Fic: Tekubi, Chapter 6
I don't know about you, but I could use some Spuffy distraction. And believe it or not, I have a chapter of Tekubi for that purpose. It's got talkiness, naughtiness, and business, and begins to earn its R rating.
Previous chapters (posted at seasonal_spuffy) here: Tekubi, Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5.
If you'd just like to be reminded what was going on, here's the "Previously on..."
Spike loses his hands and gets depressed, then gets Fred to build him a chainsaw prosthetic, kicks some demon ass, and feels much better. Back at Wolfram & Hart, he tells Eve where she can go with her devil's bargain to get his hands back, then bumps into Buffy. They begin a relationship, but Spike can't deal with making love with her without being able to touch her with his hands. He breaks it off. Buffy offers him a compromise: a Victorian/junior-high-style relationship that lets him avoid the intimacy that makes him too aware of what he's lost. Buffy paddles Spike in front of a crowd, which leads to, uh... a resumption of relations.
Thank you to rabid1st for the beta, and to portions of my flist for their recent support.
Tekubi, Chapter 6
By: caia
Beta: Rabid1st
Rating: R for now. May stray into NC-17 territory later due to subject matter, but those hoping for pr0n are likely to be disappointed.
Standard disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, just the story.
Non-standard disclaimer: Opinions expressed by the characters or implicit in the storyline do not necessarily represent those of the author.
Distribution: Do not post elsewhere without permission. Ask, I may say yes.
Feedback: Craved. Praise, constructive criticism, and paddlings for being tortoise-like are all welcome.
"Have you decided what you'll be doing here in L.A.?"
Buffy hoped Fred didn't mean 'instead of camping out in my office,' as a less kind person than Fred might accuse her of doing lately. She could admit it, she was bored. "I'm still thinking of taking some summer classes. Maybe applying somewhere local for the fall? But my grades at UC Sunnydale were kinda mediocre. I'm not sure I'm really college material."
"Of course you are!" Fred protested loyally. "You had other things going on, is all. How many people have to balance Psych 101 with demon hunting?"
"Aside from my professor and my TA boyfriend? Not many." Her slaying hadn't been as intrusive in college as in high school -- not being right on top of the Hellmouth helped with that -- but it had still taken much of her time and energy that might otherwise have gone into studying. And then she'd had to drop out before she finished her sophomore year. "I don't look very impressive on paper. My best accomplishments all have to be redacted."
Fred gave a rueful grin. "I know what you mean. I'm lucky I got hired here as part of Angel's team. I don't know how I could have glossed over spending five years scribbling on the walls of a cave in a demon dimension on a resume."
It wasn't often Buffy met someone whose history was more outlandish than hers, but five years in a hellish dimension very nearly trumped five months in a heavenly one. Buffy felt a tug of empathy for Fred. Her adjustment couldn't have been easy either. "I suppose I could write one of those 'joke' application essays, tell them I'd saved the world half a dozen times... What?"
Fred had a confused crinkle to her brow. "You shouldn't have to apply. Most schools allow students to come back after a leave of absence without re-applying, for a couple years at least."
For a moment, Buffy had nothing to say. She might not have had to reapply to UC Sunnydale after she'd come back from the dead? It was the sort of thing she would have expected Willow to tell her. But now that she thought of it, at that time Willow had been too wrapped up in her own magic addiction drama to take an interest in Buffy's problems. And Buffy had barely talked about anything personal with Willow since her resurrection. They were both much better now, individually. But where once there'd been a deep rapport between them there was... what? She felt more at ease with a woman she'd known a matter of weeks than with her best friend.
Buffy shook her head to clear it. Her once future alma mater was rubble at the bottom of a big pit. "How does this help me now? There is no UC Sunnydale anymore."
"No, but... here."
Buffy came around the desk to look at Fred's monitor. While her mind had been wandering, Fred had pulled out her keyboard tray and brought up the University of California system's website.
"See, they've got a special program for 'Refugees of Sunnydale', with a streamlined transfer process. All UCS's records were preserved in a backup database, so you can just transfer your credits to any other school in the UC system. You can enroll in classes at UCLA in the fall, or even take your summer classes there." Fred turned to beam at her.
"But... UCLA's a more competitive school than Sunnydale." Despite her high SAT scores, Buffy doubted she'd have been admitted to UCLA.
"Maybe, but they're all part of the same state system." Fred clicked on a tab open to UCLA's website. She paused to find a spot on the page, then read, "'In recognition of the extraordinary circumstances of the destruction of Sunnydale and the loss of our sister institution, UCLA accepted two hundred University of Sunnydale transfers in the fall of 2003, fifty more for the spring semester of 2004, and is committed to placing all interested UCS students in the fall of 2004.' They've reduced the number of incoming freshman admitted to make room."
Buffy slowly allowed a grin to transform her features.
Fred grinned back. "Want to look at the course catalogue?"
An hour later Buffy had printouts of her favorite summer course listings. She had a momentary bout of anxiety when she wondered if having been on leave from school would make her ineligible for the program, but Fred assured her this was unlikely. She'd been in good standing when she'd withdrawn, she hadn't enrolled anywhere else, and she had been living in Sunnydale up until its collapse. Fred said they'd be sure to accept her, and if they didn't, W&H had some very good lawyers who could argue her case.
Buffy demurred, but even though she'd never take their help, it was oddly nice to think of having such superlative legal backup. She could see how the perks of this place might suck people in.
Hanging up the phone with the Dean of Transfers' secretary after securing an appointment, Buffy cheered and spun in her chair in celebration. "It is good to have a plan," she declared once she'd come to a stop. "I was going stir-crazy with nothing to do... except Spike."
Fred blushed a little, and cleared her throat. "How is he doing? I haven't seen much of him lately."
"Yeah, I've been keeping him busy." Buffy was a little embarrassed at herself, but she'd spent quite enough time pretending she wasn't doing Spike. Freely admitting the nature of their relationship gave her a feeling of something constricted within her loosening. "He's good." She paused, unsure whether to elaborate. Normally, she wouldn't bring this up, but Fred held a special position not only as Spike's friend but as the maker of his prostheses. "He mentioned some of his prosthetics were chafing."
Fred nodded. "That can happen. It's probably not as bad for Spike, since vampires don't often sweat, and have fast healing. A lot of amputees report irritation where the prosthetic meets the remaining limb. He could apply corn starch or baby powder, and use some gauze or soft fabric for cushioning." She caught Buffy's raised eyebrows. "I've done some research. I mean, not formal research, with citations and things, just poking around online."
"I haven't."
To Fred, research might mean footnotes and bibliographies, but to Buffy, it meant problems. Usually problems of the demonic kind, that needed to be understood in order to be done away with. She knew she might better understand what Spike was going through as a double amputee if she made an effort to educate herself. Perhaps it was irresponsible of her, or symptomatic of denial, but she just couldn't bring herself to research Spike's amputation that way. As if he were a demony problem to be solved.
Besides, since the soul, Spike had been suspicious of any reassurances he took to be un-genuine. She was pretty sure he'd be able to tell if she started using outside guides in dealing with him, read pamphlets on "When to Offer to Help" or "How to Boost Your Amputee's Self-Esteem in Seven Easy Steps".
"I'd assumed he didn't feel very much with his arms," she confided to Fred. "Like there was nerve damage or something." The way he was reluctant to touch her, she hadn't thought his stumps were very sensitive. Spike had always been very tactile.
"There might have been immediately after, but he'd have healed quickly. Any nerves endings that weren't removed should be working as well as they ever did. Although, some amputees appear to re-route sensations from other parts of the body to the missing limb. They feel like someone's touching their thumb when they're touching their shoulder..." Fred trailed off when she realized she'd lost Buffy's attention.
Buffy was resting her left forearm in her right hand and skating her thumb nail up and down her wrist. She shivered a little. "Oh," she said quietly.
***
She was lost in the moment when she murmured, "Touch me."
Spike started in surprise.
She hadn't planned to say it, and her haze of passion dissipated somewhat at his reaction. "Touch me," she repeated gently.
"I can't," Spike grated. His gaze was lowered and averted, his ardor doused and replaced by shame. If she hadn't been sitting on his lap, she doubted any part of him would be touching her anymore.
"Some day," Buffy mused aloud, "I'll deal with the issues in a relationship before jumping to the sex having. For a change." She settled down in his lap, placed her elbows above his shoulders, and bracketed his face with her forearms. She mussed his hair just a bit with her trailing fingertips. When he finally looked at her, she affirmed, "You can."
"I -- " Spike's face was miserable.
Forsaking words for actions, Buffy took his left arm up in both of hers. She held it gently and stroked her thumbs along his inner forearm. "Do you feel that?" He nodded slowly. As he regarded her with trepidation, she brought his arm to her face, and drew his wrist down her cheek in a caress. "Can you feel me?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to?"
"Oh yes. But -- " She silenced him by turning and placing a kiss on his wrist where his pulse would have been.
He looked here and there like a man dazzled, and blinked rapidly.
With slow deliberateness, she collected his right arm as well. She leaned in and gave him a soft kiss. Once she'd regained his attention, almost shyly, she guided that arm to her breast.
He made a choked little noise. It caused an unbearable ache to spring up in her chest. She gathered him in and bestowed a sweet kiss on his lips. His mouth responded to hers, but other than that he had yet to move.
"Spike," she pleaded softly.
"You... you want...?" Without either willing it, they'd begun to exchange little kisses. Her body began to churn against his, sliding slowly up and down as they discovered new angles for their mouths to meet. They weren't seeking friction yet, just the tantalizing brush of body on body.
"Yes."
"How," he rasped, "how can you -- "
"You're my lover -- " This statement was rewarded with his groan and voracious kiss. She was breathless when she was able to finish her thought. " -- and I want you."
"You have me," he vowed. One arm caught her around the waist and drew her close; the other finally moved to stroke her breast. She tugged away just long enough to lose her shirt, then he was touching her bare skin.
"I can't...," he trailed away as they resumed kissing, but this time his denial was in the tone of a disclaimer.
"Can't feel me up properly." She felt him nod. "It's ok," she assured him. "Just feel." She got an impish grin, and added, "If you want to pinch, you can always use your teeth."
He dove in to nip the skin over a tendon on her neck, and she squealed.
***
In his entire vampiric existence, Spike had never held a job.
In his pre-chip days, it had never been necessary. He had simply killed anyone whose possessions or abode struck his fancy. Although he had picked a pocket and lock or two in his time, he'd never mastered those skills. Using them implied the need for stealth and misdirection, and were therefore unbecoming to the sort of vampire he aspired to be. If a real vampire wanted your pocket watch, in Spike's view, he wrapped the fob around your neck to see what color you'd turn as you choked before draining you. He didn't ponce about with picking your pocket for it, and then abscond with it to a dim corner to giggle at your dismay when you found it missing.
Well, maybe once.
When Spike had found himself unable to obtain ready money in his usual manner after the Initiative's meddling, he'd rued not having the pickpocket's skill to fall back on... then berated himself for allowing himself to be diminished so quickly. Even mugging pedestrians, hustling pool, and conning or thieving the Scoobies out of cash were better for his demonic self respect than lifting businessmen's wallets.
But really, it was remarkable how little dosh one could get by on when one's only expenses were blood, booze, and cigarettes. Spike hadn't felt a real monetary pinch until the Slayer had needed money, and he'd bollixed that right up by some ill-considered eggsitting. In his defense, it wasn't like he'd had a lot of choice but to deal with demons. No legitimate or even semi-legitimate business would have hired him in Sunnydale. The lack of papers might not have prevented him from sweeping floors or stocking shelves, but the lack of reflection would have. Hellmouth employers were wary about who they hired for their graveyard shifts, or they didn't stay business owners very long.
Of course, neither demon eggs nor theft from strangers was an option for him anymore. He'd swiped a few bills from petty cash of late, and felt no guilt, since he was working for Angel without remuneration. And had his expenses stayed minimal, he might have continued that way, since it was less bothersome than prying money out of Angel's cold dead hands and less dangerous to his soul than signing one of Eve's contracts. But now he had Buffy in his life. Her tastes were not so expensive as Dru's, but he'd like to be able to buy her movie tickets, cheesy crackers, the odd dinner or bauble, without worrying about where he'd get the scratch. And it wasn't like he didn't have a job now. He just wasn't being paid for it. So he'd gone to discuss the matter with the boss man.
Angel, of course, was completely unreasonable.
Spike had finally gotten it through the dolt's head that he wasn't going to let himself be hired, or sign away his soul to the firm; now he was having to fend off other unacceptable suggestions.
"I suppose I could set up some kind of account for subcontractors -- ," Angel was saying.
"No," Spike cut him off. "It's probably written into their corporate charter or some such that all their subcontractors implicitly agree to their standard contract, and by accepting payment forfeit their souls."
"What is your obsession with souls?" Angel asked derisively.
Spike merely favored him with a 'wow, you're a idiot' look.
Angel nodded. 'Right.' "We could ask Gunn. He'd know what Wolfram & Hart's policies are."
"Right. And we trust the evil law firm to have plopped their complete pan-dimensional rulebook, with all its codicils, and no falsehoods or omissions, into the head of the former street thug with no independent legal background, because in all our combined centuries we've never known evil to be dishonest."
Angel was growing aggravated. It was bad enough that Spike was being a pest, he also had a point. This entire discussion would raise uncomfortable questions about Angel's own contract with the firm, if he allowed himself to think about it. "Well, what do you want me to do? You won't sign a contract, you won't be a subcontractor, how am I supposed to employ you?"
"You can't. No 'employing'. No 'hiring', 'retaining', or 'obtaining services', either. Nothing that could in any way be interpreted as me agreeing to work for Wolfram & Hart."
"And yet you want me to pay you."
"Yes."
"Fine. I'll get them to give me a flexible account to pay for office furniture and decorations." Angel eyed him up and down. "You can be the remarkably lifelike statue that stands in the corner and insults people."
"That's worse, they'd end up claiming they owned me, then. I won't take their money, and I won't work for them. I've been working for you. They're paying you enough. I know it'll hurt, but if you carve out a bit of your personal Mercedes budget, you can pay me a decent wage."
That didn't settle the matter, of course. There was a bit more bickering, no small amount of haggling, and then a field trip to Wolfram & Hart's Contracts Division. Spike insisted on reading the complete original of Angel's contract to determine that nowhere in it did it say anything about employees of Angel's being de facto employees of theirs. It took the better part of the evening, but eventually they'd hammered out a wage for Spike. It was in a testy mood and with some distaste that Angel reluctantly shook Spike's plastic hand.
The hours of bother and the loss of a fair chunk of cash were probably why Angel said what he did as Spike was leaving, although it was nothing he didn't believe.
"You know this is just a pity thing for her."
To Angel's surprise, Spike didn't wither. Instead, his face split in a maddening grin.
Spike thought of how Angel had looked at him after his hands-ectomy... up until he'd gone on his chainsaw rampage. He thought of Drusilla solicitously trying to get him to feed on a little white dog during his time in a wheelchair, when she was blithely cuckolding him with Angelus. He thought of Willow refusing to leave him alone so he could top himself when his unlife had (he thought then) reached a nadir.
And he thought of Buffy the night before.
Each time he'd hesitated to touch her somewhere new, she'd guided his stumps there insistently. From her face to her belly to her bottom to her knees, he'd explored the territory of her body that had been denied to him for weeks. He'd even clumsily stroked her quim before she'd guided his cock inside. Soon she'd been riding him for all he was worth, gasping and bouncing. Delicacy had given way to need, and the height of their fucking had seen her shoving his stump down between them to grind against her clit.
A highlight of their new relationship was that the ruthless succubus he'd known during their previous affair had given way to the sweet girl who'd hidden beneath that persona. She tried so hard, of late, to return pleasure to him. He relished every moment of her attentions. But he still liked her best when she was too far gone to think of anything besides taking her own pleasure. Last night, eyes rolled back and mouth open, she'd come against his forearm as wantonly as she once had upon his fingers.
He knew pity well, loathed it on sight, and there was nothing of it in Buffy when they made love. She was a kinder lover to him now, but still absolutely pitiless.
Spike shook his head, chuckling at Angel's ignorance. "Slayer's never pitied me. You, maybe, but me... not even on the rare occasion I might have deserved it."
[ Continue to chapter 7]
So... anybody still with me?
Previous chapters (posted at seasonal_spuffy) here: Tekubi, Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5.
If you'd just like to be reminded what was going on, here's the "Previously on..."
Spike loses his hands and gets depressed, then gets Fred to build him a chainsaw prosthetic, kicks some demon ass, and feels much better. Back at Wolfram & Hart, he tells Eve where she can go with her devil's bargain to get his hands back, then bumps into Buffy. They begin a relationship, but Spike can't deal with making love with her without being able to touch her with his hands. He breaks it off. Buffy offers him a compromise: a Victorian/junior-high-style relationship that lets him avoid the intimacy that makes him too aware of what he's lost. Buffy paddles Spike in front of a crowd, which leads to, uh... a resumption of relations.
Thank you to rabid1st for the beta, and to portions of my flist for their recent support.
Tekubi, Chapter 6
By: caia
Beta: Rabid1st
Rating: R for now. May stray into NC-17 territory later due to subject matter, but those hoping for pr0n are likely to be disappointed.
Standard disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, just the story.
Non-standard disclaimer: Opinions expressed by the characters or implicit in the storyline do not necessarily represent those of the author.
Distribution: Do not post elsewhere without permission. Ask, I may say yes.
Feedback: Craved. Praise, constructive criticism, and paddlings for being tortoise-like are all welcome.
"Have you decided what you'll be doing here in L.A.?"
Buffy hoped Fred didn't mean 'instead of camping out in my office,' as a less kind person than Fred might accuse her of doing lately. She could admit it, she was bored. "I'm still thinking of taking some summer classes. Maybe applying somewhere local for the fall? But my grades at UC Sunnydale were kinda mediocre. I'm not sure I'm really college material."
"Of course you are!" Fred protested loyally. "You had other things going on, is all. How many people have to balance Psych 101 with demon hunting?"
"Aside from my professor and my TA boyfriend? Not many." Her slaying hadn't been as intrusive in college as in high school -- not being right on top of the Hellmouth helped with that -- but it had still taken much of her time and energy that might otherwise have gone into studying. And then she'd had to drop out before she finished her sophomore year. "I don't look very impressive on paper. My best accomplishments all have to be redacted."
Fred gave a rueful grin. "I know what you mean. I'm lucky I got hired here as part of Angel's team. I don't know how I could have glossed over spending five years scribbling on the walls of a cave in a demon dimension on a resume."
It wasn't often Buffy met someone whose history was more outlandish than hers, but five years in a hellish dimension very nearly trumped five months in a heavenly one. Buffy felt a tug of empathy for Fred. Her adjustment couldn't have been easy either. "I suppose I could write one of those 'joke' application essays, tell them I'd saved the world half a dozen times... What?"
Fred had a confused crinkle to her brow. "You shouldn't have to apply. Most schools allow students to come back after a leave of absence without re-applying, for a couple years at least."
For a moment, Buffy had nothing to say. She might not have had to reapply to UC Sunnydale after she'd come back from the dead? It was the sort of thing she would have expected Willow to tell her. But now that she thought of it, at that time Willow had been too wrapped up in her own magic addiction drama to take an interest in Buffy's problems. And Buffy had barely talked about anything personal with Willow since her resurrection. They were both much better now, individually. But where once there'd been a deep rapport between them there was... what? She felt more at ease with a woman she'd known a matter of weeks than with her best friend.
Buffy shook her head to clear it. Her once future alma mater was rubble at the bottom of a big pit. "How does this help me now? There is no UC Sunnydale anymore."
"No, but... here."
Buffy came around the desk to look at Fred's monitor. While her mind had been wandering, Fred had pulled out her keyboard tray and brought up the University of California system's website.
"See, they've got a special program for 'Refugees of Sunnydale', with a streamlined transfer process. All UCS's records were preserved in a backup database, so you can just transfer your credits to any other school in the UC system. You can enroll in classes at UCLA in the fall, or even take your summer classes there." Fred turned to beam at her.
"But... UCLA's a more competitive school than Sunnydale." Despite her high SAT scores, Buffy doubted she'd have been admitted to UCLA.
"Maybe, but they're all part of the same state system." Fred clicked on a tab open to UCLA's website. She paused to find a spot on the page, then read, "'In recognition of the extraordinary circumstances of the destruction of Sunnydale and the loss of our sister institution, UCLA accepted two hundred University of Sunnydale transfers in the fall of 2003, fifty more for the spring semester of 2004, and is committed to placing all interested UCS students in the fall of 2004.' They've reduced the number of incoming freshman admitted to make room."
Buffy slowly allowed a grin to transform her features.
Fred grinned back. "Want to look at the course catalogue?"
An hour later Buffy had printouts of her favorite summer course listings. She had a momentary bout of anxiety when she wondered if having been on leave from school would make her ineligible for the program, but Fred assured her this was unlikely. She'd been in good standing when she'd withdrawn, she hadn't enrolled anywhere else, and she had been living in Sunnydale up until its collapse. Fred said they'd be sure to accept her, and if they didn't, W&H had some very good lawyers who could argue her case.
Buffy demurred, but even though she'd never take their help, it was oddly nice to think of having such superlative legal backup. She could see how the perks of this place might suck people in.
Hanging up the phone with the Dean of Transfers' secretary after securing an appointment, Buffy cheered and spun in her chair in celebration. "It is good to have a plan," she declared once she'd come to a stop. "I was going stir-crazy with nothing to do... except Spike."
Fred blushed a little, and cleared her throat. "How is he doing? I haven't seen much of him lately."
"Yeah, I've been keeping him busy." Buffy was a little embarrassed at herself, but she'd spent quite enough time pretending she wasn't doing Spike. Freely admitting the nature of their relationship gave her a feeling of something constricted within her loosening. "He's good." She paused, unsure whether to elaborate. Normally, she wouldn't bring this up, but Fred held a special position not only as Spike's friend but as the maker of his prostheses. "He mentioned some of his prosthetics were chafing."
Fred nodded. "That can happen. It's probably not as bad for Spike, since vampires don't often sweat, and have fast healing. A lot of amputees report irritation where the prosthetic meets the remaining limb. He could apply corn starch or baby powder, and use some gauze or soft fabric for cushioning." She caught Buffy's raised eyebrows. "I've done some research. I mean, not formal research, with citations and things, just poking around online."
"I haven't."
To Fred, research might mean footnotes and bibliographies, but to Buffy, it meant problems. Usually problems of the demonic kind, that needed to be understood in order to be done away with. She knew she might better understand what Spike was going through as a double amputee if she made an effort to educate herself. Perhaps it was irresponsible of her, or symptomatic of denial, but she just couldn't bring herself to research Spike's amputation that way. As if he were a demony problem to be solved.
Besides, since the soul, Spike had been suspicious of any reassurances he took to be un-genuine. She was pretty sure he'd be able to tell if she started using outside guides in dealing with him, read pamphlets on "When to Offer to Help" or "How to Boost Your Amputee's Self-Esteem in Seven Easy Steps".
"I'd assumed he didn't feel very much with his arms," she confided to Fred. "Like there was nerve damage or something." The way he was reluctant to touch her, she hadn't thought his stumps were very sensitive. Spike had always been very tactile.
"There might have been immediately after, but he'd have healed quickly. Any nerves endings that weren't removed should be working as well as they ever did. Although, some amputees appear to re-route sensations from other parts of the body to the missing limb. They feel like someone's touching their thumb when they're touching their shoulder..." Fred trailed off when she realized she'd lost Buffy's attention.
Buffy was resting her left forearm in her right hand and skating her thumb nail up and down her wrist. She shivered a little. "Oh," she said quietly.
***
She was lost in the moment when she murmured, "Touch me."
Spike started in surprise.
She hadn't planned to say it, and her haze of passion dissipated somewhat at his reaction. "Touch me," she repeated gently.
"I can't," Spike grated. His gaze was lowered and averted, his ardor doused and replaced by shame. If she hadn't been sitting on his lap, she doubted any part of him would be touching her anymore.
"Some day," Buffy mused aloud, "I'll deal with the issues in a relationship before jumping to the sex having. For a change." She settled down in his lap, placed her elbows above his shoulders, and bracketed his face with her forearms. She mussed his hair just a bit with her trailing fingertips. When he finally looked at her, she affirmed, "You can."
"I -- " Spike's face was miserable.
Forsaking words for actions, Buffy took his left arm up in both of hers. She held it gently and stroked her thumbs along his inner forearm. "Do you feel that?" He nodded slowly. As he regarded her with trepidation, she brought his arm to her face, and drew his wrist down her cheek in a caress. "Can you feel me?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to?"
"Oh yes. But -- " She silenced him by turning and placing a kiss on his wrist where his pulse would have been.
He looked here and there like a man dazzled, and blinked rapidly.
With slow deliberateness, she collected his right arm as well. She leaned in and gave him a soft kiss. Once she'd regained his attention, almost shyly, she guided that arm to her breast.
He made a choked little noise. It caused an unbearable ache to spring up in her chest. She gathered him in and bestowed a sweet kiss on his lips. His mouth responded to hers, but other than that he had yet to move.
"Spike," she pleaded softly.
"You... you want...?" Without either willing it, they'd begun to exchange little kisses. Her body began to churn against his, sliding slowly up and down as they discovered new angles for their mouths to meet. They weren't seeking friction yet, just the tantalizing brush of body on body.
"Yes."
"How," he rasped, "how can you -- "
"You're my lover -- " This statement was rewarded with his groan and voracious kiss. She was breathless when she was able to finish her thought. " -- and I want you."
"You have me," he vowed. One arm caught her around the waist and drew her close; the other finally moved to stroke her breast. She tugged away just long enough to lose her shirt, then he was touching her bare skin.
"I can't...," he trailed away as they resumed kissing, but this time his denial was in the tone of a disclaimer.
"Can't feel me up properly." She felt him nod. "It's ok," she assured him. "Just feel." She got an impish grin, and added, "If you want to pinch, you can always use your teeth."
He dove in to nip the skin over a tendon on her neck, and she squealed.
***
In his entire vampiric existence, Spike had never held a job.
In his pre-chip days, it had never been necessary. He had simply killed anyone whose possessions or abode struck his fancy. Although he had picked a pocket and lock or two in his time, he'd never mastered those skills. Using them implied the need for stealth and misdirection, and were therefore unbecoming to the sort of vampire he aspired to be. If a real vampire wanted your pocket watch, in Spike's view, he wrapped the fob around your neck to see what color you'd turn as you choked before draining you. He didn't ponce about with picking your pocket for it, and then abscond with it to a dim corner to giggle at your dismay when you found it missing.
Well, maybe once.
When Spike had found himself unable to obtain ready money in his usual manner after the Initiative's meddling, he'd rued not having the pickpocket's skill to fall back on... then berated himself for allowing himself to be diminished so quickly. Even mugging pedestrians, hustling pool, and conning or thieving the Scoobies out of cash were better for his demonic self respect than lifting businessmen's wallets.
But really, it was remarkable how little dosh one could get by on when one's only expenses were blood, booze, and cigarettes. Spike hadn't felt a real monetary pinch until the Slayer had needed money, and he'd bollixed that right up by some ill-considered eggsitting. In his defense, it wasn't like he'd had a lot of choice but to deal with demons. No legitimate or even semi-legitimate business would have hired him in Sunnydale. The lack of papers might not have prevented him from sweeping floors or stocking shelves, but the lack of reflection would have. Hellmouth employers were wary about who they hired for their graveyard shifts, or they didn't stay business owners very long.
Of course, neither demon eggs nor theft from strangers was an option for him anymore. He'd swiped a few bills from petty cash of late, and felt no guilt, since he was working for Angel without remuneration. And had his expenses stayed minimal, he might have continued that way, since it was less bothersome than prying money out of Angel's cold dead hands and less dangerous to his soul than signing one of Eve's contracts. But now he had Buffy in his life. Her tastes were not so expensive as Dru's, but he'd like to be able to buy her movie tickets, cheesy crackers, the odd dinner or bauble, without worrying about where he'd get the scratch. And it wasn't like he didn't have a job now. He just wasn't being paid for it. So he'd gone to discuss the matter with the boss man.
Angel, of course, was completely unreasonable.
Spike had finally gotten it through the dolt's head that he wasn't going to let himself be hired, or sign away his soul to the firm; now he was having to fend off other unacceptable suggestions.
"I suppose I could set up some kind of account for subcontractors -- ," Angel was saying.
"No," Spike cut him off. "It's probably written into their corporate charter or some such that all their subcontractors implicitly agree to their standard contract, and by accepting payment forfeit their souls."
"What is your obsession with souls?" Angel asked derisively.
Spike merely favored him with a 'wow, you're a idiot' look.
Angel nodded. 'Right.' "We could ask Gunn. He'd know what Wolfram & Hart's policies are."
"Right. And we trust the evil law firm to have plopped their complete pan-dimensional rulebook, with all its codicils, and no falsehoods or omissions, into the head of the former street thug with no independent legal background, because in all our combined centuries we've never known evil to be dishonest."
Angel was growing aggravated. It was bad enough that Spike was being a pest, he also had a point. This entire discussion would raise uncomfortable questions about Angel's own contract with the firm, if he allowed himself to think about it. "Well, what do you want me to do? You won't sign a contract, you won't be a subcontractor, how am I supposed to employ you?"
"You can't. No 'employing'. No 'hiring', 'retaining', or 'obtaining services', either. Nothing that could in any way be interpreted as me agreeing to work for Wolfram & Hart."
"And yet you want me to pay you."
"Yes."
"Fine. I'll get them to give me a flexible account to pay for office furniture and decorations." Angel eyed him up and down. "You can be the remarkably lifelike statue that stands in the corner and insults people."
"That's worse, they'd end up claiming they owned me, then. I won't take their money, and I won't work for them. I've been working for you. They're paying you enough. I know it'll hurt, but if you carve out a bit of your personal Mercedes budget, you can pay me a decent wage."
That didn't settle the matter, of course. There was a bit more bickering, no small amount of haggling, and then a field trip to Wolfram & Hart's Contracts Division. Spike insisted on reading the complete original of Angel's contract to determine that nowhere in it did it say anything about employees of Angel's being de facto employees of theirs. It took the better part of the evening, but eventually they'd hammered out a wage for Spike. It was in a testy mood and with some distaste that Angel reluctantly shook Spike's plastic hand.
The hours of bother and the loss of a fair chunk of cash were probably why Angel said what he did as Spike was leaving, although it was nothing he didn't believe.
"You know this is just a pity thing for her."
To Angel's surprise, Spike didn't wither. Instead, his face split in a maddening grin.
Spike thought of how Angel had looked at him after his hands-ectomy... up until he'd gone on his chainsaw rampage. He thought of Drusilla solicitously trying to get him to feed on a little white dog during his time in a wheelchair, when she was blithely cuckolding him with Angelus. He thought of Willow refusing to leave him alone so he could top himself when his unlife had (he thought then) reached a nadir.
And he thought of Buffy the night before.
Each time he'd hesitated to touch her somewhere new, she'd guided his stumps there insistently. From her face to her belly to her bottom to her knees, he'd explored the territory of her body that had been denied to him for weeks. He'd even clumsily stroked her quim before she'd guided his cock inside. Soon she'd been riding him for all he was worth, gasping and bouncing. Delicacy had given way to need, and the height of their fucking had seen her shoving his stump down between them to grind against her clit.
A highlight of their new relationship was that the ruthless succubus he'd known during their previous affair had given way to the sweet girl who'd hidden beneath that persona. She tried so hard, of late, to return pleasure to him. He relished every moment of her attentions. But he still liked her best when she was too far gone to think of anything besides taking her own pleasure. Last night, eyes rolled back and mouth open, she'd come against his forearm as wantonly as she once had upon his fingers.
He knew pity well, loathed it on sight, and there was nothing of it in Buffy when they made love. She was a kinder lover to him now, but still absolutely pitiless.
Spike shook his head, chuckling at Angel's ignorance. "Slayer's never pitied me. You, maybe, but me... not even on the rare occasion I might have deserved it."
[ Continue to chapter 7]
So... anybody still with me?