FIC: Perfect Storm - Part 3: Heatwave
Three fics in a week - you must all be fed up of the sight of me! This is in complete contrast to the last one. I started writing this ages ago and it stalled, but for some reason it's just unstalled. The muse is capricious to put it mildly. Apologies for the un-beta'd-ness, but I'm grabbing the muse while I can, and we're both way too impatient for our own good.
So - more season 5. Sort of. You may well recognise chunks of dialogue (although not necessarily in the context they are used), for which many thanks go to buffyworld.com, one of the best resources out there.
Written for the pure, unapologetic, unadulterated fun and fluffiness of it, especially for jamalov29 to read on the porch, because she remembers it :)
Title: Perfect Storm - Part 3: Heatwave
Set: Season 5, but not exactly as we know it...
Pairing: B/R, but mainly S/B
Rating: Tame for this chapter - PG13 to be safe and because Spike swears. Bad vampire.
Previous parts are here:
Part 1: Perfect Storm
Part 2: Rainy days and Mondays
So, onwards...
There was a certain degree of courage-getting-up to be done before Buffy next ventured out on patrol, but in the end she decided the best way to manage this was to get back out there and face up to it like the grown-up and mature slayer she was. And avoid the heck out of Spike in the process, naturally.
Seemed like a plan.
She stalked the cool, night-dark streets, determinedly keeping her mind away from thoughts of irritating leather-clad vampires, and fixed on less scary options, like pet-stealing demons with a penchant for bad weather. Speaking of which… Buffy shivered and pulled her jacket closer around her. The weirdness in the weather was continuing. Tonight a heavy mist hung in oily swathes around the town, coating skin and clothes with an almost slimy, chill moistness. On the plus side she pretty much had the streets to herself - both Sunnydale’s demonic and non-demonic residents seem to have opted for the staying indoors option, and who could blame them. On the minus side, the mist had an alarming habit of forming lurky evil-type shapes at the periphery of her vision that, combined with tonight’s general nervousness, had her doing a fair impression of Riley’s long-tailed cat. Having almost staked an innocent trash can once too often, Buffy took a deep breath, counted to ten and tried to discipline herself. The streets were pretty much deserted and there was absolutely no sign of anyone or thing with evil intentions. And that included Spike. She was just going to do a quick sweep of the area and then head home. How difficult could that be? Feeling somewhat calmer, Buffy wandered on, musing on the lack of demon activity. Did Californian demons, she wondered, dislike the cold and wet more than, say, British ones, who were used to the constant rain and the sogginess? And did French vampires not mind garlic? Were Italian demons more stylish? And were there maybe penguin-eating demons in Antarctica?
Musing on the possible international variations between demons managed to take her mind of her problems for a while. Except - she looked around, suddenly aware of her surroundings - except that her aimless wandering seemed to have brought her to the cemetery. She straightened her shoulders and shrugged. No big. Natural enough place for a slayer’s aimless wanderings to take her after all. And, OK, so this was the way to Spike’s crypt, but it wasn’t the only way, just a way, and it was the way to other places, too, places like… like… well, just other places. She groaned and sat down heavily on a nearby tomb. This was getting ridiculous.
There had to be a reason for the way her feelings toward Spike seemed to have changed. A logical explanation that didn’t involve her actually caring for him, which would be wrong on so many levels, or having totally lost her mind, which she was beginning to think might be an option. Oh! A spell. Yes! That was it! Someone, or something, had cast a spell. There was no other way to account for the… feelings… she had for Spike. So - all she had to do was talk to Willow and get her to check it out. Which would mean telling Willow. About the… feelings. And then if it wasn’t a spell, Willow would know and how embarrassing would that be and admitting how she felt would somehow make it more real and…
“Ohhhh…” she wailed quietly, searching for an appropriate word to cover the situation, “Bollocks!” When it came to words appropriate to cover situations, Spike had the best ones.
“My, my slayer, and you a lady.” Spike’s voice purred from the shadows.
“Spike!” Buffy leapt guiltily off the tomb and spun around to face the smirking vampire.
“Buffy.” He looked at her, head tilted in query.
After a moments flustered embarrassment, Buffy’s hit-first-ask-questions-later instinct took over. “Don't take this the wrong way but...”
Spike put a hand to his just-punched nose and frowned. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”
She folded her arms. “What are you doing here? Five words or less.”
He held up his hand and counted the words on his fingers. “Out. For. A. Walk...” he paused and put up his thumb. “Bitch.”
Buffy snorted. “Out for a walk at night in the cemetery. You expect me to…” she stumbled to a halt. And where else would a vampire be? “Oh.”
He gave her a long look. “More to the point is what are you doin’ here?”
“You know, contrary to your self-involved world-view, your crypt just happens to be directly between parts... and other parts of this town,” Buffy blustered. “Vampire lurkey parts full-of evil-dead-type slaying opportunities - where a slayer needs to be. And I’m the slayer. I have every reason to be here!” She glared up at him.
“Well, me too!” Spike had a good line in glaring, too.
“Right. OK. Well, good.” She shrugged, tried for the businesslike. “So - keep going, I cut you a break.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, let me guess... you won't kill me? Wooo... the whole crowd-pleasing threats-and-swagger routine. How stunningly original. Seem to remember that particular theme was the one you were hummin’ last time we met.” He raised an eyebrow and pressed his tongue against his teeth. “But there wasn’t much slayin’ goin’ on then, now, was there?”
He reached up to touch her cheek and she slapped his hand away. “Last time was… I mean… it wasn’t…” Words failed her in the face of his raised eyebrow and lazy smile and she plunged on desperately. “You know, I'm just passing through. Satisfied? You know, I really hope so, because…because you need some… some… satisfaction in your unlife besides… besides doing… whatever it is you do with Harmony and no,” she held up a hand as he smirked and opened his mouth to speak, “I don’t want the details and… she’s welcome to you and... and you have stupid hair.” She spun on her heels, gathered the tattered remnants of her dignity around her and stalked off into the night.
Spike watched her go with a perplexed frown. What the hell was all that about? He shook his head, folded his arms and leaned back against the tomb recently vacated by the slayer. His frown deepened and he pressed a hand against the worn stone. Warm. Still warm. Whoever had been sitting here had been sitting here a long while. The frown became a slow smile. Just passing through, huh? This was getting interesting. Shrugging his duster straight, he set off in the direction she’d taken, predatory grin firmly in place.
~~~~~~
Cringing embarrassment accompanied Buffy’s angry progress across the cemetery. Stupid hair? What was she, six? She so had to get a grip on this! Whatever was going on here, it had to stop, because being reduced to brainless babbling in front of Spike, of all people, was not to the good. So, next time she saw him she’d be all with the cool, calm and collected and the… the disdain. Yup, disdain would be right. Disdain with a side order of contempt. Maybe a little scorn.
She got her chance earlier than she expected. Rounding a corner determinedly, there he was, perched quietly on a tombstone by the cemetery exit. Buffy stopped abruptly, blinked and looked around with a perplexed frown. How did he do that? She folded her arms and glared at him. “And here you are again…”
“She left me,” he said softly, not looking up.
“What?” Buffy was confused by the sudden change in his demeanour.
“Harmony. She left me.”
“Oh! I…” She rallied. “Well, who can blame her? Even Harmony’s not that brainless!”
“Yeah,” he sighed heavily. “You’re right.”
“I am?” Buffy felt a sudden and unexpected pang of sympathy in the face of the dejected slump of his shoulders and downcast eyes. “Look, I’m sorry,” she hesitated, “I guess.”
“Give a girl everythin’ she wants - well,” he shrugged, “more or less; Paris was never really on, you know? - give her the best of everythin’, think it’s all hunky-dory…” he gave a quiet, wry laugh.
Buffy looked down at his hanging head. “Oh. That’s… a shame.” She hesitated, and then sat next to him cautiously. “What happened?” she asked carefully. “I mean, not like I care or anything, but...”
He shook his head sadly, and Buffy felt oddly moved. Maybe she’d misjudged him after all… “It was the other night. She said… she said…” he looked up at Buffy, and a slow smile curved his lips, “She said I had Buffy-breath.”
Buffy jumped to her feet. So much for the misjudging. “Look,” she began severely. “The other night never happened,” she hesitated, “OK, yes, it did happen… but it wasn’t what you thought it was.” Spike grinned, clearly not convinced. “No! Really!” The grin was joined by a disbelieving head tilt. “You and me… it’s not… I mean, there is no you and me. I’m with Riley! I love Riley… and… and… that… thing with you was just… an accident.” I accidentally came when you kissed me?! Oh, God, she found herself thinking, stop! Now! But brain and mouth weren’t co-operating with each other. “And besides… besides…” Buffy cast around desperately for something to get her out of this mess. “Oh!” And there it was. Thank the Lord… A familiar brown shape shuffled out from behind a gravestone and made to pass them, apparently unconcerned by their presence. “Hey! You!” The Tarxu demon went blithely on its way, ignoring Buffy’s shouts completely. Buffy growled. “Oh, you are so dead.”
“Buffy! No!” Spike grabbed her arm. “Don’t!”
She glared at him and shook herself free. “You do not tell me what to do!” She turned away and launched herself at the small, brown shape. “I’m gonna take that out before we have any repeats of the storm fiasco!”
“It’s a Tarxu demon! It…!” Spike’s warning shout came too late. As Buffy’s fist made contact with what she assumed was the head end of the amorphous brown lump, there was a squeak and a sudden cloud of inky blackness that enveloped her in a miasma of eye-watering dust. Spike sighed. “…does that…” he continued.
Buffy peered down at the dark smears covering her skin and clothes. “Ewww…” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What…?” was all she managed to say before her eyes closed and she collapsed in a crumpled heap at Spike’s feet.
Spike rolled his eyes. “… which leads to that,” he finished finally. He glared down at the unconscious slayer. “Stupid bint,” he muttered, frowning in annoyance. He nudged her recumbent form with his boot while the Tarxu demon chuckled its way off into the night.
Now what?
Spike sniffed and shrugged. Whatever. Best leave her here. If she was too bloody stubborn to listen to good advice, she deserved all she got. Not his problem. He went to move away, then hesitated. But then she’d be prey to whatever nasty happened along, wouldn’t she? He frowned. And why exactly should that bother him? One less slayer in the world had to be good. Especially one less Buffy. No reason he should care. He growled and rolled his eyes. Except it seemed that he did. Only because if there was any offing of the slayer to be done, then he was going to be the one to do it, of course. Yeah. Once he got rid of the soddin’ chip, naturally.
So - no leaving her here. He gave a resigned sigh, bent down and picked up the unconscious slayer, vaguely surprised at how light she was, how delicate her body felt - hell of a lot of punch in those few fragile pounds. Bloody good job they were unconscious fragile pounds…
He hesitated. Now what? Take her home, back to the tender care of her little mates? He winced. And they’d believe he had nothing to do with this? He really wasn’t in the mood for a round of inane insults from idiot boy and the witch, not to mention Giles’ stiff-upperlipped annoyance and barely concealed dislike.
So… only one thing to do, then.
Bollocks.
Sighing heavily and muttering curses against Tarxu demons, Buffy and the world in general - but mostly Buffy - Spike lugged his load back to his crypt.
********
Passions was almost halfway through when a groaning noise from the blanket-wrapped shape on the sarcophagus announced Buffy was regaining consciousness. Spike winced, settled deeper in his armchair, fixed his eyes on the screen and prepared himself for a Buffy bollocking.
There was the sound of struggling, followed by a thump as her attempts to free herself from the blanket dumped her unceremoniously on the crypt floor. The small meep of pain was followed by a very unladylike curse. Spike tried to settle even deeper in the armchair.
“Spiiiike…” A very un-Buffy-like whine made him turn. She was standing, swaying gently on unsteady legs, looking around in bewilderment. Spike’s heart sank. “Mmph… hot.” Buffy pushed her hair away from her flushed face and turned her confused and unfocussed gaze on Spike. “Why is it so hot?”
Bugger. He’d kind of hoped that this particular effect of the Tarxu’s defence mechanism wouldn’t have worked on Buffy, given she was supposed to be all superpowered-up with slayer mojo and all.
“It’s not.” Spike sighed. “It’s the fever. From the Tarxu demon stuff. Gets humans like that - not vampires luckily.” He turned away and kept his attention firmly fixed on the screen. “You’ll survive.”
“But I’m hot…” Buffy whined.
“Best thing for that is run along home. Stick your head in the ‘fridge. Get lover boy to hose you over… whatever.”
“Too hot to go home…” Buffy muttered.
“Look…” Spike turned in time to see Buffy kicking her way out of her jeans. “Hey..!” He leapt to his feet in protest, and then paused as Buffy ripped her t-shirt over her head. Oh, I dunno… His eyes travelled appreciatively over her slim body. Maybe she’d be better off without the clothes… “Gah!” He shook his head. This was trouble. Big, Buffy-shaped trouble. Big, naked-in-his-crypt Buffy-shaped trouble. Could there be a worst kind? “Hey! Stop that!” He stood up and tried to grab her arms.
She pushed him off impatiently and glared at him. “Hot!” she growled.
“I don’t care how bloody hot you are…” Spike tried frantically to stop Buffy unclipping her bra. “Will you stop!”
Buffy stopped and peered up at him woozily. “You! You’re cool. Sit.” She gave him a push that sent him sprawling back into the armchair and began to tug at his T-shirt shirt. “Off!” Feverish or not, slayer strength hadn’t deserted her and after a brief scuffle, Spike was at least partly relived of his t-shirt. As he struggled to loosen the tight, black cotton ligature that had resulted from Buffy’s determined attempts to strip him, she curled on to his lap, pressing her hot skin against the smooth coolness of his chest. “Better,” she sighed happily.
“Get off!” Spike sat rigidly in the chair as Buffy made herself comfortable against him.
“No. Sit still.” She wrapped and arm around him and snuggled closer.
“Buffy…!”
“Shhh. Sleep now.”
“But… I… you…” Spike gritted his teeth and tried again. “Look, pet, you’ve got a fever. You’re not rational, an’…”
“Cooler, though…” she sighed. “Better.”
“But… I… you… Oh, bloody hell!” Spike gave in. He pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead and she smiled. “You know how much you’re gonna regret this when you wake up? Which always means I’m gonna regret it even more…”
“Shut up…” Buffy murmured sleepily, wriggling deeper into his lap. Spike winced. The presence of her soft, warm body was having increasingly uncomfortable effects. Not that he found her attractive, no way. Bloody slayer with her nasty little nose and her… her ridiculous bouncy shampoo-commercial hair and that whole soddin’ holier-than-thou attitude. Rather fuck… hell, even Harmony than her. He shifted slightly to ease the pressure on a certain rapidly enlarging part of his anatomy and was rewarded by another wiggle from the almost asleep slayer that didn’t help matters at all. Automatic reaction, that was all. Could have been anyone, and the same thing would happen. Nothing personal.
Buffy’s breathing settled and deepened as she drifted into sleep, her body soft and pliant, moulding to his. He looked down at her, at the slight dampness of her hair where it sprang from her scalp, the soft fan of her lashes against her flushed cheek, the curve of a sun-bronzed arm, warm against the porcelain-paleness of his chest, and felt a surge of… something…
He groaned and rested his head against the back of the chair.
Evil, remember? She slayer. He vampire. Mortal enemies. What the hell was going on here? He tried to discipline his thoughts. She was at his mercy! He could do what ever he wanted - he shifted uncomfortably as the thought of what he wanted caused another surge of activity in the area trapped uncomfortably under the slayer’s pert butt. Yeah - well, there was that. And then maybe the chip wouldn’t fire if she was spark out. Maybe he could get rid of her, get her out of his world, out of his hair, stop her haunting his every moment. She wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it… A slow smile curved his lips. Yeah… not a thing…
This, he thought determinedly, has got to end.
Buffy murmured and shifted against him. Her fever-rapid pulse began to slow and he felt her relax into deeper sleep. The determination left him with the soft, contented sigh of her breath that teased against his skin. He bent his head and cautiously rested his lips softly against her head, closed his eyes and breathed the scent of her. There it was again - the surge of something he’d thought he’d never feel again. The sudden urge to protect the sleeping girl, to hold her close, kiss away her nightmares and make it better. Which given she was the slayer, and quite capable of taking care of herself, was bloody stupid on the whole.
No. Nothing personal at all.
Oh, bollocks. Buggering bollocks. Soddin’ buggering bollocks. What a mess.
With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around her, made himself as comfortable as he was able, and settled in for a long night.
He was going to suffer for this in the morning.
So - more season 5. Sort of. You may well recognise chunks of dialogue (although not necessarily in the context they are used), for which many thanks go to buffyworld.com, one of the best resources out there.
Written for the pure, unapologetic, unadulterated fun and fluffiness of it, especially for jamalov29 to read on the porch, because she remembers it :)
Title: Perfect Storm - Part 3: Heatwave
Set: Season 5, but not exactly as we know it...
Pairing: B/R, but mainly S/B
Rating: Tame for this chapter - PG13 to be safe and because Spike swears. Bad vampire.
Previous parts are here:
Part 1: Perfect Storm
Part 2: Rainy days and Mondays
So, onwards...
There was a certain degree of courage-getting-up to be done before Buffy next ventured out on patrol, but in the end she decided the best way to manage this was to get back out there and face up to it like the grown-up and mature slayer she was. And avoid the heck out of Spike in the process, naturally.
Seemed like a plan.
She stalked the cool, night-dark streets, determinedly keeping her mind away from thoughts of irritating leather-clad vampires, and fixed on less scary options, like pet-stealing demons with a penchant for bad weather. Speaking of which… Buffy shivered and pulled her jacket closer around her. The weirdness in the weather was continuing. Tonight a heavy mist hung in oily swathes around the town, coating skin and clothes with an almost slimy, chill moistness. On the plus side she pretty much had the streets to herself - both Sunnydale’s demonic and non-demonic residents seem to have opted for the staying indoors option, and who could blame them. On the minus side, the mist had an alarming habit of forming lurky evil-type shapes at the periphery of her vision that, combined with tonight’s general nervousness, had her doing a fair impression of Riley’s long-tailed cat. Having almost staked an innocent trash can once too often, Buffy took a deep breath, counted to ten and tried to discipline herself. The streets were pretty much deserted and there was absolutely no sign of anyone or thing with evil intentions. And that included Spike. She was just going to do a quick sweep of the area and then head home. How difficult could that be? Feeling somewhat calmer, Buffy wandered on, musing on the lack of demon activity. Did Californian demons, she wondered, dislike the cold and wet more than, say, British ones, who were used to the constant rain and the sogginess? And did French vampires not mind garlic? Were Italian demons more stylish? And were there maybe penguin-eating demons in Antarctica?
Musing on the possible international variations between demons managed to take her mind of her problems for a while. Except - she looked around, suddenly aware of her surroundings - except that her aimless wandering seemed to have brought her to the cemetery. She straightened her shoulders and shrugged. No big. Natural enough place for a slayer’s aimless wanderings to take her after all. And, OK, so this was the way to Spike’s crypt, but it wasn’t the only way, just a way, and it was the way to other places, too, places like… like… well, just other places. She groaned and sat down heavily on a nearby tomb. This was getting ridiculous.
There had to be a reason for the way her feelings toward Spike seemed to have changed. A logical explanation that didn’t involve her actually caring for him, which would be wrong on so many levels, or having totally lost her mind, which she was beginning to think might be an option. Oh! A spell. Yes! That was it! Someone, or something, had cast a spell. There was no other way to account for the… feelings… she had for Spike. So - all she had to do was talk to Willow and get her to check it out. Which would mean telling Willow. About the… feelings. And then if it wasn’t a spell, Willow would know and how embarrassing would that be and admitting how she felt would somehow make it more real and…
“Ohhhh…” she wailed quietly, searching for an appropriate word to cover the situation, “Bollocks!” When it came to words appropriate to cover situations, Spike had the best ones.
“My, my slayer, and you a lady.” Spike’s voice purred from the shadows.
“Spike!” Buffy leapt guiltily off the tomb and spun around to face the smirking vampire.
“Buffy.” He looked at her, head tilted in query.
After a moments flustered embarrassment, Buffy’s hit-first-ask-questions-later instinct took over. “Don't take this the wrong way but...”
Spike put a hand to his just-punched nose and frowned. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”
She folded her arms. “What are you doing here? Five words or less.”
He held up his hand and counted the words on his fingers. “Out. For. A. Walk...” he paused and put up his thumb. “Bitch.”
Buffy snorted. “Out for a walk at night in the cemetery. You expect me to…” she stumbled to a halt. And where else would a vampire be? “Oh.”
He gave her a long look. “More to the point is what are you doin’ here?”
“You know, contrary to your self-involved world-view, your crypt just happens to be directly between parts... and other parts of this town,” Buffy blustered. “Vampire lurkey parts full-of evil-dead-type slaying opportunities - where a slayer needs to be. And I’m the slayer. I have every reason to be here!” She glared up at him.
“Well, me too!” Spike had a good line in glaring, too.
“Right. OK. Well, good.” She shrugged, tried for the businesslike. “So - keep going, I cut you a break.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, let me guess... you won't kill me? Wooo... the whole crowd-pleasing threats-and-swagger routine. How stunningly original. Seem to remember that particular theme was the one you were hummin’ last time we met.” He raised an eyebrow and pressed his tongue against his teeth. “But there wasn’t much slayin’ goin’ on then, now, was there?”
He reached up to touch her cheek and she slapped his hand away. “Last time was… I mean… it wasn’t…” Words failed her in the face of his raised eyebrow and lazy smile and she plunged on desperately. “You know, I'm just passing through. Satisfied? You know, I really hope so, because…because you need some… some… satisfaction in your unlife besides… besides doing… whatever it is you do with Harmony and no,” she held up a hand as he smirked and opened his mouth to speak, “I don’t want the details and… she’s welcome to you and... and you have stupid hair.” She spun on her heels, gathered the tattered remnants of her dignity around her and stalked off into the night.
Spike watched her go with a perplexed frown. What the hell was all that about? He shook his head, folded his arms and leaned back against the tomb recently vacated by the slayer. His frown deepened and he pressed a hand against the worn stone. Warm. Still warm. Whoever had been sitting here had been sitting here a long while. The frown became a slow smile. Just passing through, huh? This was getting interesting. Shrugging his duster straight, he set off in the direction she’d taken, predatory grin firmly in place.
~~~~~~
Cringing embarrassment accompanied Buffy’s angry progress across the cemetery. Stupid hair? What was she, six? She so had to get a grip on this! Whatever was going on here, it had to stop, because being reduced to brainless babbling in front of Spike, of all people, was not to the good. So, next time she saw him she’d be all with the cool, calm and collected and the… the disdain. Yup, disdain would be right. Disdain with a side order of contempt. Maybe a little scorn.
She got her chance earlier than she expected. Rounding a corner determinedly, there he was, perched quietly on a tombstone by the cemetery exit. Buffy stopped abruptly, blinked and looked around with a perplexed frown. How did he do that? She folded her arms and glared at him. “And here you are again…”
“She left me,” he said softly, not looking up.
“What?” Buffy was confused by the sudden change in his demeanour.
“Harmony. She left me.”
“Oh! I…” She rallied. “Well, who can blame her? Even Harmony’s not that brainless!”
“Yeah,” he sighed heavily. “You’re right.”
“I am?” Buffy felt a sudden and unexpected pang of sympathy in the face of the dejected slump of his shoulders and downcast eyes. “Look, I’m sorry,” she hesitated, “I guess.”
“Give a girl everythin’ she wants - well,” he shrugged, “more or less; Paris was never really on, you know? - give her the best of everythin’, think it’s all hunky-dory…” he gave a quiet, wry laugh.
Buffy looked down at his hanging head. “Oh. That’s… a shame.” She hesitated, and then sat next to him cautiously. “What happened?” she asked carefully. “I mean, not like I care or anything, but...”
He shook his head sadly, and Buffy felt oddly moved. Maybe she’d misjudged him after all… “It was the other night. She said… she said…” he looked up at Buffy, and a slow smile curved his lips, “She said I had Buffy-breath.”
Buffy jumped to her feet. So much for the misjudging. “Look,” she began severely. “The other night never happened,” she hesitated, “OK, yes, it did happen… but it wasn’t what you thought it was.” Spike grinned, clearly not convinced. “No! Really!” The grin was joined by a disbelieving head tilt. “You and me… it’s not… I mean, there is no you and me. I’m with Riley! I love Riley… and… and… that… thing with you was just… an accident.” I accidentally came when you kissed me?! Oh, God, she found herself thinking, stop! Now! But brain and mouth weren’t co-operating with each other. “And besides… besides…” Buffy cast around desperately for something to get her out of this mess. “Oh!” And there it was. Thank the Lord… A familiar brown shape shuffled out from behind a gravestone and made to pass them, apparently unconcerned by their presence. “Hey! You!” The Tarxu demon went blithely on its way, ignoring Buffy’s shouts completely. Buffy growled. “Oh, you are so dead.”
“Buffy! No!” Spike grabbed her arm. “Don’t!”
She glared at him and shook herself free. “You do not tell me what to do!” She turned away and launched herself at the small, brown shape. “I’m gonna take that out before we have any repeats of the storm fiasco!”
“It’s a Tarxu demon! It…!” Spike’s warning shout came too late. As Buffy’s fist made contact with what she assumed was the head end of the amorphous brown lump, there was a squeak and a sudden cloud of inky blackness that enveloped her in a miasma of eye-watering dust. Spike sighed. “…does that…” he continued.
Buffy peered down at the dark smears covering her skin and clothes. “Ewww…” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What…?” was all she managed to say before her eyes closed and she collapsed in a crumpled heap at Spike’s feet.
Spike rolled his eyes. “… which leads to that,” he finished finally. He glared down at the unconscious slayer. “Stupid bint,” he muttered, frowning in annoyance. He nudged her recumbent form with his boot while the Tarxu demon chuckled its way off into the night.
Now what?
Spike sniffed and shrugged. Whatever. Best leave her here. If she was too bloody stubborn to listen to good advice, she deserved all she got. Not his problem. He went to move away, then hesitated. But then she’d be prey to whatever nasty happened along, wouldn’t she? He frowned. And why exactly should that bother him? One less slayer in the world had to be good. Especially one less Buffy. No reason he should care. He growled and rolled his eyes. Except it seemed that he did. Only because if there was any offing of the slayer to be done, then he was going to be the one to do it, of course. Yeah. Once he got rid of the soddin’ chip, naturally.
So - no leaving her here. He gave a resigned sigh, bent down and picked up the unconscious slayer, vaguely surprised at how light she was, how delicate her body felt - hell of a lot of punch in those few fragile pounds. Bloody good job they were unconscious fragile pounds…
He hesitated. Now what? Take her home, back to the tender care of her little mates? He winced. And they’d believe he had nothing to do with this? He really wasn’t in the mood for a round of inane insults from idiot boy and the witch, not to mention Giles’ stiff-upperlipped annoyance and barely concealed dislike.
So… only one thing to do, then.
Bollocks.
Sighing heavily and muttering curses against Tarxu demons, Buffy and the world in general - but mostly Buffy - Spike lugged his load back to his crypt.
********
Passions was almost halfway through when a groaning noise from the blanket-wrapped shape on the sarcophagus announced Buffy was regaining consciousness. Spike winced, settled deeper in his armchair, fixed his eyes on the screen and prepared himself for a Buffy bollocking.
There was the sound of struggling, followed by a thump as her attempts to free herself from the blanket dumped her unceremoniously on the crypt floor. The small meep of pain was followed by a very unladylike curse. Spike tried to settle even deeper in the armchair.
“Spiiiike…” A very un-Buffy-like whine made him turn. She was standing, swaying gently on unsteady legs, looking around in bewilderment. Spike’s heart sank. “Mmph… hot.” Buffy pushed her hair away from her flushed face and turned her confused and unfocussed gaze on Spike. “Why is it so hot?”
Bugger. He’d kind of hoped that this particular effect of the Tarxu’s defence mechanism wouldn’t have worked on Buffy, given she was supposed to be all superpowered-up with slayer mojo and all.
“It’s not.” Spike sighed. “It’s the fever. From the Tarxu demon stuff. Gets humans like that - not vampires luckily.” He turned away and kept his attention firmly fixed on the screen. “You’ll survive.”
“But I’m hot…” Buffy whined.
“Best thing for that is run along home. Stick your head in the ‘fridge. Get lover boy to hose you over… whatever.”
“Too hot to go home…” Buffy muttered.
“Look…” Spike turned in time to see Buffy kicking her way out of her jeans. “Hey..!” He leapt to his feet in protest, and then paused as Buffy ripped her t-shirt over her head. Oh, I dunno… His eyes travelled appreciatively over her slim body. Maybe she’d be better off without the clothes… “Gah!” He shook his head. This was trouble. Big, Buffy-shaped trouble. Big, naked-in-his-crypt Buffy-shaped trouble. Could there be a worst kind? “Hey! Stop that!” He stood up and tried to grab her arms.
She pushed him off impatiently and glared at him. “Hot!” she growled.
“I don’t care how bloody hot you are…” Spike tried frantically to stop Buffy unclipping her bra. “Will you stop!”
Buffy stopped and peered up at him woozily. “You! You’re cool. Sit.” She gave him a push that sent him sprawling back into the armchair and began to tug at his T-shirt shirt. “Off!” Feverish or not, slayer strength hadn’t deserted her and after a brief scuffle, Spike was at least partly relived of his t-shirt. As he struggled to loosen the tight, black cotton ligature that had resulted from Buffy’s determined attempts to strip him, she curled on to his lap, pressing her hot skin against the smooth coolness of his chest. “Better,” she sighed happily.
“Get off!” Spike sat rigidly in the chair as Buffy made herself comfortable against him.
“No. Sit still.” She wrapped and arm around him and snuggled closer.
“Buffy…!”
“Shhh. Sleep now.”
“But… I… you…” Spike gritted his teeth and tried again. “Look, pet, you’ve got a fever. You’re not rational, an’…”
“Cooler, though…” she sighed. “Better.”
“But… I… you… Oh, bloody hell!” Spike gave in. He pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead and she smiled. “You know how much you’re gonna regret this when you wake up? Which always means I’m gonna regret it even more…”
“Shut up…” Buffy murmured sleepily, wriggling deeper into his lap. Spike winced. The presence of her soft, warm body was having increasingly uncomfortable effects. Not that he found her attractive, no way. Bloody slayer with her nasty little nose and her… her ridiculous bouncy shampoo-commercial hair and that whole soddin’ holier-than-thou attitude. Rather fuck… hell, even Harmony than her. He shifted slightly to ease the pressure on a certain rapidly enlarging part of his anatomy and was rewarded by another wiggle from the almost asleep slayer that didn’t help matters at all. Automatic reaction, that was all. Could have been anyone, and the same thing would happen. Nothing personal.
Buffy’s breathing settled and deepened as she drifted into sleep, her body soft and pliant, moulding to his. He looked down at her, at the slight dampness of her hair where it sprang from her scalp, the soft fan of her lashes against her flushed cheek, the curve of a sun-bronzed arm, warm against the porcelain-paleness of his chest, and felt a surge of… something…
He groaned and rested his head against the back of the chair.
Evil, remember? She slayer. He vampire. Mortal enemies. What the hell was going on here? He tried to discipline his thoughts. She was at his mercy! He could do what ever he wanted - he shifted uncomfortably as the thought of what he wanted caused another surge of activity in the area trapped uncomfortably under the slayer’s pert butt. Yeah - well, there was that. And then maybe the chip wouldn’t fire if she was spark out. Maybe he could get rid of her, get her out of his world, out of his hair, stop her haunting his every moment. She wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it… A slow smile curved his lips. Yeah… not a thing…
This, he thought determinedly, has got to end.
Buffy murmured and shifted against him. Her fever-rapid pulse began to slow and he felt her relax into deeper sleep. The determination left him with the soft, contented sigh of her breath that teased against his skin. He bent his head and cautiously rested his lips softly against her head, closed his eyes and breathed the scent of her. There it was again - the surge of something he’d thought he’d never feel again. The sudden urge to protect the sleeping girl, to hold her close, kiss away her nightmares and make it better. Which given she was the slayer, and quite capable of taking care of herself, was bloody stupid on the whole.
No. Nothing personal at all.
Oh, bollocks. Buggering bollocks. Soddin’ buggering bollocks. What a mess.
With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around her, made himself as comfortable as he was able, and settled in for a long night.
He was going to suffer for this in the morning.