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
Buffy sits in the campus center eating Chinese food and perusing the newspaper. Hanging out at UC Sunnydale and teaching classes for the past two weeks has provided her with pleasant nostalgia, though she still feels a bit like an imposter. Maybe because I told them I'm proficient in Brazilian ju-jitsu. Heh. But what was I supposed to say?
Summer sessions usually only attract a fourth of the regular student population, but Buffy's twice weekly lessons are fairly popular. Of course, Sunnydale isn't exactly Bedford Falls in the crime and supernatural happenings department. The possibility of fighting back probably draws people, but she likes to believe her cuteness factor facilitates the heightened attendance as well. What else would explain the almost 50/50 ratio of male to female students?
Mostly, however, what Buffy experiences is pride. If even one college woman walks the campus at night a little less scared, I've earned my 'Third Attempt at Life' Girl Scout Merit Badge. Where's my beanie already?
An article captures her attention: A man was apparently released from prison yesterday on a technicality. According to the report, ample evidence indicated that he beat and murdered his girlfriend a decade ago, but the prosecutor didn't file the charges as one offence within the specified statute of limitations. The accompanying photo depicts the alleged killer leaving the courthouse.
Son of a bitch. Stone faced, Buffy goes on to read about the family of the victim and their outrage. The article is followed by an editorial debate regarding the Constitutionality of warning people in his new neighborhood of his past.
Folding the page in half, she methodically tears out the article.
Spike nearly lasted until the full moon. He wanted to make good on his threat but Buffy's siren song proved too irresistible, so he cut his vacation short. Time to confront reality: I'm not the straightforward 'slaughter the village' type of chap I used to be.
Whether this is due to his feelings for the Slayer, or the experiences he's collected fighting alongside her and the Scoobies isn't clear to him. Regardless, best get it out in the open. Tell her where I stand, let her determine what it means. (If she doesn't kill me before I have the chance to explain.)
Diligently ignoring the three-quarters moon surveying the town, he swaggers confidently up Buffy's driveway, impressed by the size of his own balls. Could be a suicide stroll. But there's no way she's expecting me at her front door. Surprise on her face'll be worth everything to follow. Unfortunately, his puffed up self-image takes a hit when he discovers that his access to Buffy's house is impeded by 95 pounds of fierce teenage girl.
Dawn hovers in the doorway, blocking it. "You can't come in."
He's a little wounded, though he knows it's preposterous to expect a welcome mat.
"Boarded up tight again, hmm? Tara's magic wand? S'alright. I can chat you up well enough out here."
Dawn taps her foot metrically, clearly on edge. "Nobody thinks you're safe. Anymore."
I never was, you naïve little -- he looks at her then, really looks, and instantly softens -- sweet Bit. "Yeah, I figured that." Nods toward the door. "What's going on inside?"
"Xander and Willow and I are watching a foreign film," she explains, sighing laboriously. "And I have no idea what's going on. It refuses to make sense."
"It helps if you read the little words on the bottom of the screen."
"Eh, foreign flicks are usually just about life. You either appreciate 'em or feel cheated."
"I guess so." Why can't things be like last summer? Only with Buffy never dying? We could all play cards or something together, we could watch the movie on mute and make up our own words, you'd still be chipped, it could be --
"Who's there?" Xander calls from the depths of the living room.
"No one!" Dawn hollers back.
Spike winces slightly. No one. Nice. Banished so seamlessly from the outskirts of their existences.
"So." He slaps his hands together, eyes searching about. "Where's Sis? She inside, too?"
Dawn's suspicious. "Why?"
He chuckles at her ferocity. "Ho, ho! Getting protective now?"
"Why do you need to see her?"
He looks away, thinks of the best way to smother Dawn's justifiable venom. "You know I love Buffy," he asserts persuasively. Creeps nearer, gives Dawn the eye, invokes some vampire charisma. "You believe me, don't you."
sure. That's why you slept with Anya. 'Cause you're so in love with
Spike's insides tighten, inexplicably stiff and sore. Too much for his skin to contain. He tries to swallow it away. Whatever it is. Certainly not guilt. Almost reaches for her chin to steer her face toward him. Decides not to, doesn't want to spook her, risk her yelping and rousing the movie-watchers. Hopes his words will be enough to convince her. "Look at me. That wasn't your fault."
"You wouldn't have gone after them if I hadn't told you!" she protests quietly, no less emotional for the low intonation, her throat clogged with unformed tears. "You'd still have the chip in and everything!"
"Look, the two are completely unrelated," he insists, I'm a dreadful liar, "So don't join them in your mind like that."
"But you can kill people again."
"Yeah, I can. Doesn't necessarily mean I will." I am a lying bastard. But stop looking at me like that!
Dawn mulls over this information for a moment. Relents, mumbling, "Buffy's at school. University campus."
She earns a leisurely, wicked smile from Spike for that unwitting betrayal.
"Good girl." He flicks his hand dismissively. "Better buzz along."
"Worried Xander will come looking for me?"
"I don't give a flying f -- uh, toss what Xander does."
Dawn smirks a little. "I know that."
"Right, well, I'm on my way, then." He turns to go.
"You're just going to talk to Buffy?" Dawn confirms nervously. He turns back to reassure her.
"Yeah. We're gonna talk." Before and during our fight. "Thanks, Niblet." Be seeing you. Or not, depending on the outcome of said fight.
Concealed beneath the gymnasium bleachers, Spike possesses an unhampered view of Buffy's self defense class. What the devil is she doing?
"So let's say some frat brat has you sort of cornered against the wall, right?"
Buffy's partner of the moment allows her to mold his body to fit her example. She places his hands around her shirt collar. He's hesitant. "I won't break," she assures him. "Go ahead and push me so my back's to the wall."
The class gathers to either side of Buffy and her "attacker" to observe.
"You don't have to be strong to do this, you just have to use their own momentum against them," she elucidates, then grabs his wrists with her hands. "I'll do it in slow mo. I drop to the floor," she demonstrates, "But keep my hands where they are. He crashes into the wall all by himself."
She yanks her hands slightly, 'throwing' him unhurriedly into the wall. The class murmurs approval.
"Real simple. Everyone understand? Okay, team up groups of two, and let me see. Do it slow, no bruising the poor guys."
yawns. Real simple. And real boring. However, he does enjoy seeing
her in this authoritative commando role. Decides to wait until she's
flying solo before he pounces.
Buffy moves swiftly across the vacant campus. She's aware that someone's tailing her, but hasn't pinpointed their location yet.
An arm slides around her throat from behind and hauls her aggressively back against a firm, muscular chest. She clamps her chin down to prevent being choked. A voice in her ear, rough: "We can do this one of two ways. You lend me your ear for one bloody second, or --"
"I choose 'or'," she responds through gritted teeth, and grabs onto Spike's arm with both her hands. Drops to one knee and hurls him over her back. He lands in a roll, catapulting fluidly to his feet. Whips around to face her and strikes a loose guarding stance.
A young woman Buffy recognizes from class appears. "Buffy? What are you guys doing?" she interjects, blissfully oblivious to the fire she's walked into. "Brazilian ju-jitsu?"
Spike cocks his head at her, bemused, then over to Buffy, eyebrows raised.
"What?" Buffy snaps, distracted. "Oh! We're just -- practicing."
"We like to practice," Spike adds, voice dripping with sugary sweetness. Sweet like tooth decay, maybe.
"Mind if I watch?" the young woman begs, excited, setting her satchel down on a bench.
"You know what, actually, you need to go --" Buffy declares anxiously.
Spike overlaps, louder: "Sure, you can watch. Oughta be a real good show. Maybe you'll be part of it by the end."
Buffy shoots daggers at him. The girl's perplexed by his remark.
"He's just being weird," Buffy tries by way of explanation, forcing a laugh. "Must be the full moon." She looks pointedly up at the sky. "Oh, wait."
Spike scowls and lunges for Buffy, plowing into her, wrapping his arms around her middle. They land together in the grass, entangled.
"Hey, Chip-less, if you vamp out, or hurt her in any way, I'll kill you," Buffy whispers poisonously. "Sell your dust in a dime bag to the first pot head I see."
She disengages from their pseudo embrace by rolling backward and hoisting herself into a handstand, then flipping solidly to her feet.
The girl claps, impressed. Spike rolls his eyes, then he's on her again, fists flying. Buffy blocks his first two punches with her forearm, but his sharp sidekick sends her tripping backwards and sprawling on the ground. He follows, looming over her.
"I know you found the bodies," he murmurs conversationally, trying to get a rise out of her. "Did they smell bad? Did they upset you?"
She executes a scissor kick, helicoptering to her feet, fists primed and ready for combat. Looks him straight in the eye.
"Warren was a waste of skin."
Spike's so shocked by her rejoinder that he relaxes his stance, gaping at her incredulously.
Buffy wallops him in the face with a crescent kick. He goes down like a cinder block.
The girl from class covers her mouth, distressed.
"It's okay. He's fine!" Buffy insists at the top of her voice. "You're fine, aren'tcha, Spike?"
She grabs him by the wrist and hops backward a few times, forcibly yanking him to his feet.
Instructs the girl. "The best thing, remember? You should always run. But barring that, go for the nose or groin. Don't be afraid to fight dirty."
Buffy maliciously stamps Spike's foot with her boot.
He looks down. She bashes him in the nose with a back fist strike.
"Fuck!" he hisses, hand at his face, checking for damages. "You know I hate that!"
Buffy clenches her fingers around Spike's shirt and presses against him, prepared to raise her knee in a quick and very painful jab to his crotch.
"Do you want me to demonstrate?" she asks the student.
"No! No, that's okay, you don't have to."
Yeah, no need, you busted my nuts long ago. Spike snaps his arms outward, breaking Buffy's hold. Grasps onto her shoulder with one hand and sweeps her legs out. She starts to fall, but latches onto his coat sleeve, pulling him off balance as well.
After steadying herself, she rapidly pummels him: roundhouse, spin, roundhouse, catching his chest and head. Punches him in the face, intending to nail him with her elbow on the return. But he swiftly ducks, blocks her elbow and shoots an uppercut to her chin.
"Uhhff!" she staggers back. He follows. Right hook to her cheekbone.
The girl leaps to her feet, concerned. And more than a little disturbed.
Without turning around, Spike reacts insolently to her palpable fear. "It's alright, we're just playing. Fact is, she likes it, don't you, Buffy?"
He clobbers her across the face again. And again.
The girl gawks at them, unsure what to do.
The third punch knocks Buffy brutally to the ground.
"Get out of here!" Buffy manages to calls out in a hoarse voice, scrambling to escape from Spike.
The girl doesn't need convincing. She scoops up her bag, disregarding the papers that fall out, and races off, feet pounding the pavement.
Spike viciously kicks Buffy in the ribs. She curls into the pain, gasping. He rears back and punts her a second time, in the stomach. She moans in agony.
Oh shit! He thinks, penitent. Don't be hurt. Are you hurt? He wants to offer her his arm, lift her up and check her gently for injuries. Her dear, perfect body. Knows if he does so she'll lose all respect for him, assuming she ever had any, and probably stake him for no other reason save that. He schools his expression into that of a hard, callous fighter.
"Why'd you send her packing?" he demands scathingly. "Afraid she'll report back that her mighty instructor took a tumble?"
"Didn't -- want her -- to see -- this..." Buffy corrects, rocking back so her toes reach above her head, then springing forward in a hop. She flings herself into a spinning jump back kick -- Oooof! - that sends him soaring. The side of a building breaks his descent with a satisfying thud. " ...might give her ideas in class she's not ready for."
That's my girl, Spike thinks proudly, grinning and rubbing his side. Right back on your feet. Then remembers what happened the last time he called her "his girl" and stops smiling.
Warily they circle each other, maintaining their distance.
"I don't want to kill you," he admits quietly.
"I don't want to kill you, either," she replies, sounding bewildered.
"Then what are we doing?"
"Dancing?" she wonders.
It's more of a joke than a come-on, though. He remains outside her kicking range.
Another tense beat, then her stance gradually eases and he follows suit.
"Why don't you want to kill me?" he whines abruptly, insulted.
"Let's go to your crypt. We'll talk there."
He doesn't move. What??
She raises her eyebrows expectantly.
First rule of Dealing With Buffy: Don't bloody question anything. "Lemmee grab my wheels," he amends quickly. "Be right back."
Five minutes later, she's nearly deafened by the roar of his motorcycle. He takes his sweet time reaching her. Let her feast on the full billowing leather coat punk sex machine spectacle a bit first.
Her eyes widen and fixate on him. Hot damn.
He pulls up to the curb. Wracks his brain for something clever or sexy to greet her with. 'Going my way?' Oh God no, that's completely lame, Dawn would say.
"This is your bike?" Buffy almost shrieks. Almost like she's impressed. Almost like she's his girl after all.
He's pleased. Slow drawl, eyes sweeping up her body: "You like it?"
"Gee, if I'd known you had a motorcycle, everything would have been different," she continues brightly, revealing her sarcasm. "Shucks! I probably would have fallen in love with you!"
His elevated mood swan dives, and he thinks of attacking her then, sucking her dry. Almost moans at the mere thought of it. How scrumptious she must taste. And bonus: Never have to hear such cutting words from her pretty lips again.
But then she straddles the seat behind him, shimmies up snug, and adds cryptically, sort of business-like, "I'm glad you're back. I need you," so he freezes instead, several years' worth of unfulfilled expectation scattered like Tarot cards on a table, waiting to be turned over. Infinite possible future paths hidden from view. Buffy needs me? Even more horribly, sweetly perplexing: Buffy's admitting she needs me?
He cranes his neck around to regard her.
"You do know I got the chip out, don't you, Slayer?"
She rolls her eyes. Leans forward, running on pure instinct, and licks his ear. "Drive fast."
He revs the engine and slams the gas pedal. They peel out of the parking lot with an angry screech.
The girl returns with a Campus Security guard to nobody and nothing. Confused, she looks up at the guard and shrugs. Gathers her papers off the ground.
"Place looks different," Buffy states, glancing around the crypt.
"Well, I -- have a couch. Now." He pats it awkwardly.
Neither of them moves to sit in it.
Spike's restless and uncertain, shifting precariously between suspicion, fear, lust and something dangerously similar to hope. Something's off. But at least play this out, see where it goes.
"So the past three weeks..." Buffy starts.
"I've been feeding," Spike blurts out.
"Did I ask?!" she snaps, wailing. "Don't tell me that!"
"Let me finish," he bellows back, "Then you can have your say."
She skirts the side of the couch and flops down in the corner of it. Crosses both her arms and legs, petulant. "Fine."
"Something's wrong with me," he relates.
"Think that makes you special?"
He ignores her, determined to complete his thought. "I've been eating all kinds of people, right? No discrimination from Spike. Equal opportunity and all that. Short, tall, plump, scrawny, any color, all relatively tasty, 'specially the young ones --"
"Cut to the chase!" she yells. "I don't want to hear about this!"
"-but something's missing. Romance is gone. The spark. I taste my fill, sate myself, and go home with bloated belly. But it doesn't doesn't feel right. I miss killing those that deserve it. Don't like randomness. Prefer being heroic."
"Heroic? That's the image you carry around of yourself?" she sputters. "That's hilarious. That's hysterical. Really Spike, you should go on the road with that one."
"I'm serious!" He kneels in front of her, pleading to be regarded with some authentic consideration for once.
"I should kill you," she informs him plainly. "Part of me wants to. But the other part of me thinks you could be so useful if I keep you around."
She stands, forcing him to move. Patters away, then pivots to face him.
"Way I see it, what does it matter what I do or how I spend my time? I'm dead, Spike. I'm in the ground."
He swallows, sad. But also very, very curious. There's a tangible charge in the air. Something's being born. Right here, right now
"Self-defense lessons pay well. Plus -- let people protect them selves for once, right? I can't be everywhere." Amends that: "I shouldn't have to be."
"Right you are, Slayer," he purrs, ever more intrigued. Never seen her admit to being angry like this. Heat pours off her and her eyes flash as she paces.
"Deal's this. I research, get Will to hack into police files, whatever. There's a million methods of gathering information. Then I present you with a name and address."
He can't believe what he's hearing. Buffy wants me to track and kill for her. Help her clean up Sunnydale's human cesspool. As a favor. As a Team. The fuck?
She tugs a piece of paper out of her back pocket and unfolds it. The newspaper article. Scribbled in the margin, girly handwriting, blue ballpoint pen, is an address. She holds it out to him. The first offering. The only offering, as a matter of fact, she's ever bequeathed him.
"Here you go."
He takes it from her, skims the article. Stares for a moment into empty air.
"The Buffy I know couldn't even smother Glory in human form, pathetic git though he was." He squints at her. Are you completely mad?
"Warren's passing really brought things into focus. I can't kill people, and I won't. Not in my nature. But let's face it, some of them deserve to die. More so than the things I slay, even."
He remains dubious, examining her skeptically. "You're saying we complement each other now? What the hell's -- "
"'A man can change', right?" she imitates him. "Isn't that your favorite broken record?"
"My favorite broken record, truth be known, starts like this." Now he apes her, in an exaggerated, high voice: "'You're an evil, disgusting thing.'" Lowers his tenor, muttering. "And ends with you shagging my brains out."
"Well you are an evil, disgusting thing," she announces coldly. "If nothing else, then please, let's keep that straight."
"And that's why you need me," he realizes softly, knowing somehow that he shouldn't actually be pleased by this, but unable to grasp why. He's hypnotized and hypnotizing all at once, gliding toward her, a force of intensity, imploring, as always, to be controlled.
Which she does, expelling the same amount of effort she might use to puff a loose strand of hair off her face. Places a hand on his chest, halting his progression.
"You have to agree to certain rules first."
"Rules you come up with, no doubt."
"Hello, it's my plan."
"Only one rule, actually." And she drops her hand to her side.
considers that a blatant invitation and closes in, tracing circles on
her thigh with his thumb. Slow, steady. Reminding her how very good
his touch can be.
"You don't go after anyone unless I explicitly Okay it. Got that?" Stands on her tiptoes, her mouth close to his. "I decide for both of us."
Don't you always? "Told you I don't like random anymore. I accept."
They gaze at each other silently, basking in their new arrangement. He can feel her warm breath tickle his neck. It makes him swoon. I'm drunk with her.
She steps back. He grips her arm. Where you think you're going? Explores her eyes once more for any indication that this is a trick. Any indication that she doesn't wholly realize what she's proposing. But Buffy returns his gaze, guileless and thoroughly resolved.
"Seal the deal?" he murmurs, mouth barely moving to form the words.
Her eyes dart to his lips. Lips that smacked of blood only, what, days ago? So soft and full.
"Yeah," she tells him in a small voice, briefly acknowledging a familiar ping of self-loathing.
His arms enfold her, wrapping possessively around her back, drawing her in. But he doesn't kiss her. Wants to take advantage of her proximity in other ways first.
"Had to come back for you. Couldn't stay away," he groans into her ear. One strong hand threads through her silky hair, caressing. "Missed you. Do anything for you, anything at all. Kill anyone for you, 'course I will. Would've kept the chip in for you, too, if you'd asked. Late for that, now, but I'm still your slave. Always."
"I know," she acknowledges. "I know that now." I am one sick fuck.
He brushes his cool lips over hers at last. Kisses her top lip, then her bottom. Alternates between the two, sucking them into his mouth. Top and bottom, bottom and top. Can't decide which one's his favorite. More research must be conducted.
She claws at him. Needing more. Needing more than he can give. He'll try anyway. Harshly parts her lips with his tongue. They kiss deeply now, desperately, as though it's last Autumn; as though she never ripped his heart out; as though he never left. Knowing somehow, synchronized, that what ever happens next will be a million times worse than what came before.
For everyone else, at least.
Satisfied that she wants him as much as he wants her, he pushes her unceremoniously out of his arms.
"You'll come to me tomorrow night?" he demands.
She's flushed. "Yes. You'll do what I asked?"
"You know I will." He smiles. It makes her shiver. "Sleep tight, Slayer."
Unsettled, and painfully aroused, she leaves.
Lying alone in bed, Buffy recalls the way he kissed her: punishing her mouth for its past transgressions of I know you don't want to hear this I can't love you I'm using you I'm sorry William. Heat saturates her, spreading through every limb.
She gives in and touches herself relentlessly. Yes God, yes please, Spike...hunh
Tomorrow night I'll be with him like this just like -- this -- oh, oh, oh God --! She comes with a jerk, breathing hard, and gradually slows her body's movements, drawing the orgasm out, until she's barely moving at all, nothing but a languid hip swivel. Slumps onto her stomach, resting her head in the crook of her elbow. Tries to extend her gulps of air, make them last.
Feeling a bit guilty, Buffy props herself onto her elbows and rolls her pussy urgently into the mattress until the bed squeaks in response and she can pretend he's there with her.
Prays no one can hear.
One more should do it...
A half hour later, hair tangled and sweat clinging to her curves, she drops off. Clutches her pillow, snaking her body around it.
even in sleep, anticipation slanting to the edges of her lips.
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