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At the time, Buffy thought the trek from Parker’s unwelcoming bed to her own was a walk of shame. It pales in comparison to the one currently taking her out of the cemetery.
She has no idea what time it is, just that it’s early enough she won’t be noticed slipping into her room but late enough people bear witness to it. They aren’t even looking her way, but it doesn’t matter—they could notice her, and that’s enough. It’s not exactly subtle, her walking through town in nothing but a little black dress, rumpled from being thrown and forgotten all night, impractical shoes in one hand, grimacing at the feel of cold concrete. The strappy heels were cute last night, but now she wishes she’d worn boots. She started the night with a jacket, her favorite leather one with the extra inside pockets perfectly-sized for stakes, but didn’t see it on her way out (though to be fair she wasn’t looking too hard, in a bit of a rush). Either it’s at the Bronze still and she can swing by there tonight to retrieve it, or see if maybe Willow snagged it for her on the way out—or it’s…not.
Or it’s at the crypt. If that’s the case, it’s just a jacket. She can get another.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, really. One moment she was on her back panting up at a stone ceiling, more satisfied, unburdened, happy than she felt in years; the next she was blinking awake to a strong, pale back. His shoulder blade was digging into her boob in a way that felt real, her arm thrown over his waist, hand curled protectively over once vital organs, face buried in his nape. It was all cigarettes and leather and whatever gross product he uses in his hair—and him, of course, whatever that smells like. Said hair was partially free of gel, a mix of soft curls and cemented locks tickling her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. For once, he wasn’t breathing.
There wasn’t any panic, no scrambling away or jackrabbiting heart that surely would have woken him before anything else. No, she laid there for a moment, breath chasing his hair from her face, a confusing mix of emotions she didn’t want to acknowledge yet clawing for her attention until it became too much, and she rolled onto her back, staring at a stone ceiling, resigned. Her arm was still trapped by pure dead weight, and she flexed that hand experimentally. It was deader than him.
How she ended up there is a bit of a mystery. Well, okay, that’s laying it on thick. She hadn’t been drinking, so it’s not like she can’t remember the temporal process that led here; she just can’t figure out where the leap was. Where was the moment she squinted her eyes, looked him over, did some heavy mental legwork to convince herself this was a good idea? Where was the moment she said fuck it? It doesn’t feel like there was a fuck it moment, like it was just a natural progression, and that alone strikes fear into her hardened Slayer senses.
It went like this: he’d shown up at the Bronze out of nowhere and negged her about a recent victory in a weird, almost compliment-adjacent way, and she’d been in too good of a mood to care and laughed instead of told him off; they ended up talking, and he didn’t say anything disgusting or rude to ruin it, had even been kind of charming, and she, surprised and intrigued, indulged with a smile; they shuffled outside so he could smoke, him still not ruining it and her still in a good mood; the smoke had been cloying and heady and bothered her lungs, so they agreed on a walk.
And then they ended up at the crypt.
Oh so carefully, she wiggled her arm free. Was rewarded with an honestly pathetic sound at the loss that made her pause and her heart trip for a couple reasons, but he didn’t start breathing. She sat at the edge of his bed for a moment, head blissfully empty as she surveyed his real bachelor pad of a room that didn’t match the thread count beneath her bare skin. Breathed in, breathed out. Then started the search for her clothes.
Now she crosses a street and admires the thick layer of fog covering the morning. She bets the cemeteries look like a vamp’s wet dream right now, the sun low enough not to bother them yet. He’d probably complain about it being trite and cliché, yet still lurk among the gravestones. Her lips twitch up at the thought before she realizes what she’s doing and scowls.
Fruitlessly, she tugs her dress lower. She wishes she’d looked a little harder for that jacket.
She thought about snagging a pair of his jeans for the cold morning walk but ruled it too weird. No way he wouldn’t notice and have some quip about getting in his pants ready next time they crossed paths, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But damn, in the light of day, she can admit it was a good idea—not just for the cold. Her exposed legs have her feeling like a harlot on the town for no good reason, other than the fact he touched her thighs a lot. The path his hands, his mouth took branded into her skin, his dry, icy touch blurring the lines between burns and frostbite. It feels like everyone can see, like obvious red welts decorate her flesh. She keeps her head down.
By the time she makes it home, the fog’s dissipating, or perhaps it’s simply not as thick in the land of the living. Never before has she snuck back in so quietly, so perfectly, slipping in through the kitchen and poking her head into the living room. No Mom. Faint sounds of running water. Ugh, not fair, she wanted a shower.
In her room, she drops her shoes and shucks her dress, left standing in just her bra. Like her jacket, her panties were a lost cause. She doesn’t wanna think about what that creep might do with them. At least they weren’t her favorite pair (she’s so bitter about the jacket; she truly can’t remember grabbing it as she left the Bronze but would never leave there stake-less). Loses the bra and dons a tank top and loose sweats, catches her reflection with a grimace. He doesn’t have a mirror, obviously, so she was blissfully unaware how trashy she looked on the walk home, and thank goodness for that. She swipes her under eyes with her fingers and tells herself it’s better.
Then there’s nothing to do but wait for the shower.
She’s suddenly stuck in the after.
She screwed Spike. No drink, drug, or spell necessary. All it took was him exhibiting some self-control over his less than pleasant qualities and a good mood. Damning, isn’t it?
And worse, she thought she just didn’t like sex before last night. Never got the hype, the mania, the obsession. She buries her head in hands, barely stops herself from screaming, groaning, or making some other humiliating noise at the memory of his mouth all over her, cold in an unfathomably hot way, and the humiliating noises she did make at the time. And! And the fact he made the noises, too, acted like she had some crazy effect on him, the girl barely out of her teen years reducing a century old vampire to a genuine mess with her hand alone. She flops back on her bed and kicks her legs around, complete tantrum-esque.
God, it’s all so unfair! Unfair that Spike managed to so thoroughly rock her world; unfair that their conversation didn’t make her itch for a stake or her own heaven-sent, merciful demise; unfair that she’s seen him naked and will likely need to converse with him in the future (and vice versa, those looks he shoots her are gonna be soooo much worse); unfair that she was so smiley and happy and stupid afterwards despite knowing how smug and insufferable it’ll make him, unable to help it; unfair that he gazed at her with such awe and reverence as she lay naked before him, so unlike anyone she’s been with before; unfair that she’s the fucking Slayer and can never do this again.
That’s the rub, right? Her judgement lapsed for one night, and now she’ll be forever paying the price: it can be good, just not for her. All because of her stupid duty, her unfathomable responsibility, she never gets to be happy. It’d be easier if it wasn’t him—alas. She’s destined to date guys who don’t know how to do that thing he can with his tongue all because those guys aren’t murder-y, disgusting, evil vampires.
Why did it have to be Spike?
She sighs, all of the sudden feeling exhausted. She has no idea how long she slept, probably not very. Her mother’s out of the shower. She gets up and heads for the bathroom.
Halfway through her shower, she remembers he has an invite to her home and freezes. He could be awake by now; he could want to talk. The steady stream of daylight through the frosted glass window should soothe her, but sunlight, like most things, is merely a challenge to Spike. An inconvenience at best. She races through her shower.
She dresses quickly and spends the entire day away from home, just in case. Even goes so far as attempting to spend it away from her usual haunts (though she pops by the magic shop to chat with Giles about some research he wished to update her on and to pick up supplies for her patrol tonight). If he notices how on edge she is, he’s considerate enough to not mention it. Mostly she wanders town, window shopping, and hangs out with Willow on campus, clinging to her like a lost puppy. Willow doesn’t seem to mind but does shoot her an odd look or two. Buffy bemoans how they never see each other anymore, which gets her off her back. And as expected, Willow didn’t see her jacket last night but reassures her it could still be at the club.
The day is Spike-less so long as her thoughts don’t count.
Nightfall, however, presents a problem. She has no reason to skip her patrol, considering she didn’t patrol last night, instead enjoying a night at the Bronze with every intention to squeeze in a quick loop before heading home. When they left for their walk, she assumed they’d end up patrolling, not at his crypt.
In a fit of desperation, she creates a fresh route, even includes some sketchy streets she doesn’t usually grace. It’s a little silly to go through all this effort to avoid him, she’s aware, but she’s been failing to work up some snarky zinger to besiege greet him with, which is worrying all on its own (hello, she’s quip-girl!), and she needs the armor of bitchiness to deflect his sarcastic remarks. Besides, the alternate route pays off—she runs into quite a few vamps and decides occasionally updating her patrol might be a good idea.
The night’s still young, though, and she can’t avoid this forever.
It doesn’t take long for him to find her either. She’s breezed through two empty graveyards and barely begun trudging through the next when the tinglies she’d recognize anywhere ghost over her neck. Strange that.
“Slayer.”
His usual greeting spreads the tinglies all over, the same way it did when he rumbled it against her thighs, and her pulse picks up in a truly embarrassing way, knowing he can hear it and guess why. She sets her jaw in anticipation and turns.
He’s lurking in the shadows beneath an old, gnarled tree, one she breaks makeshift stakes off all the time. An unlit cigarette hangs from his lips. No smirk or obnoxious once over, throwing her off balance.
She still doesn’t have a quip in the quiver.
“Spike.” She keeps her tone even, despite her traitorous pulse. His shoulders loosen at her lack of immediate hostility—or maybe she’s reading into it.
He steps out into the moonlight, the swish of the duster and the shine of its leather a familiar friend in the tension. Only when he draws to a stop before her does he let his eyes sweep over her in a oddly less sexual way than usual. He tucks his unlit cigarette behind his ear and smiles crookedly.
“Believe I have something of yours,” he announces and pulls her jacket, the nice leather one she’s been mourning all day, out of nowhere. The light rattling of stakes in its pockets sound like wood chimes.
“I was just about to check the Bronze for it.” She takes it from him, cheeks warm for no discernible reason, and slips it on, a comforting, solid weight. Pulling the sleeves over her palms, she clears her throat and glances at him to find his eyes already on her. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” They pick up the interrupted route without conferring, and Buffy bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. “Was beginning to think you ditched the nightly cemetery jaunt.”
She shrugs in what she hopes is a casual manner. “Decided to switch it up, hit some new places. And jeez, I should definitely do that more often. Saw way more vamps than I have here.”
“Variety is the spice of life.” He casts her a sidelong glance. “Sure you weren’t avoiding me, ducks?”
“No,” she says quickly, but it’s one of those questions where she isn’t sure if no means yes. Spike grins, so it’s still fifty-fifty since she answered at top liar-y speed either way. She huffs and crosses her arms. “Maybe.”
“Disappeared on me this morning, too.”
“I had to go home. My mom—” She cuts herself off, feeling childish since she is an adult and agitated since she doesn’t need to smooth anything over for a potential next time. There’s no next time. He finally gets around to lighting the cigarette he’s been toying with since he got here. The smoke is just as cloying as last night, and Buffy scrunches her nose. “I don’t have to explain myself.”
“That you don’t, that you don’t.” He takes a drag and flicks the ash away before adding, almost hesitantly, “But I’d like it if you did.”
She stops walking with a sigh, and almost in sync, he stops, too, propping himself against a headstone in a manner that shouldn’t be attractive but unfortunately is. God, this would all be so much easier if it was anyone else. There’s no point in beating around the bush since he’ll just keep pressing until she snaps. Get it out of the way now. She puts her hands on her hips and stares him down.
“We can’t have sex again.”
“Sure we can, unless you somehow got your pretty little cunt all mutilated in less than twenty-four hours.” Should’ve expected something like that, but her face burns at the crassness. He grins and rolls his tongue and ugh, talking to him is even more impossible now. “But I wouldn’t worry, I bet we can get creative.”
“Spike, I’m not having sex with you again.” His eyebrow ticks.
“Why? Didn’t have a good time?”
Fuck her power stance, she needs to massage her temples ASAP, the impending headache monstrous. “We shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t. Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter, love.” She shoots him a dark look that he revels in as he blows smoke right in her face. She refuses to cough. “Right then, why not?”
“You know why. You’re—”
“Because I’m evil and you’re the bleeding poster child for white hats, yeah, yeah, I’m aware.” His hand cuts through the smoke, the cherry of his cigarette like a sparkler. “You’re being eaten alive by guilt and shame, burdened by duty and desperate for your friends’ approval. The dramatic tragedy of it all would make great telly, I reckon. Real martyr over here with the can’t, won’t, shouldn’t. But how’s about this: I haven’t heard you say you don’t want to.”
She suddenly feels itchy and exposed.
“You’re simplifying this on purpose.”
“You’re complicating it,” he shoots back. “It’s just sex, Slayer.”
She closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. It’s not just sex. It’s never just sex. If the Parker disaster taught her anything, it’s that she can’t do casual. If the ongoing Angel disaster taught her anything, it’s that she can’t do vampires. Spike’s a vampire hounding her for casual sex: recipe for a third disaster. Besides, those things he dismissed with a literal hand wave are still actual problems, no matter how trivial he thinks they are.
“You don’t get it.” She drags her fingers against her skin so hard she’d sure it’ll be pink. “That’s not how I work. I can’t.”
For a moment, it’s silent. She hopes he’ll let it go now, after the embarrassing confession that stupid Buffy can’t just screw the hot vampire and it’s only partially because she’s the Slayer.
A deep sigh.
“I was with Dru for a hundred and twenty years. I don’t exactly work that way either.”
She squints at him, dropping her hands slowly. The confession peels back a layer of his indifferent attitude; the self-assured smirk’s gone, his eyes a bit wary.
“Then why suggest it?”
A flicker of hesitation then a painfully blasé shrug. “I’ll take whatever you give me.”
Oh, she may have bitten off more than she can chew last night. His words betray a hugeness to the situation she hadn’t even considered. She assumed his participation in their tryst was due to loneliness or his weird obsession with Slayers—not anything to do with Buffy specifically. She doesn’t know how to feel about that, aside from overwhelmed. For her part, she doesn't have any grand feelings for him—she barely even tolerates him (except he wasn't so bad last night)—and while he didn't admit as much, he did admit something. This might already be a disaster.
He stubs his smoke out on the gravestone and edges closer to her until she’s wrapped up in the haze of cigarettes, leather, whatever gross product he uses in his hair, and him. Their eyes meet.
“Say you don’t want to, Buffy, and I’ll drop it,” he vows, tentatively taking her hands in his. His touch is light and cool. She shoots him a look, and he rolls his eyes. “I’ll try.”
“You…” She licks her lips. Skeptically asks, “You want to?”
“Want you, yeah.” His voice is low and slow, his eyes dark and hungry—ugh, unfair. Her insides turn to pure mush.
It’s kind of funny, really; not that long ago he was taunting her with the fact no one ever wants a ‘second go’ with her. Now he’s looking at her like he wants as many go’s as she’s willing to shell out. Maybe she's easy because the notion of being wanted is already tipping the scales. It makes her feel powerful, makes her remember those moans from last night. Makes her think of snakes and apples.
But then…it was good. They work well together, even when they fought they were always on the same page, reading the same lines. A piece of metal (or what is the chip exactly? Transistors and silicon?) zaps away the murder-y tendencies; yeah, he’s got a blood-soaked history, but Angel wasn’t exactly a saint and she gave him a shot—it’s only fair, right? The only thing she really has to contend with is his awful personality.
Not entirely awful, she supposes, fiddling with the zipper of her jacket.
He’s staring at her patiently, fingers still lightly toying with hers. His eyes drop down when she chews on her lip.
“We really shouldn’t.”
“Probably not.” The concession means nothing considering the slow smile stretching across his face like he’s already won. “Vampires don’t really care about shouldn’t, though.”
“Not helping your case.” His eyes are filled with mirth as his hands glide their way up her arms, her shoulders, to gently rest on her neck, right above her pulse. Her hands somehow find their way to his chest. “I want it known that I think this is a terrible idea, guaranteed to blow up in our faces somehow.”
“Noted.”
“But I…The Slayer never gets what she wants. And it sucks.”
Empathy colors his face for a split second, so un-vampire-like, but his voice hits the mark, low and raspy. “And what does the Slayer want?”
“This,” she breathes and raises halfway on her tiptoes to press their lips together. He meets her eagerly, a hand sliding into her hair, the other snaking around and pulling her closer, closer, closer, like he can’t get enough, like he’d pull her into him if he could. And terrible idea or not, being kissed like this—like she’s wanted—is so worth whatever the consequences are. All the leather between them creaks, and the tinglies zip down her spine when blunt teeth tease her lip, and she fists his shirt in her hands, and a stake digs uncomfortably into her side because he brought her jacket back, and she’s smiling.
And then her senses catch a new presence and the unmistakable clamor of someone clawing their way through terra firma nearby. She groans and pushes away, breathing heavy. He tries to swoop back in, but she holds him back firmly, biting back a smile.
“We gotta finish patrol.”
He stares at her blankly for a moment, still looking for all the world like he might wrestle her down for graveyard smash, patrol be damned, before he scowls, stomping a couple graves over and glaring at the yet undisturbed top soil with such vehemence she can’t help but laugh. She pulls out a stake and sidles up until their shoulders brush.
“Y’know, this new patrol route hasn’t taken me to Restfield yet,” she remarks, spinning the stake idly. His glare doesn’t waver.
“Yeah, and?”
“Was thinking it’d be my last stop.”
He looks up at that, a cocky little smile on his lips. “That so?”
“No reason to now, though. Already got my jacket back.”
The growl sends a thrill through her, sparks something low in her belly. He opens his mouth to reply, but a hand breaking the surface cuts him off. Once the fledge is dealt with, she turns to him with a lopsided grin to find that same awe and reverence and hunger from last night, and she feels a little dizzy with it. She doesn’t think about it when she grabs his hand, tugging him along to finish their patrol.
Somehow, they end up at the crypt again, not that she’s complaining. It’s good.