[Reviews - 68]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 2572 times

- Text Size +




Author's Chapter Notes:
Sorry for the wait....I hope you're still with me! Please review and let me know!
The bathwater was cold by the time Buffy roused herself out of it, dripping wet and shivering. The minute she had entered the bathroom she’d run the water as scalding as possible, filling it with as many scented soaps and bubbles as she could find in the limited resources of the motel cupboards and shedding her grimy little black dress. She had been tempted to throw the thing in the trash—or maybe flush it down the toilet—until she realized that it was the only clothing she had, and no way was she walking around out there in a towel. Things had been tense enough when all clothes were on. So instead she’d opted to soak it in the sink, scrubbing at every stubborn bloodstain until she was sure that the fabric would wear away.

The bath had been heaven. A solid two-hour block of heaven. The soap had stung some of her more open wounds at first, but it went a long way toward cleaning them, too, and a quick inspection had revealed that—as long as Spike made good on his promise of antiseptics—it was doubtful that they would infect.

Spike. Buffy’s mind immediately strayed to the blond vampire in the next room as she carefully toweled off, mindful not to disturb developing scabs and sore muscles. Actually, she was feeling considerably less sore, her wounds healing into scabs faster then they had in the past. Maybe it has something to do with vampire inflicted wounds, she thought, ignoring the nagging voice in her mind that was arguing that vamp wounds should heal slower, not faster. Still, for whatever reason, she was well on the road to complete recovery—more than she’d ever thought was possible in such a short time. And as much as she hated to admit it, she had to give credit where credit was due. If Spike had left her in the alley—or even left her in his car—instead of caring for her as he had, allowing for her to sleep in a comfortable bed and have a warm bath, it was doubtful that she would be healing as she was. Hell, it was doubtful that she would still be alive.

Which brought her back to the never-ending vicious circle where logic tried frantically to justify fact, and failed miserably. Logic insisted that vampires were brainless, heartless killing machines. She should know; she’d experienced it, watched while one had snapped the neck of a kind, innocent girl. The memory haunted her still.

And yet, she couldn’t ignore the fact that Spike had been…well, not heartless, that was for sure. She wouldn’t go so far as to say kind, but he hadn’t been heartless. Violent, definitely—although not towards you, her inner voice pointed out—threatening, certainly—although not lately, came the retort—Sexy?—unbelievably—but not heartless. Never heartless. For a leather-clad creature of the night, Spike wore his emotions on his sleeve. One look into those deep blue eyes and Buffy had seen every conflict, every bit of pain and confusion and passion that he felt. No two ways about it, evil or not, soul or not, Spike was not heartless.

Okay, so he has heartfelt reasons for taking care of me, she thought acidly. That still doesn’t shed light on the situation.

Wrapping herself in the towel, Buffy reached for the hair dryer, running her fingers through the tangles as she let the warm air do its work. The fact remained that she was stuck in a hotel room with the blonde vampire, at least until nightfall. This brought on a variety of reactions, the first and foremost being the gleeful jig that Devil-Buffy was dancing. She hadn’t forgotten the mind-blowing orgasm that she could have had, had Sane-Buffy not pushed him and his fabulous fingers away. Devil-Buffy wanted to get down and dirty with the man, now, for as long as was physically possible. Devil-Buffy was contemplating the size of his…package, remembering the considerable bulge she had seen in his pants when she had been tied to the bed. How would his length feel in her hand? Her mouth? Buried between her thighs?

“Oh God…” Buffy moaned, remembering the way his hands had felt on her skin, sending shocks to her core. No one had ever affected her the way he did. Figures, she thought, her fingers slipping beneath her towel to flick her tingling nub. She shivered with guilty pleasure, imagining his hands, his tongue. The perfect guy comes along and he just happens to be undead.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she dipped her fingers lower, bringing the juices up to circle her clit. She moaned softly, wishing that it was him kneeling before her, working that talented mouth on her pussy. It could be, Devil-Buffy whispered treacherously. You know he wants you. You know you want him. You’re drenched for him. You haven’t gotten any in years—hell, you’ve hardly gotten any at all—and the moment you find a guy that turns you on, what do you do? Pretend you have a boyfriend so the good touchies will STOP!

Sane-Buffy was trying desperately to justify her actions, insisting that she didn’t want to be anyone’s one-night-stand, that she couldn’t put herself in such a vulnerable position with a man she didn’t know, a man who was a known murderer. Sane-Buffy was having trouble making her point, though, while Devil-Buffy was plunging her fingers into her quim, supplying sinfully wicked images of Spike on his knees, worshipping her pussy with his tongue.

“Ooh…yes…” she moaned breathlessly as tiny shocks of pleasure rippled through her. She was on her back on the bathroom floor now—when had that happened?—writhing under her own hand as she fantasized about the vampire in the next room. He was grinning wickedly at her, his fingers never ceasing their attentions on her pussy as he kissed his way up her body (the towel had conveniently disappeared) latching onto one of her nipples with his mouth and suckling on it. Buffy brought her other hand to her mouth, laving her fingertips with her tongue and brining them to her left breast, tweaking and rolling her erect nipple to duplicate what Spike was doing in her mind. She could feel herself approaching the edge, and she hurried her ministrations, rubbing herself frantically as she got closer and closer to her release.

“Yes…” she breathed. “Oh…ooh…Oh God…”

Buffy was no stranger to orgasms. Despite having only one sexual experience in under her belt—and a failed one at that—she had done her fair share of masturbating in her twenty-four years. She wasn’t a nympho or anything, but she wasn’t above experimenting with her body for a little satisfaction. On her twenty-first birthday, her best friend Kathy had made a show of presenting her with a number of naughty sex toys, most of which Buffy had ended up enjoying at one time or another when she’d been feeling particularly horny.

This one blew them all away.

“Oh…Ooh…YES! SPIIIIIIKE!!!” Buffy wailed as the most powerful release she had ever experienced ripped through her, sending her spiraling out of her body and up to the stars. She came down panting and sweating, reeling from the blissful waves of release that were coursing through her. Her dream Spike faded away as the harsh light of the bathroom ceiling fan permeated her post-orgasmic haze. Suddenly, her heavy breathing sounded too loud, her back sticking uncomfortably to the damp towel that had fallen open sometime during her fantasy. Oh God, she though, pushing herself into a sitting position on the cold linoleum. Her compromising position, not to mention her proximity to the very vampire she had been fantasizing about, came rushing back to her. She threw a worried glance at the door, remembering something Kathy had said about motel room walls being thin as paper.

She gulped nervously. How loud had she been?

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Spike had begun pacing furiously the moment his golden girl had retreated to the bathroom. The girl…he frowned, realizing suddenly that he had not idea what her name was. Christ, how could he still not know her name? So much had happened in such a short time, so much had changed. Here he was, brooding like his ponce of a grandsire, risking everything for and pining after a human—and he didn’t even know the chit’s name!

He had just resolved to find out the moment she emerged when he heard the oddest sound coming from the bathroom. It was high and keening, almost breathy, and he immediately crept closer to the door, sliding into gameface so that this hearing was enhanced.

“Ooh…yes…” a female voice moaned. Spike’s eyebrows shot up as he recognized the sound of his girl’s voice. Well well, he thought, smirking. What do we have here? His nostrils were picking up the scent of her arousal as it rolled off her in waves. More breathy moans and needy whimpers traveled through the bathroom door, and Spike’s smirk widened, his semi-hard cock—he never seemed to go completely soft when she was around—turning to steel in his jeans. So, his girl was diddling herself, was she? An image of her, lying on her back on the bathroom floor, her tanned thighs spread wide as she played with clit and her sweet, succulent tits sprang into his mind and he groaned, reaching down to his mammoth erection and stroking himself through his jeans.

“Yes…” another breathy whimper, “Oh…ooh…Oh God…”

Christ! Spiked thought, his jaw clenching as he stroked his throbbing cock. Was she trying to kill him? For a moment, he seriously considered joining her in the bathroom, just slipping in and suggesting that they…help each other out. But no, as had as it was—as hard as he was—he held back. Instead, he slowly released himself from his pants, hissing as his cock jumped out and into his hand. He began stroking his length steadily, wishing that it was her hot little hand squeezing him…or even better, her mouth…those shiny pink lips sliding up and down his shaft as she took him in deeper and deeper…

“Unn…fuck…” Spike swore under his breath as he pumped himself harder, imagining threading his fingers through her golden tresses as she deep throated him, swallowing and moaning around him. He felt himself begin to tremble with his impending orgasm as his balls tightened. He wasn’t particularly eager to cum in his hand, but at the moment he didn’t see much of an alternative. He braced himself against the bathroom door, stroking himself furiously. He was so bloody close…

“Oh…Ooh…YES! SPIIIIIIKE!!!”

Spike’s eyes shot open when he heard his girl, screaming his name—his name!—as she came. He shot his load into his hand, shaking as his orgasm shuddered through him. Bloody hell, he thought, panting for unnecessary breath. She’d screamed his name! She’d brought herself off, thinking about him! Not some pissant human boyfriend—the girl was turned on by the Big Bad. The thought made him hard again almost instantly. Was that even possible? Buggering hell, this woman did amazing things for his—already quite impressive—libido.

Spike tucked himself away gingerly, wiping his spendings on his pant leg and backing away from the bathroom door. Knowing what he knew now, his first instinct was to grab her, toss her onto the bed and shag her senseless. In fact, every part of him—including his newly raging hard-on—was demanding that he do just that. Now that he knew how much she wanted him, his demon was screaming for him to take her, to mark her, to claim her as his…

To claim her?

Shit.

Spike froze as the bathroom door opened just a crack. He heard the shallow breathing of his golden girl as she stuck her head out just slightly, her face flushed and her eyes bright. She bit her lip and chewed it gently as she met his eyes, glancing down at the ground shyly. Spike smirked again, charmed by her sudden modestly. She was so fucking adorable.

“’Lo, pet,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice came out rough and unused. His smirk broadened as her blush deepened and he caught his tongue between his teeth, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Have a nice bath?”

Buffy gulped, her mouth going dry as she watched his tongue waggle. God, did he know what that did to her? He probably did. He probably knew exactly how she had fantasized about that tongue, how it made her knees feel all jello-y to think of the many things that he could (no doubt) do with it.

Dammit, how the hell was she supposed to keep her hand off this man?

“Yes, thank you,” she said, praying that that breathy voice wasn’t hers. Jesus, could she sound any more desperate? She might as well just throw herself on the bed and spread her legs wide. Mmm…

Get it together, woman! You came out her to tell him something!

“My dress,” she blurted, and blushed deeper when he arched an eyebrow at her. Lord, she was hopeless. Every move he made, every quirk of an eyebrow made her cream in her panties. Not that she was wearing any.

“What about it, pet?” he asked. Ooh, that voice…meltage.

“It…it was all gunky,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. He probably hadn’t heard what she’d been doing in the bathroom at all. She had no reason to be embarrassed. He probably thought she’d lost her mind—she had to stop acting so jittery! “So I washed it.”

He smirked again, and felt her face reach inferno temperatures. Great, now he definitely thought she’d lost it.

“That’s good, then,” he said, and Buffy could hear the amusement in his voice. “Wouldn’t want to walk around in a gunky dress.”

Buffy grimaced at him. “Yeah, well,” she said, feeling incredibly stupid all of a sudden, “just wanted to warn you that I’m going to be walking around in a bathrobe and…that’s why.”

She pulled the white robe tighter around her, cinching the belt roughly and stalking out of the bathroom. When she had made the decision to wash her dress instead of throwing it out completely, she hadn’t taken into account the fact that it might take a while to dry. Thank God she had managed to find a robe in the bathroom, therefore sparing herself the embarrassment of a towel. Why had she felt the need to warn him, anyway? It wasn’t like he cared. It wasn’t like he was half as affected by her body as she was by his. Besides, the robe covered more than that skimpy dress ever had. Sure, she wasn’t wearing anything under it, and it happened to hug her curves in strategic places, but that was no reason to post warning signs.

God, when had she turned into such a ditz?

Around the time a certain sexy vampire melted your brain, a snide little voice replied.

Spike, for his part, was having trouble remembering that he didn’t need to breathe. As he drank in the sight of her, stalking angrily toward the opposite bed, he sent up a silent thanks to whoever had invented summer robes. Short, thin and a size or so too small, the garment may have concealed more than her dress had, but not by much. Through the straining material, Spike could see her pert nipples, and the line of her thong was non-existent. Fuck, he thought, feeling himself harden as she arranged herself against the pillows on the bed. There was no way in hell he was going to last the day without touching her.

Arranging his duster so that it concealed his burgeoning erection, Spike reclined on the other bed, closing his eyes and crossing his arms behind his head. His demon was raging at him to touch her, taste her, be near her, while William was yearning to talk to her, learn about her, see her smile. They had spoken for a little while when she had first woken up, but somehow the conversation had gravitated toward him. His life (or unlife), his motives (or lack thereof), and his relationship with his sire (or what remained of it). Spike frowned slightly as, once again, his demon barely reacted to the thought of Drusilla. Whereas before, just the mention of his beautiful sire inspired longing, devotion, and a number of physical reactions, now there was only mild annoyance that she could cast him aside so easily, and the familial connection that would always bond the two of them, to each other and to Angelus. To Darla, too, but his great-grandsire wasn’t exactly an issue anymore since Angelus’ hero complex had taken care of her last year. It troubled him that he could forget Dru so easily—and yet, at the same time, it felt…liberating. Before now, he’d never seen his sire as a burden, content to put up with her insanity, her mind games and the occasional “punishment” in the name of love.

Now that he’d met his golden girl, things were different. He still needed a plan, some course of action to take once night fell. Not that his plans had ever really amounted to much—he’d always been too impulsive, too impatient to mastermind plots and all that rot. That was Angelus’ cuppa, not his. He’d take a good brawl, a fight with fists and fangs over a kill of “cunning and finesse”, as his grandsire had once put it. Not that Spike had any plans to kill this girl—he didn’t even feel any great desire to turn her. After his disastrous first attempt at siring—just days after his own resurrection—Spike had avoided turning anything but minions. Aside from that, the primary reason why he was reluctant to turn the girl was…her heat. Her light. He hadn’t nicknamed her his “golden girl” just because of her gold hair and bronzed skin. Dru had called her Sunshine, and rightfully so. She radiated light. Life. Warmth. Things he was supposed to loathe and destroy—and yet, he was drawn to her. The idea of snuffing that light made him physically ill.

Right, so, no killing, no siring, he decided, nodding firmly. The remaining options weren’t quite as simple. He knew now—knew that his demon wanted to claim her. Hell, it was raging for it, demanding it. The thought was daunting, to say the least. Sure, he’d been eager to mate in his younger days, but since Dru’s rejection, the idea had lost its luster. He had resigned himself long ago to never mating—Drusilla was the only one for him, and if she didn’t want to mate, well, that was that. Spike cracked an eye open and watched the girl as she fiddled with the remote control, flipping through the channels on the telly. There was no denying that the bird was beautiful—not that he had ever tried. She had spunk, too—he didn’t have much experience with human women, but judging from the ones he had eaten over the years, she was surprisingly brave. Any other woman would have been driven round the bend at this point. She was resourceful, too, and reasonably intelligent. All things considered, it wasn’t hard to understand why his demon wanted her as a mate—besides the problem of her humanity, that was. He’d never heard of a vampire being mated to a human. His ponce of a grandsire hadn’t even claimed that Slayer of his, no matter how bloody in love with her he’d professed to be.

Love. Spike blew out a sigh. He had no doubt that—as attracted as he was to her—he would have no problem falling in love with the girl. But her loving him—that was another matter entirely. There was no divorce in claims, no changing your mind when you realized “Oh, I don’t like this person as much as I thought I did.” Claims were forever, and they couldn’t fabricate feelings. In his campaign to keep William from claiming his precious childe, Angelus had told tales of vampires that had claimed their mates against the will of the one claimed. They were gruesome stories of growing hatred and discontent, unrequited love that grew into resentment and deceit and generally ended in a dusty ending for one or both of the parties.

Spike had already spent an eternity in a relationship of unrequited love. He wasn’t all that bloody eager to get back to it.

*~~~*~~~*~~*

Buffy was in daytime television hell.

Oprah was consoling a sobbing housewife as she detailed exactly how her husband was a cheating bastard. A smiling soccer mom explained why her cleaning detergent kept her freakishly happy family sparkly clean. A variety of attractive people were sucking the juices from ostrich eggs for money. Spongebob was trying to convince Squidward of the merits of customer service.

Buffy was contemplating suicide.

In her current situation, suicide would be considerably easy—consisting of turning to the vampire lying in the bed next to hers and declaring Okay, you can kill me now. What? Oh no, I’m not crazy, I’ve just been watching mind-numbing television for the past half-hour, and I’ve realized that life’s just not worth it. No messy stains on the sidewalk, or the uncomfortable business of shoving a knife somewhere into her person. Not that she had a knife. Or a building to throw herself off of.

Buffy risked a glance toward her vampire companion, her mouth nearly dropping open when she realized that he was sleeping. That was almost insulting. Here she was, perfectly able to get up and walk out that door into the sunlight, and he was slumbering peacefully like he didn’t even care. Her gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Spike. She could go. She should go. This could be her only chance of getting out of here alive.

Not that he’d really shown any interest in killing her. Not since coming to the motel, anyway. And really, after everything that had been happening—well, she really wasn’t sure that she wanted to leave. Devil-Buffy was reminding her, forcefully, of the tinglies that he inspired, tinglies in that down-low area she hadn’t once felt for a man outside a movie screen (or a centerfold).

Spike shifted slightly, his hand traveling downward to scratch his stomach—his unbelievably toned stomach—as he murmured something unintelligibly. Buffy had to hold back a moan as his tongue darted out to wet those full lips of his. Oh God, did he want to kill her? Because at this rate, she was highly likely to drown in the drool she was producing. He looked so…angelic. So peaceful as he slept. The fact that his chest didn’t rise and fall as it was supposed to didn’t bother her as much as she though tit would. When he lay completely still, he looked like a statue. Like one of those beautiful, white marble Roman statues. Granted, he was lying down, and he had far too many clothes on (a problem that Devil-Buffy was more than happy to rectify, although Sane-Buffy managed to hold her back) but all in all, the likeness was there.

Buffy flopped back against the pillows with a defeated sigh. Devil-Buffy had won, fair and square. A sinfully gorgeous man was holding her hostage with no foreseeable intent to harm her. In fact, if anything, it seemed as though he planned to seduce her. Buffy felt a rush of tingles flood her. Nope, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not that she was going to give in. No siree, no giving in for her. She just wasn’t going to leave. There was a big difference. Heck, it would serve him right if she did leave. Teach him to be such a careless kidnapper. Honestly, did he know nothing about being a proper villain?

Buffy huffed in his direction, crossing her arms over her chest and punching the off button on the remote, cutting short the insipid little song that an animated cow was singing. Bouncing around on the bed a bit until she found a comfortable position and sighing loudly, Buffy snuck another furtive glance in the vampire’s direction, glowering when he didn’t even stir.

“Stupid vampire,” she muttered. Here she was, graciously (stupidly) giving up a perfectly good escape opportunity. The least he could do was wake up and acknowledge it.

With another giant sigh, Buffy wrapped herself in the coverlet and reclined against the headboard, resigning herself to mentally redecorating the apartment.

*~~~*~~~*~~*

She wasn’t leaving.

Spike swore he could feel his heart beating. He had been lying there, eyes shut, breath stilled, giving the best impression he could of the inanimate corpse he became in sleep—and she hadn’t moved. He knew she’d noticed his vulnerable position, could feel her heartbeat accelerate as she’d battled her indecision, rustling the covers, muttering about his stupidity, but she hadn’t done the one thing he’d expected her to do. She hadn’t gotten up and walked out into the sunlight.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Stupid bint, didn’t she know this was her last chance? After this, there would be no going back. If she didn’t leave now, there was no fucking way he’d be able to let her go later. He might as well have opened the door for her. Practically offered to drive her home. But she just sat there, oblivious. Like she wanted to stay.

He wouldn’t let himself believe that that meant what he thought it meant. He wouldn’t give in to the hope that she might actually want him, want to be with him. She had too much bottled up vamp-hatred for that. He’d seen the type. It had been a while since the force of it had been directed at him, though, and it was surprisingly frustrating. In her eyes, he was instantly held responsible for all the evil in the world. And yeah, while he might have been a big part of it—at this, he barely suppressed a smug smile—but he wasn’t the only one out there.

Spike waited a moment longer, listening as the girl quietly hummed the theme song to Gilligan’s Island. He had listened to her rant about daytime television with amusement, barely able to keep himself from snatching up the remote and flipping to Passions. Bloody brilliant show. He’d discovered the merits of it during his days as an invalid in Sunnyhell, but he hadn’t been near enough to a telly since then to catch up on the more recent installments.

“Din’t know you fancied the classics, pet,” he rumbled, grinning when he felt her jump.

Buffy shot him a withering glare, wishing that her blood didn’t heat up the way that it did whenever she heard that sinful voice of his. So, now he chooses to grace me with his presence, huh? she thought, determined to ignore the fluttering in her stomach—and possibly lower.

“Classics?” she snorted, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”

Spike swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, long and languid, his muscles bunching and then relaxing under that tight black tee of his. Buffy felt her mouth go dry. Whuh.

“What’s that supposed to mean, luv?” he asked lazily, leaning back just slightly so he was propped up against the headboard, facing her, his arms resting on his thighs in such a position that his hands managed to oh-so-conveniently frame the part of his anatomy that Buffy was determined to forget even existed. Not looking there, not looking there, not looking there…

“Just that you were probably around when that stuff was being filmed,” she frowned, realizing that she had no idea how old he was. “Or before that. Was it before that?” she met his eyes curiously, silently congratulating herself on finding a distraction from those enticingly placed hands. He quirked an eyebrow at her, that irresistible smirk of his back in full force.

“Interested in my past, are we, kitten?” he asked, and Buffy felt a thrill at the new nickname. “Or is it just more of that vamp fascination of yours?”

Buffy glowered at him. “I was just curious,” she grumbled, turning away. Vamp fascination, my ass. It’d be a cold day in hell before she admitted to giving a crap about anything where he was concerned. Spike was silent for a moment, and Buffy had to physically restrain herself from glancing his way again.

“Tell you what, luv,” he said finally. “As long as we’re playin’ twenty questions an’ all, I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

Buffy perked up at that, swinging around to pin him with a skeptical look. She could feel her heart leaping at his words—he wanted to ask her something? What could he possibly want to know about her?

“Okay,” she replied slowly. After all, if they were going to be stuck there until sundown, they might as well do something. She waited expectantly, feeling suddenly excited. This was good; this was something she could focus on. Something besides unbearable daytime television or her own raging hormones.

“Before that,” Spike said simply. “My turn.”

It took Buffy a moment to realize what he was talking about. When she realized he was saying before Gilligan’s Island, she scowled.

“That’s not an answer,” she said, her scowl turning into a pout as he laughed at her. “I’m not answering your questions if you don’t play fair.”

Spike grinned. She was bloody adorable when she pouted. He’d never thought he was the playful type—he’d never had the opportunity to try. Dru didn’t take well to teasing. But messing with this girl was too much fun to resist.

“But that was the question, luv,” he said, blinking innocently. Buffy felt the corner of her mouth twitch into a smile before she squashed the impulse.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, shaking her head sternly. “You’re not getting out of this one, mister. Answer the real question.”

“And that would be…?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” he replied promptly. Buffy rolled her eyes.

“Not what I meant, smarty-pants,” she said, and Spike grinned mischievously. Buffy felt her breath catch in her throat as she looked at that smile. It wasn’t one of his usual cocky, shiver-inducing smirks. This was a smile of pure enjoyment, of mischief. It gave him a boyish charm that she’d never seen in him before. It lit up his face, made his blue eyes sparkle. For the first time since she’d seen him in gameface, she honestly forgot that he was a vampire.

Of course, his next words served as a jarring reminder.

“I was turned in 1880,” he said with a shrug. “You do the math.”

Buffy gaped at him, her mind racing through the calculations as she tried to comprehend what this meant. Turned in 1880 when he was twenty-eight, that would make him…

“One hundred and fifty-four?” she squeaked, her brain barely computing this information. Dear God, he was…old.

Spike watched her warily as it sank in, surprised to find that he was nervous for her reaction. He wasn’t used to feeling ashamed of his age—age was a source of pride to vampires. He was only a century and a half, and already he was a master vampire with three slayers under his belt. And now, faced with the disbelief in this one girl’s eyes, he found himself wishing he were younger.

Buffy cleared her throat, then offered him a weak smile. “You look good.” Spike laughed appreciatively, breathing an inward sigh of relief. His respect for the girl multiplied tenfold.

“My turn now, luv,” he said, and Buffy nodded. She seriously doubted that she could top that one (one hundred and fifty four!) but she was eager to answer his questions so that she could ask the thousands that were bubbling up inside her. There was so much he woud have done, could have seen…had he traveled? Learned languages? Met people that she had only read about in textbooks? She was so wrapped up in imagining his past that she almost missed his question.

“Sorry?” she asked, blushing when he looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Name, luv,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?” she asked. “You honestly don’t know my name?”

Spike looked irritated. “Well, no,” he said. Bloody bint made it sound like it was his fault. “I don’t recall you ever offering that information, luv.”

“Well, no,” Buffy spluttered, turning over the events of the past two days in her mind. It felt like she had been through so much with him. It was a bit insulting that he would go through the trouble of holding her captive and not bother to find out her name. “I just thought, since you kidnapped me…”

Spike barely contained the growl that coursed through him. “I told you, I din’t kidnap you. That was Dru. And I don’t think she even knew your name. Kept callin’ you Sunshine.”

“Yeah, but still…” Buffy muttered petulantly. Damn him for making sense. She sighed, keeping her gaze trained on the coverlet. “It’s Buffy,” she muttered. She wasn’t ashamed of her name. Really, she wasn’t. It was a perfectly respectable name, as most names went, and it had fit her pretty well for most of her life. Now, though, telling his bad-ass, one hundred and fifty-four year old vampire, it felt…silly.

“Buffy?” Spike said the word slowly, as though trying it out on his tongue. Buffy felt a shiver course through her. Maybe silly wasn’t the right word—he made her name sound positively sinful.

“Yeah,” she replied, glancing up at him. “Buffy Summers.” He was watching her intently. She bit her lower lip, waiting for him to pass judgment. She’d experienced a variety of reactions to her name—at this point, the absolute worst thing he could have done was laugh.

Spike didn’t laugh. Sure, it had been his first impulse, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He’d caught that glimpse of insecurity in her eyes when she’d said it—for whatever reason, she cared about what he thought. She cared if he thought her name was laughable. And even if he thought it was a bloody awful name (which is was) he was damned if he was going to tell her that. She was laughing with him, teasing him—trusting him. For once, he wouldn’t let his big mouth ruin that.

“Think I ate a cheerleader named Buffy once,” he said casually.

Buffy’s head shot up, her eyes wide with shock. Sure, he hadn’t laughed, but God! She opened her mouth to tell him just how disgusting he was, just what she thought of his eating people, when she caught the look on his face. He was grinning at her, his eyes dancing merrily as he took in her disbelief. She closed her mouth with a snap. He was teasing her!

Picking up a pillow, she hauled off and threw it at his head. He caught it, still laughing, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Meany,” she grumbled, trying valiantly to keep from smiling. After a minute, she gave up, erupting in giggles.

If, forty-eight hours ago, someone had told Buffy she would be spending the day in a darkened motel room, laughing with a one hundred fifty-four year old vampire, she probably would have kicked them in the groin and doused them in pepper spray.

Now that she was here, though, she couldn’t help wondering it maybe, finally, things were looking up.





You must login (register) to review.