Buffy was beyond exhausted. She climbed into her room and flopped helplessly on her bed before remembering that she did not want to fall asleep in Spike’s clothes. She didn’t want to fall asleep with his scent all over her, or the ghost of his hands and mouth on her skin.
She just didn’t have the strength to get up and walk to the shower. Furthermore, she was certain that her mom had stayed up the night pacing the halls and calling the entire Sunnydale directory because Buffy had never phoned or showed up for their scheduled college discussion. And Angel was probably worried, too, since she’d told him that she’d drop by.
She didn’t have the strength to start fabricating an elaborate where I was last night story just yet. A part of her needed to talk. Needed to tell someone that Spike had hijacked her life for about twelve hours and now she was confused and angry and disgusted with herself, only she wasn’t because she’d refused to think about it. It was over and done with, and as far as she was concerned, the entire affair had been a hellacious nightmare.
All she needed to do now was wake up.
There was a tentative knock on her door, followed by her mother’s quiet, inquisitive voice. “Buffy?”
She moaned and dragged a pillow over her head. No. Such. Luck.
“Yeah,” she replied, her voice muffled. “I’m in here.”
The door flew open the next second, and before she knew what was happening, Buffy was all but yanked into her mother’s arms. “Oh, thank heavens!” Joyce exclaimed. “Don’t you ever do that to me again! I had no idea where you were! You didn’t call. You didn’t tell Willow. I couldn’t get a hold of Mr. Giles. And that awful…that vampire that you said was your boyfriend?”
Buffy tensed. “Angel?”
“Yes. He was here. He was here, Buffy! I had no idea what to do.”
She groaned inwardly. “Mom, it’s cool.”
“What?”
“Angel…he…he came back a little while ago. From Hell. He came back from Hell, but he’s all souled up and…” She scowled at the horror-laced disappointment flooding through her mother’s eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that look. We’re just friends. I’m trying to help him acclimatize to life here on the boring ole Hellmouth.”
“Buffy, he’s dangerous.”
“No, he’s really not. Trust me; he’s soul-boy now. We’re not dating. We’re not gonna be dating. We’re not anywhere near Datesville. We’re just friends.” A long sigh rolled off her shoulders. “I couldn’t date him again if I wanted to.”
“Isn’t he the one who murdered your teacher?”
“Mom, please.” She was so not in the mood to argue about this right now. It was too early, she was running on little to no sleep, and her mind was suffering the most hellish of all hells. “Just…call school and tell them I’m sick.”
“Are you?”
She shuddered, her mind flashing to Spike’s head perched attentively between her legs, his tongue curling around her clit. And to her astonishment, she was attacked by a fresh wave of lust. Spike-lust. Oh, she was sick all right.
“Yes. Yes, I am very, very sick.” To solidify her ill health, she frowned and coughed into her hand, earning little more than the patented look of motherly disappointment. “I’m totally sick.”
“You were out all night.”
“Yes, and don’t you think that’s a little strange?”
“You were out all night and your ex-boyfriend, whom you sent to Hell, just happens to be around, too. And he came by here, looking for you. Then he left, and you were out all night.”
The only thing worse than being with Spike was being with Angel. Being with Angel led to badness. Much badness. And yes, her mother was partially right in that she’d been screwed senseless—literally—by a vampire. She just had the wrong vamp in mind.
But Buffy didn’t tell her that. Any of it. Rather, she just swallowed hard and said, “I really can do without the slanted looks and the judgment right now.”
“And I can really do with a little honesty.”
“I wasn’t out with Angel.”
Joyce visibly relaxed, a sigh rolling off her shoulders. “Oh,” she said shortly. “Okay. Good. Who were…you were out all night with someone else?”
Buffy shuddered again, her mind dragging her back to Spike’s bed. Back to the second that his cock had slipped inside her; despite the mind-numbing fear, some measure of peace had spread through her panic-stricken body. She’d felt whole for a blink before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to insert anything into her pussy—his fingers and tongue had been bad enough, but now she was marked with him. She was different now because of what had happened.
Only she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it anymore.
“I…Spike came back to town.”
“Spike?” Joyce blinked. “Oh, the young British man? The one who helped you defeat Angel?”
“Mom, you do realize he was a vampire, right?”
“Well, yes, but he’s still a young British man.”
“A young looking British vampire.” She paused and made a face. “And he didn’t even really help me defeat Angel. He just kinda signed on so he could vamp-nap Drusilla. He snagged her and left me to die.”
Her mother looked appalled. “He left you to die?”
“Well, he had what he wanted. And he’s a vampire, so it’s not like he was acting out of a want for the greater good. He said he wanted to save the world, but he just wanted his ho-bag girlfriend back.” Buffy paused, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. Why should she care if Spike had wanted Dru back? She had no idea, but she cared anyway. “Stupid ho-bag bitch,” she added with an emphatic nod.
“Buffy, language!”
“Sorry.”
Joyce shot her a stern look, though her lips edged upward in a grin. At least one person was amused; Buffy most certainly was not. For whatever reason, the idea of Spike wrapped away in another woman’s arms—a woman he loved—made her feel violently ill.
I’m deranged.
“So Spike’s in town,” Joyce concluded, nodding and crossing her arms. “I…were you two fighting all night? About his leaving without helping you?”
Buffy groaned inwardly. She really needed to sit down with her mother—preferably sometime soon—and try to get it through her head that Spike was bad news. That all vampires, regardless of first impressions, were bad news. All vampires aside from Angel, who was only bad news if he got laid. Besides, Joyce’s first impression of Spike hadn’t been a positive one to begin with. She had, after all, smacked him upside the head with an axe. That most definitely did not make for hugs and heart-shaped chocolate kisses.
If her mother couldn’t get her mind wrapped around the fact that Spike was bad news, then she might do something stupid like invite him into the house. Not that Buffy had ever bothered to revoke his invitation. Not that Spike was dumb enough to come calling, especially since she’d made it painfully clear that he was a dead vamp walking if he ever tried.
Not that he wasn’t Dead Vamp Walking anyway. What with the being dead and all.
Okay, now she was getting a headache. And just who was she kidding? Of course Spike was dumb enough to stick around. She’d told him explicitly to leave, which meant he was likely sitting in his paint-smeared car at the city limits, unsuccessfully trying to convince himself to heed her demand.
Something monumental had happened between them. Something that, for all the want in the world, could not be blamed on coercion.
Buffy shivered again. “Mom, it doesn’t matter why he’s here. He came, we…talked, we fought, we did the tango, he left. I’m running on about two hours of sleep and I think if I try to go to school, I’ll pass out or get sick or something.”
Their eyes held for a minute, then the fight slowly left Joyce’s face and she finally nodded her acquiescence. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “Mmm. You do feel warm. Maybe you should go take a cold shower…cool off a bit?”
She bit back a dry laugh. “No, I don’t need a cold shower. Really, I just need some sleep.”
Suddenly, the thought of washing Spike’s scent off her skin wasn’t as appealing as it had been. All she wanted to do was curl up and rest. Let her mind wander off to that wonderfully dreamless place where nightmares and slayer visions couldn’t touch her.
There would be plenty of time to wash off when she awoke. When the previous night felt more like a horrid stint in non-reality rather than an emotionally draining—however sensuous—fantasy getaway.
It would be easier to hate him—easier to forget last night had happened at all—after she had some sleep. It would be.
Buffy sank against her pillow as her mother left the room, softly closing the door behind her. She closed her eyes and sighed, and found herself drifting off within seconds.
It would be easier.
It had to be.
Spike sat in the Desoto, his hands curled around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the sun-bathed sign that read: NOW LEAVING SUNNYDALE: Come back soon! He had the car in park, though his foot hovered over the gas pedal.
Leave.
He inhaled sharply and reached for his cigarettes.
Get the bloody fuck outta Dodge now.
God, he couldn’t. Something had a hold on him. Something that went beyond guilt. For the hell his mind had been through in the past few hours, he should have been out of town the second Buffy walked away from him. His insides were ripped to shreds. Every time his thoughts returned to her, he felt nothing but pain.
Pain that wasn’t hers. Pain at the thought of what he’d done. God, he’d never felt pain like this.
Spike choked a laugh and puffed on his fag. Somehow, he always managed to thoroughly bugger his plans. Kill the Slayer. It’d seemed so simple just twenty-four hours ago. Kill her, bathe in her blood, and go home to Dru. See if she really wanted slime and antlers when he could finally deliver Buffy’s head.
Instead, he’d forced himself on her. And now he couldn’t kill her. Couldn’t do anything but fight the need to crawl to her side on his hands and knees and babble apologies until she staked him.
Angelus’s example was through mental torment of his hapless victims. Spike hated Angelus’s example. He’d never wanted this. Not for himself, not for anyone; not even for his mortal enemy.
So here he was: deadlocked in a black car under the blazing sun, peering through the black-smeared windshield.
Spike trembled and sighed. It was useless.
He wasn’t going anywhere. It might kill him, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
To be continued