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Buffy kicked open the crypt door just as an empty bottle hit the wall and shivered away into sparkling shards of glass. The lingering smell of aged Scotch in the air increased fractionally, and she wrinkled her nose. So far it seemed to be Wall – nil, Spike – 6. Or was it 7? Buffy narrowed her eyes as she leaned closer to count the metal rings which survived the crashing of the bottles.
Spike was certainly well under the influence or he would have noticed the noise and drama of her entrance – not that either of them was more than routine. In general, though, these days he tended to pay more attention. Hence the deduction that he was seriously booze-infused.
She rested her back against the wall, waiting for him to notice her. When he did, the start he made was quite impressive, especially considering his aforesaid condition.
“Buffy?” he said, his eyebrows almost hitting his hairline. “Oh my god, this must be a bad batch or something. I don’t usually hallucinate until I have downed another half-dozen or so.” He groaned and rested his face on both open palms.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Spike” she felt quite brittle enough without all this, and was seriously beginning to double-doubt the wisdom of her plan to visit him to thrash out (No. There will be no thrashing.) whatever this was that had occurred between them.
Last night had been hard going. Weepy Willow was bad enough, but weepy repentant Willow with plenty to repent was super-hard. And Repentant weepy Willow swearing the Bad Thing she had done would never happen again? Well, some things cut just a little too close for comfort.
And almost the whole night spent, not sleeping, but clutching a crude cross, one that cut into her hands as she gripped it so hard, surrounded by the stink of garlic which she had every reason to believe would have no impact whatsoever on a vampire who adored blooming onions, a dish made explicitly with powdered garlic. Sitting that way all night had hurt her. She very much doubted it could truthfully hurt him. Symbolism had very little effect on an unloving, unbreathing, but oh so corporeal creature of the night, her night.
So that was why she was here. To tell the evil vampire his hopes were misplaced. That any engagement of slayer and vampire bodies that was not intended to end with the dusty finishing of one of them was not just a bad idea. It was a BadWrongTerrible idea doomed to end in disaster.
And if she kept repeating the word “end” to herself she might even believe it.
A groan from the not even funny drunk in the corner drew these thoughts to a really quite convenient pause. “End” was the only thought she needed to hold on to right now, and that was the only purpose of her visit to the crypt. She’d left it till after dark, because that was just polite. It was his time of day. Or, rather, night. And it was easier for her to leave Dawn in Willow’s care. Because that had worked out really well the evening before. But Willow was different now, and Dawn was all broken-armed and not likely to leave the house so not really in need of watching anyway. Really.
And shut up internal monologue and get on with it, Buffy.
She swallowed, hard. “Spike”, she repeated. This time he looked at her. “Yes, I am here. In person. All touchable. Though you shouldn’t even think of touching me because that would be a Bad Thing and possibly lead to all sorts of other badness, which is not going to happen, so don’t get your hopes up. Or anything else up.”
That was when he shook his head and raised the scarred eyebrow. Coldly, she knew he was nowhere near the limits of whatever counted as a vampire’s constitution and was suddenly very much with her in the room.
Oh God.
He was only a little bit shaky as he rose to his feet, and more like a panther as he moved towards her. Not at all a very sexy panther whose hands and teeth and entire body she could imagine (and remember, dammit) doing terrible, wonderful things to her body. Not that at all; just an animal - for what else were vampires, when it came to it? – a creature doing its predatory best to catch her off-guard. And “it” was a really good way to think of this creature. Better to try not to remember what it had done to her, the astonishing heights it had driven her to again and again. Just remember it was a tethered animal, one she could not in conscience destroy, but only because it was so vulnerable and couldn’t hurt her.
Spike grinned at her and curled his impossible tongue, touching the inner edge of his teeth in a way that drove every other possible thought away.
She took herself firmly in hand. Buffy was no child or swooning damsel. She was grown-up, and she killed his kind routinely. Him too, if he gave her the slightest reason.
Somehow he was standing, steady, in front of her, smiling. That smile. Pure joy was bad enough, but mixed with expectation. Well, what was a girl to do?
“Nice to see you here, love. Can’t say I actually expected thish.”
The very slight slur of the last consonant was all the evidence visible (audible?) of those umpteen bottles of whatever the nasty-tasting stuff was.
“Expecting what, Spike? You were the one who said we had to talk. So here I am. So talk.”
He seemed surprised. Probably by her frankness and determination. Perhaps he realised what a very final end was imminent. Yes, “end”.
“Fine, Slayer. If that’s what you want, that’s what I can do. Care to sit down?”
She looked around, but only briefly. It wasn’t as if any part of the bare mausoleum was new to her in any way.
“Where do you expect me to sit? On the stained chair? On the heap of glass in the corner? On the stone sarcophagus I assume you use as a bed?” Oh god. Bed. She had actually used that word.
“Yeah. Sorry and all that. Should have thought. Would you care to come downstairs? I wouldn’t call it comfy as such, but it’s a touch less seedy.”
Somehow she found herself following him down the ladder to the lower chamber. The décor, if you wanted to call it that, was not much of an improvement. Worse, there was only one viable place to sit – a bed with a gold brocade coverlet. The bed looked luxurious. The bed looked soft and enticing. She was not going to pay any attention to the bed.
A firm swallow helped. Not much, but it did allow her to shift her focus away from the bed.
More or less.
“Wanna sit down now then, Buf – Slayer? Don’t worry; I won’t attack your precious virtue. You can make all the running. Again.”
She was very much not going to sit on that bed, and no running of any sort was going to be made unless it was into the dark cemetery under the canopy of stars in Sunnydale’s night sky.
Somehow, she found herself sitting down on the very edge of the comforter. As he started to make a move towards her she glared forcefully enough that he stepped back.
“Speak.”
He did. She should have expected that he would. At length. At long length. And eloquently. So, so eloquently. Gone was the cynical edge, the triumphalist sneer about how he was the sort of dirt she liked to roll in. She’d been prepared for that, prepared to snipe at him, to counter jab with cynical jab.
But this caught her off-guard. How had she not expected it? The lyricism of his words enhanced by – or enhancing? She wasn’t sure – the sheer music of his voice, the accent that was far from sexy when Giles used it (eeuw at the thought) but somehow from him set her bones turning to jelly.
And those eyes. Every word he spoke came with that stare of rapture, hope, joy.
Somehow, her plans deleted themselves. Those strict sentences about mistakes needing to be accepted for what they were and never repeated? Gone.
And then she was closing the distance between them. She was grasping his jaws and dragging his face to her. She was smashing her own lips into his, as if she could crush them entirely away. She was hooking her legs round his, then round his waist, then hauling on his clothes as they were so, so badly in the way.
In the corner of the room his bed waited. But to use it would have been to admit that this, deep down, was entirely what she had planned from the moment she kicked open his door, if not before. That was not acceptable, however true or not it was.
So this time, the first (and only, very definitely the only time) on his territory, they missed the bed entirely.