Author's Chapter Notes:
Here's part one of just a little three or four part fic I started a few months ago, and finally came back to. It's a bit experimental for me (in addition to being my first time writing both Spike and Buffy in canon), so I'd really love to hear what you think. Many, many hundreds of thanks to Shadowsbabe, without who this fic and all my others wouldn't be nearly as good. Hope you like it! (I also made a crude attempt at a banner. I'm working on my artistic skills!)
Buffy fiddled with the melted wax candle that had adorned her birthday cupcake, and stared vacantly out at the empty street in front of her house, trying her best to block any negative thoughts from her mind.

Impossible.

The cupcake had felt like ashes in her mouth, been dry, tasteless, nearly impossible to choke down. She’d made the happy face and licked off the frosting, and talked about creamy goodness just so her mother wouldn’t ask any more questions. Not that she would have, if she hadn’t commented on the stupid “I got older” comment, she wouldn’t have mentioned an uneaten cupcake. But, Buffy had finally swallowed it, and then she’d gone up into her room, stuck her finger down her throat, thrown it up, then collapsed on the bathroom floor and sobbed quietly for hours.

She was tired, so tired, every muscle and nerve and bone in her body hurt. Wait, can bones hurt if they weren’t broken? Well, if they could, hers certainly did. Yeah, you could bruise a bone. Giles said that once. Whatever. She hurt. And she could hardly keep her eyes open, but when she tried to close them, the events of the last few days would just play over and over in her mind.

Angel.

Angelus.

Sliding into her, deep, quick, causing her pain, kissing her squeezed shut eyelids and whispering his love for her.

Then her foot sinking into that same part of him, showing him exactly what she thought of him.

It was a lie, of course. Well, a facsimile of a lie. Giles used that word a lot, pretty sure this was the right context. If not, whatever. Not like she was actually talking to anyone. Just herself.

What did she think of him? How did she feel? She loved him, she hated him, she feared him, she wanted him. Dead, alive, she wanted him. But she could never have him, not now. Not after what he’d said, what he’d done, what he’d continue to do until she could stop him.

Buffy buried her head in her hands and cried.



Fucking Angelus. Coming back all big and bad in those bloody stupid leather pants with his stupid spiky hair and his stupid tiny shrunken penis, whisking Dru away to bed because poor Spike couldn’t get out of his wheelchair to stop it.

Which was a lie. They didn’t know that, of course, but it was lie. He’d regained use of his legs, and tonight he’d been planning to take Dru out hunting, celebrate his recovery in style, fuck her against some dirty alley wall while standing over the bleeding and dying and crying body of some nubile young thing. Oh, they’d paint the town red, they would, both finally strong and ready to take on the town. As it should be.

But no. She was off chained to the bed, naked, screaming, “Harder, Daddy! Harder!” and he was horny and fucked right over. Sod it all.

Spike strolled the streets of Sunnydale, his legs a little weak but certainly working, keeping his eyes peeled for a scrumptious morsel to take out his aggressions on. But he saw nothing remotely appetizing, and the one girl he’d considered suddenly sneezed and coughed like she had diphtheria, and he had no desire to drink tainted, disgusting, bacteria infested blood. He had class, after all.

He made his way through a residential area, contemplating lighting a house on fire just to watch it burn for a speck of entertainment, when the scent of a certain little Slayer caught his attention.

Oh, yes. He was weak, sure, but he could at least taunt the chit. Get in a few good punches. Make the bitch cry. It was her bleeding fault, anyway. Bringing back Angelus because of that sweet little pussy of hers. Fucking women.

Sniffing deeper, Spike turned left and walked a bit quicker, the muscles in his thighs protesting at the unfamiliar strain. He made his way to the sidewalk in front of her house, and saw her there, curled in a ball, blonde hair hiding her face. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped short. Salt was in the air. She was already crying.

Well, that was no fun, then.

“What’s the matter, Slayer? Bad night?”

Buffy lifted her head quickly and stared directly at him, face wet with pain, eyes bright and aching. “What do you want, Spike?” She asked hoarsely. His heart seized a bit. Never could resist a pretty, crying girl.

Sympathy. Not what he wanted to feel. “Came to get a few licks in, but I can see they won’t be very satisfying. Not letting the great poof get the better of you, right? I’d be right disappointed, thought you were stronger than that.” He moved forward purposefully, but yet, not menacingly, and stopped just out of striking distance.

“Go away,” Buffy said softly, her Slayer senses abandoning her. She didn’t think she could fight if she tried, she’d have to run into the safety of her home like a weak little victim. “I don’t want to fight you right now.”

“Who said anything about fighting?” Taking a great risk, Spike sat down on the porch next to her, chuckling inside at the look of total surprise that replaced the sadness on her face. That was a step in the right direction.

Build the bitch back up to her fighting attitude, then kill her. Not as fun when they’re all weak and teary. And at least this game was distracting him from Dru.

“You said. With the licks.”

“Who said I meant punches?” Her young eyes widened. Excellent. “Don’t look so surprised, Slayer. With all the talk Angelus did about your special, special night, thought I’d come see for myself if he was making it all up. Said you were pretty boring, all limp and cold, can’t imagine that’s the truth.” Her face crumpled. Well, damn. He didn’t get as much pleasure saying that as he thought he would.

She choked back a sob and scooted away from him, dropping her candle to the ground. Stupid vampires. “Fuck you.”

“Slayer! Such language. Never heard such a word cross your lips. But, if you insist…” he walked his fingers across the step, towards her thigh, trying to get her to punch him, to react in her normal Slayer way. She slapped his hand away, weakly.

“You’re a pig, Spike.” Her breath caught in her throat. Why couldn’t he just go away?

“You know it, baby.” His un-beating heart went out to her. Fuck. Screw his plans.

They avoided looking at each other for a minute, staring in opposite directions. Suddenly, Spike turned and cleared his throat.

Buffy watched him curiously, without fear, as he pulled out a cigarette pack and offered her one. She wrinkled her nose, he shrugged, and started to light his own, then thought better of it, and put the cancer stick back.

“What are you doing here anyway?” She finally spat out when curiosity overtook her pride. “And where’s your wheelchair?”

“Don’t need it anymore. Keep that just between us, yeah? Was out for a stroll, saw you all pathetic and weepy, thought I’d offer you a bit of company.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because you hate me.”

“Don’t really hate you, so much, want to kill you, big difference.”

“Oh, I’m so flattered.”

Next, out of the depths of his pockets, Spike extracted a silver flask. Again, he offered it to her. Again, her nose wrinkled, but as he started to shrug and put it to his own mouth, she snatched it out of his hand.

C’est la vie. Or, carpe diem, or, let’s get drunk. She just had to make it to the front door if he started to get bitey. No problem.

Just a second later, after a deep gulp, she was coughing her lungs out. “Holy crap, what is this?” She shivered exaggeratedly.

“Bourbon.” She looked almost…cute, grimacing like that. Huh.

“Ew.”

“Don’t drink it if you don’t like it.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it!” She defiantly took another long swig, and kept her face as straight as possible.

“Slow down, now,” he said warningly, pulling the flask away before she could take a third gulp. “This is strong stuff, with your tiny little body might just knock you out cold, then I could have my wicked way with you.”

“I’m the Slayer, three sips of alcohol isn’t gonna hurt me,” she huffed, blatantly ignoring his last comment, which had sent a strange and unfamiliar spark through her.

“I’m just looking out for you.” He took his own deep drink. “How much have you eaten tonight?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Empty stomach, alcohol hits you faster.”

“I ate…nothing. A birthday cupcake. Then I threw it up.”

“It’s your birthday?” He said in surprise.

“Was,” Buffy said quietly, picking up her candle again, twirling it in her fingers, caressing the melted wax. “A few days ago.”

The light bulb went on in Spike’s head. Shit. Fucking Angelus. “Happy Birthday, Buffy.”

The sound of her real name in his voice surprised her, and him, and they just stared at each other for a moment.

A car door slammed across the street, and the sounds of a laughing couple could be heard in the dark. Spike smirked and lifted up his flask. “Someone’s getting a shag tonight.”

Why is he talking about sex? Don’t talk about sex. “And how do you know that?”

He tapped his nose with one finger. “Can smell it. Some bird’s all hot and bothered.” Spike grinned lasciviously.

“You can…smell that? Specifically? Ick.” Oh. Oh. No. Bad.

“That I can, pet,” his eyes raked down her body, suddenly forgetting permanently about his devious plans when that very scent started emanating from the body of the girl next to him. “Can tell when a woman’s all…wanting.”

“Oh, you can not,” she shook her head, finding her mind already a bit clouded. Wow. Not lying. Strong alcohol. “You’re lying.”

“Vampire senses.”

“Seriously, why are you here?” She changed the topic quickly. “Being…almost nice to me.” And he was. Being civil and nice and…not trying to kill her. The world was all out of whack.

“Got nothing better to do, since Drusilla’s off shagging Angelus.” The sobs were back then, quickly, unexpectedly, and he muttered a curse, as the image of that very thing flashed in his mind, and he heard her pained cries. They were the same, the two of them. Feeling just the same. “Sorry, pet. Shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Yeah, no kidding Captain Sensitive.” Her words held no power when she whimpered them.

Stupid crying women Achilles’ heel. Spike reached out awkwardly and patted her back. And then said something stupid. “Don’t be sad, kitten. He’s not worthy of you.”

She laughed, a bitter, sad laugh beyond her years. “Right. I’m so valuable, says the evil soulless vampire.”

“I may be soulless, but I’m not blind.” And he wasn’t. Never had been.

Buffy stuck her hand out, and Spike relinquished the flask to her. After another deep gulp, she giggled, “This is definitely better than a cupcake.”

“No, it’s not, pet,” he said softly. “Gives you a different kind of rush, sure.”

“What, you like cupcakes?”

“Love ‘em.”

She giggled again. “William the Bloody Cupcake Lover.”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you,” he growled.

“Promises, promises,” she reached out a hand and pushed him lightly, the alcohol making it’s way through her veins and lightening her mood, lowering her inhibitions more.

“I just growled at you, Slayer, you can’t pretend to be a little scared?” He stuck his lip out in a pout.

Buffy fixated on that lip for a moment, before snapping back to attention and saying, “You like cupcakes, and you’re pouting, and you’re being nice. You’re not remotely scary.”

He’d noticed. He’d noticed where her gaze was. “Take it back, little girl.” Sliding closer to her, Spike lowered his voice, and menaced, “Better be careful who you talk to like that.”

“What, you’re gonna bite me? I’d stake you so fast you wouldn’t have time to open your mouth.”

“Oh really?” He lunged at her, and suddenly, a chunk of wood was pressed against his chest, and Buffy’s eyes were wide with fear, and the scent of it replaced that tantalizing promise of her arousal. “I was joking, pet, okay?” Spike backed away slowly, raising his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Don’t want to hurt you.”

“You don’t?” She almost believed him.

And she should. Last thing on his mind was biting her. Unless she wanted him to, of course. “Truce. You don’t hurt me, I don’t hurt you. Till tomorrow, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Lost my yen to kill something, enjoying talking to you. That so hard to believe?”

Lowering the stake, she smiled weakly, “Little bit.”

“Well, it’s true!” He scoffed. “Don’t know why, though. Really did want to fight you at first. Wanted to eat you right up.”

“That is your nature.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“Won’t ever,” she said softly. Couldn’t ever. For the rest of her life, short or long, she’d never forget what truly lay at the heart of a vampire. She’d seen it. Tasted it. Felt it. Couldn’t ever forget.

Spike felt her shiver next to him, and almost without thinking, slid off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Buffy stared at him as if he’d just started speaking Spanish. Or, no, she at least knew a few words in Spanish. Greek. A totally foreign language.

“You were cold,” he said defensively at her curious look.

“Yeah…thanks.”

Mind going a million miles an hour, Spike watched the Slayer out of the corner of his eye. The alcohol was getting to him. So was the anger. The months in a wheelchair. The frustration. And she was sitting next to him, face wet with tears, but her eyes dry at the moment, trying her hardest not to look at him, the smell of sex a hint in the air.

She wasn’t going to look at him. No, Buffy would keep her eyes firmly on the ground about five feet in front of her, and she would list the multiple reasons why Spike was probably plotting to try to kill her, and she should just get up and go inside. Now.

He suddenly became aware that he was hard. It wasn’t an altogether uncommon occurrence when he was around the Slayer. Fighting such a foe, tits bouncing, hair shining, sure, it made him hard. Fighting and fucking, intertwined in the mind of a vampire. But they weren’t fighting now. No, no they weren’t. And, he hadn’t really had a proper erection in months, what with the paralysis and all that. This was interesting.

The alcohol was definitely having an affect, Buffy realized. She felt a little like she was swaying back and forth, but she was sitting firmly on the ground. And her chest felt all warm. And, for the first time in quite a few days, she was kind of in a good mood. As long as she didn’t think too much about who was sitting next to her, and who was across town having sex with---fucking---screwing the vamp ho girlfriend of the person who she was pretending wasn’t sitting next to her. Oh, but that didn’t work. It’s like the pink elephant, when someone says not to think of a pink elephant, that’s all you can think about it, and once she told herself not to think of Angel that’s who she was thinking of. Yep. Drunk.

“Spike?” Buffy said softly.

“Yeah, love?”

“Why…what else did Angel say? About me…not being good.”

Oh, fuck. He’d told her about that, hadn’t he? Stupid tosser, that’s what he was. “You don’t want to know, pet, he was just being Angelus. Not important.”

“It is, though. It is…I mean, if your first time turned out so very, very badly wouldn’t you want to know---“

“It was your first time?” he blurted out. Oh, bloody hell. Angelus must have mentioned that, but he had to have blocked it out. Didn’t always want to listen to the great poof, especially when he was yammering on about his Slayer and her…virgin little pussy? Christ.

“Um. Yeah? So, if I was bad---“

“You couldn’t have been,” Spike insisted, turning and sliding towards her. “If you gave the prick his one moment of happiness and all that rot, you weren’t…couldn’t…you must have been…” Glorious.

A jolt of electricity zinged through her lower belly. “Must have been what?”

“Perfect.”

Oh, there it went again, that bolt of energy. Buffy could feel it. Spike could sense it. Smell it.

“Can I have the flask again, please,” she asked politely. He obliged, not tearing his eyes from her face. They were sitting close together now, almost touching, Buffy wrapped in his leather, him drowning in her eyes.

She took a deep gulp of the liquid, ignored the burn as it went down her throat, then leaned in, and kissed him.

Buffy kissed Spike.

He’d sensed her arousal, he’d sensed his own, he knew she was slowly approaching drunk and was clearly depressed, but this was not what he expected.

Oh, not that he minded it.

Buffy pulled away, and became slightly afraid when she saw the vampire’s eyes dark with lust.

“I’m…Oh, GOD!” She burst out, standing up quickly as she fully realized what she’d just done. The movement was too fast, however, with the alcohol coursing through her veins, and she wavered on her bare feet, and started to fall back down.

Spike was up in an instant, grabbing her to hold her steady, then attacked her mouth with his own.

She struggled, pushed against his hard chest with her usually strong, formidable fists, wriggled her hips as he pushed his own into her, whimpered pathetically around the harsh melding of their lips.

“We can’t, Spike, don’t---“ She insisted when she managed to pull away for a moment, gasping for air. But he didn’t let her continue her objection, and kissed her again, forcing his tongue into her mouth as she protested.

Oh, God. He tasted like…the bourbon and cigarettes, which, ew, she’d always heard kissing a smoker was like licking an ashtray, but there’s no way licking an ashtray could ever taste like this. There was some other flavor there too, rich and hot and no, a flavor can’t be hot, and did she just moan? She may have, oh, she must have, because he heard it and now he’s pressing her up against the front door, rough, something hard pressing into her---

“NO!” She pushed him away with that Slayer strength she’d been missing, panting heavily.

And he was panting too, panting for breath he didn’t need, eyes glittering almost amber. But still beautiful.

Bloody hell. He’d imagined it, sure, kissing the lips of a Slayer. His fascination with them had occasionally turned sexual, not that he’d ever acted on it. Wasn’t ever time, really. But her lips, sweet, soft, her innocence, her stupid fucking innocence and those wide green eyes staring angrily and lustily at him, the smell of her want. The violence he wanted to inflict and his desire for her melded into an unavoidable deep ache in his gut.

“No?” He said, voice low and throaty, slowly moving back towards her, closing the few feet of distance she’d managed to gain with her last bit of energy.

“We can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“No, we!”

“Well, I can, and will, do whatever I want. And so can you.” He placed his hands on either side of her head, put his face a few inches from hers, and said in that same deep voice, “You started this, Slayer. Not me. You offered up that sweet little---“

“I didn’t offer anything!” Buffy squeaked nervously. “You got me drunk, and I’m just---“

“So wet you can’t stand up straight?”

She gasped and wrinkled her nose. “I’m standing fine.”

“Really?” His voice was coy, teasing, as one solitary finger lightly touched her shoulder, then began to creep down her chest, between her breasts, across her flat stomach to dance at the edges of her pajama pants. He moved to lick her tears off her cheeks. “So your legs aren’t all quivery and weak with wanting me?”

Her eyes had begun to drift closed, until that cocky comment came out of his stupid smirking mouth. She pulled a fist back to punch him directly in his nose, but he caught that fist mid-air.

“I hate you,” Buffy spat.

“So you keep saying,” Spike replied, bringing her fist to his mouth and kissing it lightly. “Remember the truce, pet. You don’t hurt me, I don’t hurt you.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

He shrugged. “Could swear on something. Could make you a promise. But really, Slayer, you either believe me, or you don’t. Doesn’t matter either way, not planning on leaving…” His voice trailed off as he became entranced by her chest, rising and falling quickly with her rapid breaths, and he bent his knees to nuzzle between the soft slopes of her breasts.

An unintelligible moan slipped out of Buffy’s parted lips, and her fuzzy mind couldn’t come up with another objection. “Spike?” It was clearly a question, her voice void of all her previous bluster and confidence, searching for some sliver of honesty from him.

He straightened up to look her dead in the eyes. His face was slack, no smirks, no raised eyebrows, making him look so much younger, almost…innocent. He lifted one hand, and lightly rested it on Buffy’s cheek.

“Yes?” Spike said softly.

She didn’t say anything, and so he kissed her again.


Chapter End Notes:
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