenly, clearly not anticipating her hand appropriating his manhood so brazenly. He batted her hand away and she smirked at his almost indignant exclamation of:

"Steady on!"

Buffy sighed without impatience.

"Oh, I understand. Spikey can dish it out but he can't take it."

Spike was flustered. She was enjoying the view.

"I wasn't ready!"

The smirk gained further territory on her features.

"If that's what you want to blame it on. If you can't stand the heat-"

He stepped in, invading her personal space, growing large in extreme in her field of vision; enunciated each word with a low, caressing precision:

"Let's. Get. This. Straight. I'm primed and oven ready."

She stepped carefully to the side of his advance, beside him now.

"Nice to know you're so...combustible."

As she stepped behind him, he turned with her, changing his tack:

"Anyway, you're looking awful clean and spotless for a hellhole waitress."

"I have fast reflexes," she replied, stepping to the side of him again, moving past and behind him again so that he had to turn for a second time. "And we use bleach to wash the stains out."

She was obviously circling him now, but what he could not see was that as she stepped behind him each time she was clearly checking out his form. She continued:

"Which is kind of like..." trying to find the least hint of his derriere beneath the black duster, and almost getting caught doing it. She looked up swiftly, as he turned to face her - an annoyed pup chasing his tail - the top of his head ignited by sodium light. "Your hair," she finished.

He took this as a jibe.

"Yeah, well I don't have a reflection - what's your excuse for mousy roots?"

Unexpectedly sobered, she rejoined:

"I get waylaid by big wannabe bads that won't get out of my way at godforsaken a.m. in the morning!"

He changed tack again, like rolling down a hill, a different gear for every new conversational terrain.

"Come on. I know you told your little friends not to meet you. Too embarrassed about your new sideline."

"You followed me?!"

"No. I'd know that stink of burnt meat anywhere."

Her ire gained a notch to Grade-A pissed.

"What do you want, Spike? I haven't got all night. Dawn-"

"Dawn is all safely tucked up in bed with Red's ex." Then off her glare he added. "Present subtext excepted. Though I wouldn't have thought Red had it in her; always the quiet ones."

Anger flashed all over her, making her body hot and irritated:

"You know, I've had just about enough-"

"That's a shame," he cut in. "Because, really pet, I haven't gotten started."

The gloves off, her hands flashed out and grasped him roughly, without conscious thought - realising, as she did so, that he had done the same to her. She always disliked being grabbed - it made her dig in and pull him towards her, intending to throw him into the nearest wall and be on her merry way. Somehow, it did not work out that way.

But then, it never did.

No sooner were they in close quarters than the entangling began. His arms, her legs. His tongue, her mouth. They staggered backwards into the alley, startling the cat that had been passively following their charged exchange. It scurried out of their berserk path with a low, poisonous growl.

Spike lifted her to the wall, where for a moment she half-dangled, too near to the garbage can.

"Eww! Could this be more cold and gross?"

In ignorance of her observation, he remarked: "I thought that's how you liked it, luv."

She stared pointedly at the garbage can.

"Oh. Right," he said.

His right leg lashed out and kicked the can to the far blind wall, where it teetered drunkenly, before tipping over - spilling its contents with a loud, bouncing clang.

"You want to make just a bit more noise?" Though silently she cherished the resulting lack of neighbourhood curiosity - Sunnydale survival technique in action.

Spike's eyes were clouded by other considerations.

"Just a bit," he said hiking up her coat and skirt.

Her own hands - automaton - unbuckled his belt; undid, unzipped, unfurled - fait accompli. Instinct.

He struggled with her panties, her legs being locked around him.

"Rip them," she said.

And he did.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, as he entered her. She received him greedily, sucking moisture then pulling for air. Her mouth escaped as he crushed her against the wall, drawing her legs up higher so that she groaned in an agony of it not being enough. Her fingers fumbled for the leather around him then curved into his hair, all the while gasping:

"More, more."

He tried to oblige her.

Her thighs tightened around his hips as she threw her own forwards, the better to take him in. He pushed even further unable to quite draw back. Their mouths clashed again as his hands moved to her legs trying to relent some of her vice-like grip. Only a little. It left him not much option but to use his strength to penetrate her more deeply, rocking her back and forth violently. The hand pressing the back of his head told him he was doing it right. Her own tongue reaching roughly for the back of his throat.

A while of this; she suddenly yanked free of his lips, throwing her head back, moaning small death into the height above them; after came the stabbing breaths punctuating the wail. Pulsing tightness pulled him to the same sentiment, and he shuddered with the gratification of murder.

It was when she was coming down that Buffy opened her eyes, her lips forcing words:

"That...was so..."

As her pupils shrank, her eyes adjusted and registered Spike's amused and pale-flushed expression: Cat-got-cream-covered-canary.

She shifted, searching - still sandwiched between him and the wall. Still impaled. Recovering the stake from her pocket she held it up to the filtered light.

"Now, I've just got to stick this in something."

-*-

Her first thought on hearing a shrill ringing in a house of sleeping people - well, Dawn - was: "Mitigate!" But she could not do that. Not now, and not least because Tara was sitting a small distance away to her immediate left. She leapt a guilty leap from the sofa, proclaiming: "I'll get it." Not liking the pitty feel under her arms.

At the other end of the line, in a phone booth, Buffy muttered to no immediate company: "Come on, come on. Answer Will." Drumming on the directories with her fingers.

Willow answered.

"Hey! Buffy?"

"It's me, Will. How's Dawn?"

Taking in the response carefully, Buffy added additional inquisition.

"And did she do her homework? Really-- Really! Thank her for me. I'm-- I'm gonna be a little late. I'm going straight to patrol. Job kind of does that to you."

From her vantage position that gave her the breadth of the living room, Willow saw that Tara had turned from the television. Covering the receiver with her free hand, she whispered to clarify: "It's Buffy!" Before resuming the dialogue.

"Well, sure. You blow off steam, it's the least--" Willow paused uncertainly. "Uh, yeah-- Sure-- Later."

Dial tone sounded like an obscure version of defeat. Willow looked quizzically at the flat-lined receiver, prompting Tara to rise from her solo audience on the couch.

"Boy," Willow finally replaced the handset. "That job must be winding her up pretty tight. I mean, she wants to patrol straight away."

Tara contemplated this.

"If it's that bad perhaps she prefers to be alone?"

"I suppose." A smile lighted Willow's face daftly. "Kinda like safety in solitude." Quickly extinguished when she realised what she was saying to whom.

Tara showed no outward sign of bitterness but Willow still suffered sympathetic embarrassment. She then noticed how tired Tara looked. Struggling not to make things worse by stammering, Willow got a grip on the quaver in her voice before speaking again: "You can go up if you want. I'll...I'll pretend not to be waiting up."

Tara flapped her arms in front of her - one of her nervous physical tics when enduring uncomfortable silences.

"OK. Thanks. I mean... if that's okay with you?"

Willow put on a brave face to cover the pulpy mash of pain.

"Perfect," she replied, watching Tara alight the stairs alone, feeling her stomach leaden and sink numbly in what was quite the opposite.

"Just perfect," she mumbled.

-*-

Hooking up the phone and spinning on her purposeful heel, Buffy approached Spike. Smoking, he leaned against his motorcycle in a fair and unconscious imitation of a morbid James Dean. The helmet in her hands leapt, thumping lightly against her thighs as she moved. She stopped before him as he blew up smoke.

"So, who's a gal to kill around here?"

-*-

The third vampire went crashing to the ground, as the first and the fourth were dusted. Amidst the revelry of avoiding the second's curved sabre, the third almost escaped; but Spike caught him by the collar, as Buffy playfully kicked the blade from the second's hand. Plunging a make-shift stake home, Spike watched the vamp evaporate, as Buffy cartwheeled, her heel uppercutting the remaining vampire - who stumbled backwards into him.

"Over here!" Buffy ordered, clearly in the mood to slay.

Spike pitched the vampire forwards, where he fell towards the Slayer, who neatly separated his head from his body with the newly commandeered sword.

And yet, the Slayer was not happy. Before the dust settled she was speaking ill of the dead:

"They don't even put up much of a fight anymore - and if I'm not stiff now, I'm not gonna be sore later. Or is that the other way around?"

Spike only grunted and headed for his nearby crypt.

Taking in this conspicuous absence of meaningful sound from him, Buffy addressed it.

"And you're not saying anything because?"

At the door of his crypt, Spike lit another cigarette.

"Was a nice ride, Slayer, but this is where I get off."

Buffy reached him at the doorway, as the cigarette was returning to his lips. With professional impudence she plucked it from his fingers and ground it underfoot. Getting in close to him, her eyes flashed with mischief:

"Wrong again, Spike. This is where I get off."

She pushed him sharply off his feet into the centre of the vault, heaving the heavy door shut behind her. From where he had come to rest on the floor, Spike started to smile again. It caused his cheekbones to pronounce like razors, sleazily imitating life.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were getting a taste for this."

She came towards him, stepping and standing over him; her legs slightly apart, she placed a foot at either side of him, almost on top of his hands. He noted the coat and uniform would provide little barrier should his roving paws choose to use her legs as ladders.

She looked down at him, the radical cut of her hair not detracting from her new manifestation of desire. She stepped up further so that the hem of her skirt glanced his forehead.

"Taste?" She said.

-*-

In the event of hideous punctuality, there were sixteen different and discrete stages to getting through the front door of the Summers' home creak-free. Buffy had counted them all. Typically, her timekeeping was poor, but now it languished irredeemably in the depths of extraordinary impoverishment practically D.O.A.

She had considered sneaking in the other way, climbing the tree to her bedroom window but had thought the better of it - not wanting to provide further alarm by accidentally landing on somebody. Instead, she ran the gauntlet of the door.

She was a hop and a skip from the stairs when she heard Willow stir in the living room. Uncurling from her place on the sofa, wisps of her hair stuck out, fixed to the static around her head.

"Wha-? Buffy?"

Buffy backed up a little, trying to look a lot less sneaky than she felt.

"Oh! Willow." She entered the living room, faux scanning for the nearest clock. "Is that the time? Cos vamps...kind of eternal...and not so much with the time pieces."

Willow was still not quite awake, which worked in Buffy's favour.

"Buffy..."

The Slayer continued in her new line of thought. "Or calendars."

Willow tried vainly to get a word in: "Buf-"

"Ooh, unless it's the Night of St. Vigeous..." she surmised, then added in a smaller voice: "By which I mean nothing to do with Spike."

Too bewildered to grasp the significance, Willow's anxiety rose to the fore.

"Are you okay?" She said, taking an awkward and one-slippered step towards her friend.

"Sure!" Buffy answered, full of the need to placate any possible concern and every plausible suspicion. "I'm fine...just running off at the mouth. Staking out vamp nests do that." Following Willow's incredulous expression, she amended. "Does that?"

"You found a nest? Why didn't you say? Me and Xander could've-"

"Don't think you could've been there, Will."

Willow sounded disappointed. "Why not?" The slightest hint of insecurity sneaking in.

Buffy tried to recover ground.

"Oh-- well--" She went with her discomfiture. "I kind of wanted the nest to myself. To--" She came clean. Kind of. "Relieve tension."

This obviously mystified the sleep-deprived, rehabilitating Wicca before her - that much made clear in her resulting expression of question mark face.

"Are you ever gonna tell us what your job is?" Then coming to a realisation. "It's not--"

Buffy's world temporarily reeled. "Not what?"

Willow's voice lowered an octave: "A mortician? Because, okay, vampires - living dead, undead - but dead dead? Wouldn't that freak you out?"

Buffy brightened to this suggestion - if only because it catered to a stranger fiction a mile wide of the truth.

"In theory, I guess. But a couple of months ago, I was dead-- dead. So now, not a big issue. And hey, makes my other job way easier."

Willow digested this disclosure.

"Well...I guess...if you don't mind."

She was tired now and unintentionally semi-sleepwalking to the stairs - still with only one slipper.

Buffy remained as cheerful and delicate as she could for ulterior motives.

"Really. I might even get a kick out of it."

Sleepily, Willow took one step, then another, until she was more than halfway up the stairs.

"Will?"

"Yeah, Buffy?" The redhead turned for one last encore.

"That last part was a joke. By kick, I meant--" Buffy mimed a half-hearted kick to the wall.

Willow nodded but could not seem to muster the energy for humour.

"I got it," she said. "Goodnight."

"Sleep...tight." Buffy added, as the other girl disappeared.

Sure that the coast was fully clear; she went straight to the kitchen. She found the large bottle of bleach under the sink, where it always was. Removing her coat gingerly, she pulled at the uniform, assessing the new and plenteous stains decorating it.

Running a hand through her hair, she re-read the bottle label.

"'Kills all known germs'? Yeah, right."


The End




Back to Fiction: By Alpha ~ Back to Fiction: By Season