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S p i k e / B u f f y . F a n f i c t i o n . b y .K J .D r a f t
STILL LIFE IN SUNNYDALE Chapter Two "I just mean," Buffy clarifies defensively, "of all the people he could have killed, I'm not exactly weeping for the trio." "They're still people," Xander replies, confused and a little disturbed by her flippant dismissal. He toys with an empty shot glass. Slurs his way into a rant: "Depraved, asshole, killer nerd type people, but people. And by the way, why do I not see Spike's dust covering the bottom of your shoes? He's fair slay-game now, I don't care how many times you two" (he shivers violently) " did what you did, and really, I'd prefer not to know, ever, but my point is, you can't just not slay him. There's no excuse now. He's a chipless, soulless killer." He knocks back his fourth shot of the night to punctuate the remark. "Anyone who wants legal drinks, I'm buying!" Dawn interrupts, tugging a stool over next to Willow and flashing a wad of cash. "Be gone, I have no use for you," Xander answers, only half teasing. "And just when did you acquire buying capabilities?" Buffy questions suspiciously. "Babysitting. Twelve bucks an hour," she retorts pointedly. Buffy raises her eyebrows. Willow, sensing things about to get really, really ugly, pipes up, "I'll have another cherry coke, twist of lemon." Pleased, Dawn heads off on her task. "And then we're going home," Buffy calls after her. Dawn pivots, gets her Brat on. "It's only ten o'clock! " "Ask me if I care." "You're actually jealous because I make more money than you," Dawn squeals. "Yes, Dawn, I'm paralyzed with rage. You got me pegged. We're still going home." Dawn frowns and heads to the bar. Xander and Willow remain silent, looking anywhere but in the direction of their seriously pissed off friend. "Did you hear that? She makes more money than me," Buffy states in disbelief to neither in particular. Xander clears his throat. "Yes, well, the baby sitting arts do tend to bring in the bank. But she just wants to contribute to the household. You should, uh, be proud. Of her. Let her stay out and hang." "Nice try. She shouldn't be subjected to Drunk Xander every night this week." "No one should. But Falsely Cheerful Xander is better than Morose, Barely Holding Onto His Job and Apartment Xander," he suggests. Willow puts her hand on Buffy's arm. "You and Dawnie go, I'll take Xander to Tara's and baby sit." Xander grins sloppily. Every heart broken fool who abandons his once and current Vengeance Demon at the altar should get two adorable lesbians to pamper him afterwards. For as long as possible. "I can't afford twelve bucks an hour," he informs Willow, straight faced and suddenly panicked. "I think we'll manage," she assures him. Xander downs another shot, seeming to gain courage (or at least anger) from it, and turns back to Buffy. "So where is Beyond The Pale, anyway?" "Are de-invitations necessary?" Willow adds, chewing her straw, not sure she wants an answer. Buffy shakes her head. "Spike's gone. Don't know where." "Too bad, so sad," Xander mutters bitterly. "Wonder if he gave Anya a proper goodbye." Buffy turns her gaze on him sharply, so sharp it manages to actually penetrate the buzz he has going. Buffy the Drunk Friend Soberizer, he thinks and chuckles. No, wait, still buzzing. "Y'know," Buffy pronounces slowly, also submitting to chew-the-straw mode, "It's weird. Three humans gave me more grief this year than all the demons I fought combined." "True," Willow agrees, glancing at Xander. She's unsettled by Buffy's tone. Senses that it's leading up to a Creepy. Something to discuss with Tara, obviously - Xander can barely keep his head up. "Makes me wonder why I'm spending so much time patrolling for vamps or other-dimensional types," Buffy continues irritably, "Seriously." "What are you saying?" Willow's straw is now chewed to a pulp. "Most demons are content playing poker for kittens, which, while admittedly ick-making, is nothing compared to Warren, that prime example of humanity, who manages to murder his ex girlfriend, frame me for it, and later drive me crazy, to the point where I believe it's a swell idea to murder all of you. And that's just the stuff we know about! Tell me, who should we be going after here?" "While your point is see-able, we're not law enforcement," Willow offers. "No, we would be effective," Buffy snaps back. Xander stares at her. Wow, this is one spinning room. Interpreting his stare as accusatory, Buffy sighs, "I'm not trying to be callous, Xander, but c'mon, you gotta admit, Warren's death simples things up considerably. Not just for us, but everyone in this miserable excuse for a town." The rooms stops spinning long enough for Xander's thoughts to slowly arrange themselves, like those make-a-sentence magnets on the fridge. She sounds almost happy that Spike killed them, he realizes darkly. Like he ran some particularly inconvenient errand for her. He is prevented from voicing this theory by the return of spinny-room, as well as Dawn. Besides, why bring it up? For once in this hellish week, Xander's got something to be truly, freakishly happy about. That goddamn fucking platinum haired bastard is gone. *** At home, Buffy sits on the edge of her bed. Staring. Not moving. The half moon shines into the room, sharply illuminating the back wall. She seems capable of only one repeated thought: Spike. Shakes her head; snaps out of it. Turns and flicks off the light. Removes her boots. Kicks them into the corner. Pulls her t-shirt over her head and tosses it behind her, falling back onto her comforter as she does so. Unbuttons her jeans and shimmies out of them, thrusting her hips up to get them off. Toes them down her legs and into a heap on the floor. Falls back on the bed, clad in her bra and panties they're not even sexy and stares at the ceiling. Pretends, for a moment, that Spike's watching her. It used to drive him mad, watching her undress. Sometimes she'd catch him touching her sweaters, or skirts, almost like he was jealous of them. Taking pleasure from simply holding the fabric in his hands. So many little fetishes he had for me, about me. She puts a little exhibition into removing the rest of her clothes. Slips her middle finger under her bra-strap and glides it slowly down her shoulder. Unsnaps the front clasp. Coaxes her bra off. Cups her breasts in her hands for a second. Rolls her palms over her nipples until they begin to harden. Stops, embarrassed. Yanks her panties off efficiently and crawls immediately under the covers, pulling the cool sheets up to her chin. Idiot. Tries to get comfortable. Shuffles her feet up and down a little, back and forth, bunching the sheets. Forces her feet still, pulls the covers taut across her body again. Flips over onto her stomach, re-tangling her legs. Wriggles, trying to straighten the material out. Presses her hips into the mattress. Presses them in again, moving forward a little, a quick rub. Then again. And again. It feels good. God, stop it. Rolls onto her back again, frustrated. Kicks the covers off altogether. Lies stationary, arms rigidly flanking her sides. I'll just touch my stomach a little. Who cares if I touch my stomach? With the fingertips of one hand, she lightly caresses the smooth skin of her belly. Rubs in little circles, then straight across, back and forth, along her ribcage, just below her breasts. Gently traces one small finger up to her nipple, just to see if it's still hard. Works it around, raising it. Thinks of the way Spike touches her. No, used to touch me. Mmm, but he'd already be sucking on it, biting it a little, looking up at me to get my approval. She plucks it once, arching off the bed, then stops. No, no, just relax and go to sleep. Her right hand returns to her side. But now her left hand wants to play, and starts tracing little patterns on her hip. Dances quickly over to her thigh, stroking lazily then with more precision, now the inner thigh, higher, drawing very, very close to nah ah, don't do that. She sits on her hands, then. Bites her lip. If Spike were here, he would do anything I wanted. As long and as often, as hard, as much, in the best way, 'til I couldn't stand it anymore. 'Til I screamed. (Why the hell did I dump him?) She knows he's a demon. She knows he can kill people now; that he will. What she didn't know until this moment was that I want him to. All the Warrens of the world. She gets a mental image, clear as death, of a pact between her and Spike. Sealed in blood. Foresees a future conversation: You kill my kind and I kill yours. So let's get to it. *** The next morning, Buffy struts into the Campus Security Office. "I used to be enrolled here as a student," she crisply informs the desk clerk. "But now I'm looking for a job. I know there aren't any self-defense classes currently offered, so I want to teach one." The clerk looks her up and down, clearly not impressed. "What should we call it? 'Screaming for Help the UC Sunnydale Way?'" A security guard enters with a mug of coffee. He's got a gun holstered at his side. Buffy glances at him. Speaks to the clerk. "How about 'I'm a Moron Who Almost Got Shot?'" Buffy drops to the floor and executes a spinning heel kick to the security guard's legs. His coffee goes flying and as he lands, she leaps over him, snatches his gun from its case and positions it to the clerk's head. The clerk freezes, deathly pale. "It's not loaded," the security guard sputters from the floor. In response, Buffy removes the gun from the clerk's temple and levels it at him instead. "Wait!" he yells, covering his face, terrified. Buffy sets the gun on the desk. "You guys probably shouldn't carry guns. I'm just saying. If they scare you so much." "Would you -- would you be teaching them to do stuff like that?" The clerk asks nervously. "Of course not! I'm not like, 'yay, anarchy.' We'll do basics. Pressure points. Elbow breaking, there's a crowd pleaser. And for the ladies, a seminar on how to deal when your date gets too frisky." Buffy extends her hand to the downed security guard. He grudgingly accepts it and stands. "We can't just award you a class," the clerk blurts out. "There's scheduling, budgets, a shit load of red tape and paperwork, interviews " Buffy slowly turns to regard him, her face impassive. "But for you, I'll try to make it happen." He picks up the phone with shaking fingers. Buffy sits on the couch, flips through a magazine. "I'll wait." ** Anya hands a mug of coffee to Buffy, then extracts the folded contract from under her arm. Sets the papers onto the table and smoothes them out. "Looks pretty sweet, huh?" Buffy prompts. "Dawn's babysitting salary will pale in comparison," Anya agrees. "That's not--why I did it!" Buffy objects. "Well, it's a tiny, miniscule reason." Beat. "It was the final reason." "The camel's at the chiropractor." "Uh, right. Exactly. So the contract looks all legit to you? They kind of rushed it out." "It'll be considered a one credit gippe, and your pay appears comparable to that of a T.A. in a regular three credit course." Like Riley. Huh. "I'm also offering private lessons, thirty-five bucks an hour," Buffy adds proudly. "That's impressive. And I'm flattered you requested my opinion," Anya states primly. "Especially as you have no true social ties to me anymore." Buffy shrugs, uncomfortable. "That's not " "I know your allegiance belongs to Xander." Anya unconsciously skims the table with her fingertips. "Especially after my thing with Spike -- " Buffy screeches her chair back from the table, stands and gathers her things. I'm the one who has a 'thing' with Spike. Okay, had a thing. Still. My thing to have. "So not having this conversation," she mutters. "Buffy. If I'd known you were the one he was talking about--" Buffy halts and stares at her. Don't patronize me. Anya relents. "Well I probably still would have. But I never wanted you to feel bad about something I did. Hard as it may be to believe, I wasn't even trying to hurt Xander with it." Flight response abating, Buffy returns to her chair. Anya speaks softly. "Sometimes, I'd think Xander was holding out on me, and what he was holding he was holding for you." Buffy shakes her head. Aw, jeez. She sounds so beaten down. "No --" "The way he could look at you like he'd never know what he was missing out on, but could still be plagued by the not knowing. I hated that." "Xander and I are friends, we've never --" "Oh, I know. But, he won't leave Sunnydale. Think about it. We couldn't leave Sunnydale. Not because of his job, or my job -- It's you. It's simply...you." Buffy sighs. Maybe she has a point. But how can I put this in a way she'll understand? "When we hug, our pelvises are always at least three inches apart, usually more," she offers hopefully. Anya grants her a rueful smile. "You don't have to defend yourself. It's irrelevant now, anyway." She stands then, walks around the table. "I'm fixing up the Magic Box, so I can sell my half back to Giles. I'll be gone by summer's end." Buffy has no idea how to respond. I wonder if Xander knows. "Is there anything I can do?" "No, but thanks for asking." Buffy fidgets the toe of her sneaker against the table leg. Stares at it intently. Soo... Be casual. Be casual. "So, um, what did he say?" "Who?" You know who! "Spike," she grinds out. "What did he say to you that night?" "About you, you mean." God, make this hard, why don't you? Gritted teeth: "Yes." "Well, I wasn't paying much attention. I had too many of my own thoughts to get out." "Oh." "But I do have a recent message from him to you." Buffy's immediately on edge. "And you waited 'til now to bring this up?!" It was nice to have a conversation with you! I withheld it briefly because I didn't want you to leave right away, having no more use for me! Embarrassed, Anya rushes to explain. "On his way out of town. He said to tell you he'll be back at the full moon." Buffy snorts. What a melodramatic ass. She thinks of the very first time they fought. He'd made some grand, pompous announcement about killing her on Saturday, then showed up at school the next night instead. "He'll be back before then," Buffy declares. "What makes you so sure?" Anya queries. "He'll get bored." And I'll be ready.
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