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
TITLE: What She Needs
AUTHOR: KJ (Katherine Jay) Draft
SUMMARY: S/B. PWP. A wee bit angsty. Spike tries to make Buffy jealous at the Bronze. It works. There's also some "ice on the back of her neck" action. (She likes that, you know.)
TIMELINE: Written Spring of 2002, this story takes place between "Older and Far Away" and "As You Were."
DISTRIBUTION: Feel free to link, just give me credit. It'd also be cool to let me know where. Thanks.
FEEDBACK: Ice Me: email@example.com
Joss Whedon owns them all, and he might blush if he saw what I made
them do. Actually, I am also blushing right now.
WHAT SHE NEEDS
Just need twenty minutes away, then I'll patrol.
From his vantage point overlooking the stage, Spike senses her presence and locates her immediately at the entrance to the club. She looks devastating as usual, slim leather pants wrapped around sinewy muscles and delicate strappy top tickling her collarbone; her typical costume for slaying and shagging.
If he's lucky.
If he's very, very lucky.
He thinks about swooping down and buying her a drink, then reconsiders. Kindness always backfires. The only emotion to penetrate her fog is anger. You have to push her fast and strong 'til she pops and allows rage to focus her attention into a laser fine point.
So that is how we'll play the game.
the selection of sweet young things milling about on the floor below.
Then a not so sweet one catches his eye and he grins. She'll do right
His leather clad arm rests possessively above her head. They're standing in the same place we kissed after Willow's spell wore off, Buffy acknowledges bitterly.
The bimbo giggles, then licks her bottom lip, her eyes drifting downward. She's clearly enjoying the hell out of Spike's flirtations. Is it the accent? What the fuck could he possibly be saying to make her react that way?
*And why doesn't he say that kind of stuff to me?*
He probably would, she realizes, if I gave him half a chance. She sighs, annoyed by the traitorous direction of her thoughts. Whatever. Who cares. Screw it.
A bar tender emerges and marches briskly past her. Buffy effortlessly slips her finger through one of his belt loops and yanks him back. Startled by the velocity of the slender finger as well as the apparent strength of the petite young woman it belongs to, he stutters, "Uh, can I help you?"
"Vodka shot," she orders, her eyes fixed on Spike. Her expression is one of deep loathing.
The bar tender follows her gaze. "He's not worth it," he offers.
"Believe me, I know," she snaps back, finally wrenching her eyes from Spike and leveling them directly at the bar tender. Now her expression is one of expectant impatience, so he hastens nervously behind the bar to fill her request. Girl on a mission.
Spike takes the hand of his companion and they glide onto the dance floor. Buffy senses rather than sees this out of the corner of her eye. She's vaguely aware of her toes tapping the floor and a muscle in her cheek twitching. You don't care. You don't care. It doesn't matter, because you don't care.
Her drink arrives. The bar tender sets it hesitantly before her. Probably afraid to ask for payment. For some reason this amuses her.
"Anything else, miss?"
On the dance floor, amidst the sea of faces and gyrating couples, Spike and his conquest disappear and reappear from view. A moment later, Buffy zeroes in on them, just in time to see Spike's hand slide down the female vampire's body and rest on her ass. He leans in and nuzzles her neck --
That's enough. Buffy's eyes narrow. She pulls out some cash from her pocket, the last of Giles' gift. Brings her closed fist half way across the bar.
"I need you to do me a favor," she remarks quietly.
"And why would I do that?" the bar tender asks, regaining his confidence.
"Here's why." She presses the twenty dollar bill intimately into his hand.
He doesn't look at it, keeps his eyes steady with hers.
"The blonde guy in the long black coat -- "
"Right, the one you were watching."
She's annoyed. "Yeah. I need you to give him something for me. Got a pen?"
He hands one to her. She uses it to scribble briefly on a napkin then folds the completed note into his hand as well.
He moves around the other side of the bar, slowly walking toward the dance floor.
Buffy discreetly reaches into her boot and pulls out a long, thin arrow. It's about the size of a chopstick. Xander was particularly proud of its design, and, she figures, no time like the present to try it out. Around her waist, tied at her hip, rests a small bottle of holy water. She likes to think of it as a deadly, infinitely more stylish fanny pack.
She dips the tip of the arrow into the vial, like a feather quill in a bottle of ink. Shifts it around. The movement is slow, deliberate and artistic.
Buffy cocks her wrist back, squints and takes aim. Spike's back is toward Buffy now. Perfect. The bar tender looks questioningly at Buffy, who nods, a slight jut of her chin. He slips the folded napkin into Spike's hand as they continue to sway.
Buffy's wrist flicks forward with the jerk and power of a pistol, and the arrow slices through the air, traveling the entire length of the Bronze, one end to the other at lightening speed. Behind his "date's" back, Spike rapidly unfolds the note and reads: "Get Down."
Without hesitation, he drops to one knee, fingertips grazing the floor. "The Bimbo's" eyes flick down at him, confused.
A split second later, the arrow zips over Spike's head and pierces her heart. She doesn't have time to register the horror. A fireball bursts out, centered at her chest. This is followed by a tormented, gasping shriek, then an explosion of dust. Spike winces slightly as the remains of his dancing partner rain down on him and he's coated in filmy decay. Nice shot, Slayer.
The music stops abruptly. There's silence. Then panic, and screams.
The desperate stampede toward the exit nearly crushes Spike. He fights to his feet and forges his own path in the opposite direction, shoving people as brutally out of the way as the chip allows. There's no reason for him to run. He knows exactly who is responsible. He flattens himself against the wall, lights a cigarette and waits.
The bar empties rapidly, and as the feeling of chaos disperses with the patrons, he scans the room and sees Buffy out of the corner of his eye. She sits on top of the bar, at the opposite end of the room. Through the fine haze of smoke, he watches her swing her legs back and forth, almost child-like, her heels tapping rhythmically against the wood.
They stare at each other, heat searing between them as the last group of people stumble, petrified, out the door. When they're completely alone, Spike leaves his post, tosses his cig to the floor and kills it with his heel. Slowly approaches the bar, never taking his eyes off her.
He feels a spasm of anger that she won't meet him half way. Bloody symbolic, that is. Knows she can sit back, and I'll always come to her, crawling on my sodding hands and knees if I have to. With each step, his fury increases. But his hatred is directed mostly at himself, for wanting her so much. He imagines grabbing her around the waist, throwing her to the floor and fucking her to death.
She waits until he's a few feet away, then hops down from the bar.
As usual, his violent fantasies disappear the moment he enters her immediate vicinity. In fact, now he feels powerless to instigate anything resembling a confrontation.
Instead, he reaches pale, dusty fingers out, and caresses her silky hair. Lightly skims his hands up and down her bare arms.
"Want to tell me what that was about?" he murmurs in low tones.
"Maybe I wanted to talk to you alone," she answers casually.
He's intrigued. She cleared the place out just for me?
He waits, eyes shining. Splendid moment, this. Absolutely glorious. Questions whip through his brain, unhampered: Will she finally admit she has feelings for him, needs? Some previously unimagined ache that only he can fill? A snippet of a former conversation drums through his head.
Not love. Not yet...
Just before his mind gets carried away in endless, pleasant speculation, Buffy's real voice, mocking and bright, cuts through his reverie:
"Or maybe I just wanted you to stop dancing."
Oh. No talking, then? The disappointment is palpable on his face, but just for a second. She's jealous!
"You're looking a little green tonight, Luv." He leans in close and props his arms on either side of her, effectively fencing her in.
She shifts under his nearness and the intensity of his gaze.
was doing everyone a favor," she continues breezily; petulant.
"You're a terrible dancer. Embarrassing, actually."
She trembles, releasing a small cry of inarticulate desire, and melts into his embrace, relieved he's provided her with her favorite form of avoidance. You're mine, Spike. I might hate you, but you're still mine. No one else's. She knows she can make him forget the fact that they don't talk. She knows she can make him forget how depressed they both are, at least for a while. At least until I get what I want.
A part of her knows her behavior is unfair. Cruel, even. (What about his needs?)
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