CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Buffy took the remaining stairs in a rush, heading straight for Spike and Nareetha. She tried to do it without stomping, going instead for a guided-missile effect. Or maybe a slayer-shaped thundercloud rolling across the room, most definitely ready to rain on somebody’s parade.
Spike spotted her first. For a fleeting second, he had that same guilty-busted-boyfriend expression he’d worn when she caught him flirting with Faith in the basement of her old home. Then it vanished behind an air of exaggerated innocence, the kind that only Spike could pull off. But he watched her with a wary gaze that lessened the effect.
Buffy drew closer, noticing a pile of discarded bandages on the table next to an open jar of ointment. It seemed Miss I’m-a-Big-Ho had come to doctor what was left of Spike’s burns. Hence the hand hold-age Buffy had witnessed from across the room.
Didn’t matter. It was long past time to set things straight.
Halting next to the table, Buffy dropped the weapons bag. She ignored Spike for the moment and turned to Nareetha instead, answering the woman’s less-than-welcoming glare with a brilliant smile. “Let’s make it easy and cut to the chase. The way you’re throwing yourself at Spike? You should stop. Seriously. I mean, sure, he’s going to look. He’s a guy. And I know he’s all flirty and head-tilting.” She shrugged. “That’s the way he’s wired. But you can bat your eyelashes and shake your mariachis at him, or invite him to sample your cookies all you want…you’re just wasting your time. He’s not here for the long haul. Or any haul, even if we weren’t leaving. Because when you get right down to it? He’s a one-woman kind of guy. And you…” She paused for emphasis. “…are not the woman. Sorry.”
Buffy started to turn away, then stopped. “Oh, and don’t worry about the doctoring.” She scooped up the jar of ointment from the table without missing a beat or breaking eye contact. “I can take it from here.”
Still smiling sweetly, she muscled Nareetha out of the way and slid onto the bench next to Spike. Taking his hand, she went to work applying fresh ointment, pretending not to notice the woman’s heated glare or Spike’s bemused gaze. Even though he wasn’t healing as fast as he normally would, it was clear the worst of his burns had faded. He didn’t really need the ointment anymore, but she continued to slather it on. More for her benefit than his¬—and to keep someone’s grabby hands off of her boyfriend.
Speaking of Super Slut…
“You say, but I do not hear him say.”
Buffy looked up. Nareetha stood defiantly, hands on curved hips, more-than-generous chest thrust forward. Her full lips curved in a seductive smile as she turned her smoldering gaze on Spike.
Time to put it all on the line, Buffy. “Spike?”
Feeling his gaze on her, she turned to meet it. Tried and failed to decipher his expression. Wondered what he made of her own. And somewhere along the way, she forgot to breathe.
Then he looked at Nareetha. “Sorry, pet. Appreciate the concern and all, but…” He shrugged apologetically.
Buffy allowed herself a tiny smirk of satisfaction—and a faint sigh of relief—as the angry swish of skirts signaled the woman’s retreat to the kitchen.
Spike fell silent again, and Buffy waited as several seconds ticked by. Finally, he arched an eyebrow. “Shake your mariachis?”
Buffy raised her chin. “Well, she did.” Though intended to be defiant, it came out defensive instead. “It was kind of hard to miss, the way she was waving them in your face right in the middle of a public place.”
“Yeah, well. Think you meant ‘maracas,’ love.”
She blinked. Then frowned. “I said what I meant, and I meant what I said.”
Head tilting, he looked at her. “Fancy you did. But her family’s been more than decent to us, Buffy. Not really right to disrespect one of them in their own home.”
Oh, god. Had it actually come to this? Spike gently lecturing her on good manners?
“And…cookies?”
She felt her face flush. “Not going there,” she warned as she reached for his other hand.
More ointment. More stalling. Another chance slipping away.
Buffy took a deep breath. “I went by your room to get the weapons bag. You were supposed to be resting.”
“Did for a bit. Got hungry.” He arched an eyebrow. “Supposed to get some rest yourself.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Did for a bit. Got bored.”
He returned the smile but looked uncertain, as if trying to puzzle out something he couldn’t quite decipher.
Buffy glanced away and found herself looking at a window across the room where the last telltale rays of sunlight were rapidly fading. In their secluded corner, a pair of burning wall sconces provided most of the illumination. The darker it got, the deeper the flickering shadows grew. Almost time to leave for the portal.
Realizing she’d started rubbing ointment onto already-treated burns, Buffy released Spike’s hand. “Your bed was all neat. Didn’t look like you’d even been there.”
This time she couldn’t see the arched eyebrow. But she felt it.
“Believe it or not, pet, I do know how to make a bed. Even been known to do it, once or twice.”
“Oh. Right.” She fell silent again, still avoiding his searching gaze. Why was it that she knew where she wanted to go but not quite how to get there? Spike, of course, wasn’t helping. Neither was this whole weird vibe thing going on between them.
Before the raiders’ untimely interruption, she’d told him how she felt and it seemed like she was finally getting through to him. Now it seemed like they were…not back to square one, exactly, but…she didn’t really know where. It was throwing her off balance.
Looking down, Buffy nudged the weapons bag with her toe. “Next time we’re stranded in another dimension, remind me not to let this out of my sight. Sure could have used it when the raiders attacked.” She didn’t know which made her cringe more—her painfully peppy tone or her retreat into small talk. Next thing you know, she’d start babbling about the weather.
“Oh, I dunno.” Spike treated her to an admiring look that made her feel all warm and appreciated. “Did all right with your pretty little pitchfork.”
Absurdly pleased, she shrugged self-consciously. “Yeah, well, you know me. I’m all about the improvising.”
Then scooping out another dab of ointment, she smoothed it over his reddened cheekbone. Of their own volition, her fingers lingered on the sharp planes of his face as she lost herself in eyes that were so very, very blue. In fact, the longer she looked, the more she could swear that beautiful blue was changing, growing deeper and even more intense. So deep she could fall in and lose herself and not even care.
His head tilted again, and Buffy really wished he’d stop doing that. She was verging on head-tilt overload. It did funny things to her. Made it hard to think. Made her want to do something, like…like…
A steel tankard hit the wooden tabletop with a loud thunk, startling them both.
Mega Ho was back.
The woman ignored Buffy and leaned across the table, bringing her face close to Spike’s as she gave him a close-up view down the front of her dress. “More nourishment before your journey.” She nodded at the tankard. “Warm yak’loth blood. Charles said you will take strength from it.” Lingering there, she gathered up the discarded bandages, keeping her chest at Spike’s eye level.
“You want more…you want anything…you find me. I will take good care of you.”
Then she straightened, her triumphant gaze challenging Buffy, who had fallen back into reality with a hard thud. Taking a slow, deep breath, apparently the better to strain full breasts against a low-cut bodice, she gave Spike a sultry smile before turning and sashaying back to the kitchen. This time, her retreat was slow and calculated, hips swaying seductively with each deliberate step. Spike watched her go, eyes following until she vanished through the kitchen door.
And Jealous Buffy came roaring back.
“Gee, now there’s an offer you obviously don’t want to resist,” she noted grimly, hiding the hurt with a caustic edge to her voice. “So why don’t you go after her? Give her a private goodbye. I’ll just get out of your way.”
Jumping up, she grabbed the weapons bag. Spike caught her before she could take more than a few steps.
“Buffy, wait!” He grabbed her elbow then just as quickly dropped it, his voice placating, his eyes soft. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. A right git. Don’t blame you for being upset. But it wasn’t what you think, I promise you.”
She stared at him, stone-faced.
“I just wanted you to…” He looked away, then back again. Waved his hand in a vague gesture and sighed. “Just wanted to give you a taste of what it’s like for me when you’re around Angel. It was stupid, all right?”
Buffy blinked. Then glared. “Did you recently suffer a traumatic brain injury, or do you really not care how big a hole you’re digging for yourself?”
Spike closed his eyes and nodded, resignation written in every line of his face. “Told you before. Don’t exactly have a reputation for being a thinker. I made a wrong bloody call. Sorry for it.”
She looked away, not wanting him to see the effect his words had on her. How they called to mind that night in Sunnydale when he’d poured out his heart and given her the strength to go on. How they robbed her of her anger and soothed her ruffled insecurities.
“C’mon, love.” His voice softened, coaxing her. “Can’t seriously think there’s anyone in this dimension or any other could hold a candle to you. Come on back to the table, now, yeah?”
Buffy stared at his chest, mulling it over before finally acquiescing with a tiny nod. She led the way back to the table but this time took the bench opposite his. By then, sappy feelings had receded somewhat and a new realization had reared its ugly head.
She scowled at him. “So let me get this straight. You put her up to that, hoping to make me jealous?”
Spike shook his head. “Didn’t put her up to anything. Was all her. But I admit…took advantage of it and didn’t do much to discourage her. That part was all on me.”
Then, because he obviously had suffered a traumatic brain injury…
“To be fair, though, Buffy,” he added, with the air of someone feeling his way through an uncharted minefield, “you did provoke her. She’s a nice girl. Been nothing but kind to me since we got here.”
She felt her eyes go wide, then narrow, pinning him with her patented death glare. He had told her once it could dust a vamp at thirty paces. Maybe now was a good time to try that out.
“I just bet she has. And of course you didn’t discourage her. Why would you? She’s exactly your type, right?”
Spike was staring at her, much like a doomed building might regard an oncoming bulldozer. “Seein’ as there’s no answer here that won’t get me into trouble, I suppose you’re gonna tell me what that type is?”
“Oh, you know…the Big Fat Ho type.”
Lifting her chin, Buffy waited. For a long moment, Spike just stared. Then, taking a deep breath and expelling it in a long sigh, he grasped the tankard of blood Nareetha had brought him, tipped his head back and took a giant swig. Setting it down, he used the edge of a thumb to wipe away a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. When he finally spoke, his words were quiet and measured, but the intensity of his piercing gaze left her feeling a little wobbly.
“Think you know my type, love. And it’s not tall, dark and overly voluptuous.”
A delicious shiver ran up her spine and a whole bevy of butterflies took up residence in her stomach. But Jealous Buffy had a few more axes to grind. Quashing the tingles, she feigned contrition. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have said tall, blue and hellgod.”
She accompanied this with another glare that should have dealt a deadly blow. So why did his incredulous gaze make her feel like a babbling basket case, instead?
“That’s not the first time the wind has blown in this direction. What the bloody hell are you on about?”
“I’m ‘on’ about Her Royal Ho-ness! You know, your blue-haired honey? The God Ho formerly known as Fred?”
Some part of Buffy knew she was taking this too far, but ever since she’d learned about his previous intimate relationship with Illyria, it had rankled. Now that Nareetha had poked a hole in the dam, Buffy couldn’t seem to plug it back up.
Brow furrowed, Spike spoke slowly. “Look, Buffy…not sure where this is coming from. I get that you and Blue don’t get along. She’s not the easiest, I’ll give you that. But once you make it past the ‘you’re all muck beneath my feet’ remarks, she’s really not such a bad sort.”
“For a ho, you mean?”
“You keep sayin’ that. Did something happen while I was out? I know I wasn’t with her every waking second, but unless Wesley got lucky there toward the end, I’m fairly certain she’s pure as the driven. In this form, at least. And in the particular sense you mean.” Spike raised the tankard of blood to his lips and took another swig.
“Really? Then why did she tell me you had sex with her?” she demanded.
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TBC in Chapter Twenty-Two
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Author’s Note: Back with another installment. This chapter got a wee bit long, so it was split it into two parts. I’ll try to post the next one right after this, as long as my laptop doesn’t get too hot.