By the time he collapsed on the stool at Willy’s bar, he was struggling to stay upright. The Slayer had kept her arm around him the whole walk and had even given a few demons the evil eye as they made moves toward Spike. What kind of moves she didn’t wait to confirm. The first one who got too close lost an arm. Literally. After that, they stayed back and just wondered at this strange pairing sitting at the bar. One with glass after glass of blood chased with several shots of the good stuff, the other with an uncorrupted can of soda.
Once upon a time—and not so long ago—he would have thought sitting in companionable silence at a demon bar with his mortal enemy would have been the stuff of nightmares. Rather it felt peaceful; calm. Almost natural. As if two supernatural creatures created to destroy one another were the perfect drinking buddies. Even if it was the aim of one to not get pissed—or even have the hard tasting liquor pass her lips.
Once the fire of alcohol seemed a permanent burn down his throat, Spike felt his muscles relax and his legs go numb. By then, it didn’t seem to make a lick of difference that the girl perched beside him had deadly stakes stashed all over her body. Spike squinted at a portion of said body, intent on locating just one of the little buggers, and found himself leaning over far and landing in her lap with only the slightest thump against the bar top.
Her lap was nice. Soft and comfy with the most tantalising aroma that went straight to his goolies. When he felt the velvet softness of her hand stoking his face and then her fingers tangling in his hair he knew he was in trouble.
“I think you might have had enough, Spike,” she said to him and for a second his sloshed brain tried to tell him she was singing. Singing god-awful poetry, sure, but something tinkling and lovely and gleaming.
And bloody hell was her lap the most comfy place he had ever rested his head. It led to thoughts of other soft bits that might be comfy and in the shock of that moment, he shot up and hit his nose on the bench in his upswing.
“Ow,” he whined.
“Poor baby,” she comforted as she leaned forward and kissed it.
Both sets of eyes became as huge as saucers and immediate freakage took place.
“That so did not happen,” she almost screeched into the dead silence of Willy’s, her voice cracking in sudden fright at her impulsive actions.
“Bloody right it didn’t.” His eyes bugged even as other parts of him tingled. Her lips had been nice, felt warm and slippery as if she’d just licked them. He was hard pressed to keep his hand from swiping her taste from the tip of his nose onto his finger so he could hold it against his lips and sample what he felt a great need to.
They stopped and stared, words lost as they scrambled for some foothold in territory that had suddenly become foreign.
“’M gonna still need that help gettin’ out of here, luv. Legs are all wonky.”
That concern shot through her once again, bringing forth slivers of gold mixed with her calm green that he’d not seen in her eyes before. Not that he’d ever been this close to her and bothered to look.
“Can you stand?”
She held her hand against his waist as he slipped forward on his stool to test his weight on one foot. His knee buckled before he could find purchase against the surface and her brows crinkled in worry. She seemed frantic to land on a plan, her eyes darting back and forth between Willy and the numerous evil patrons who would love to take Spike out of the picture. Something seemed to click and her gaze settled on the bar owner with a ferocity steeped deep in Slayer legend.
“Clear the place. Now.”
Willy jumped; the cold force of her voice sent anxiety tripping along his veins as his blood pounded through his body.
Within seconds his fear motivated his feet to scuttle around the bar and he very effectively convinced every patron to leave with only minor grumbling along the way. He fidgeted in the middle of the room, eyeing the odd blond couple still perched up at his bar.
“Gimme your keys.”
The objection was immediate and without caution.
“Oh no. I’ve heard about your driving skills—of the ‘don’t have any’ variety.”
“And I’ve heard how easy it is to crack your skull. Go pull your car around the front then give me the keys. And Willy?” The weedy little man stood perfectly still, heart pounding with fear and a little irritation at being forced to give up his belongings because he was weaker.
“Yeah?” he asked hesitantly, a tiny shiver taking possession of his limbs.
“Make sure none of your customers are waiting outside because I will kill them all. Might be kinda bad for business.” She finished on a smile, catching Spike’s fingers in a random show of affection that left him gasping a breath.
Willy wasted no time leaving and they almost immediately heard the roar of some presumably ugly old clunker. Buffy felt her belly clench in worry, knowing that Willy wasn’t that far wrong about her driving skills. Thoughts of wrapping some big tank around an electric pole gave her icy fingers of dread circling her neck.
When she returned to the present—by virtue of a very yummy squeeze on her fingers—it was to see Spike’s head tilted to the side and a question in his eye.
“Why haven’t you staked me, Slayer? It’s why I came looking for you.”
She cringed at the reminder, being quite comfortable in forgetting that she had had him sprawled beneath her body and a stake ready to be thrust between his ribs. The image was suddenly abhorrent, despite the cruel jibes and the frightening promises of death. Honestly, she couldn’t answer his question. Nothing was making sense—except that he couldn’t fight back, and that seemed more of a crime than she should be wanting to consider.
“The night is still young, Spike. Let’s move your ass outside and get you home before I change my mind.” And so she filled him up with some of her empty threats, unknowingly sparking a trend of forgiveness and tolerance that seemed unexplainable.
He gazed at her in wonder and she shuddered under the intensity of his consideration. Her tongue seemed suddenly incapable of words and instead she grabbed his arm, slung it round her shoulders and bared the majority of his weight as she half-dragged him to the doorway.
Willy practically threw her the keys, caught in the graceful hand of the evil vampire she had hanging bare centimetres from her exposed neck.
Their eyes clashed in uncertainty, steps fumbling a little confusion. Buffy could feel her own body reacting—completely without her permission. Her fingers gently massaged the wrist of his arm slung around her neck as if he were someone special—if not her boyfriend. Her other arm gripped him around the waist, catching on his jutting hipbone. His thinness and pale colour did little in making her happy to take him back amongst the monster pit.
“You have to, pet,” his voice soothed her secret worry. “They don’t know I’ve gone an’ besides, I’ve nowhere else to go.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to refute that, to offer her own basement as a nice dark cubbyhole in which to heal—and be available for whatever reason Slayer’s needed evil soulless vamps free in their homes.
Instead she nodded, bundled him far too carefully into the passenger seat, and contemplated the controls in the car for a full ten minutes before jerking and sputtering to a laughable roll into the street.
Finally confident she had it worked out, she chanced a quick glance to the side and nearly screamed at how corpselike Spike looked.
“Jesus, Slayer. Who in the fuck taught you to drive?”
The Slayer just smiled and drove on.
A/N...this idea apparently got some people excited, so I am trying to spin it out while rewarding the wonderful people on my flist. Thanks go firstt wo the brave ones that reviewed last time--some of which have been awesome in support with my recent breakdown! Thanks Tara, bloodshedbaby, Bridget, blondiebear, Allison and Patti. You're enthusiasm really gave me a kick in the pants this week.