No matter how many times she repeated herself, that glossy, confused look refused to vacate her Watcher’s eyes. It was annoying. There were certainly more important things to worry with than her bizarre liaison with a recently non-crippled vampire. Things like her ex-boyfriend who had, among other things, developed a penchant for making her friends’ lives a living hell.
For whatever reason, attempting to convey as much to Giles was not as simple as it should have been. He wanted to mull over every detail—every millisecond she’d spent all not-of-the-dead in Spike’s presence. He wanted to know why they hadn’t fought. Why Spike had come to her in the first place. And he especially wanted to know how James and Grace’s haunting had influenced their behavior.
Buffy snorted inwardly. Yeah. She was really going to share sordid stories of Spike’s lips with her Watcher. And Xander was going to be the next President of the United States.
“No,” she said dryly, rolling her eyes. “For the millionth time, no. Spike didn’t tell me why he was following me. And seeing as I’m standing here, bored and annoyed and very much of the alive, I don’t think it really matters.”
Giles narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. “Your views on what is and isn’t important notwithstanding, the fact remains that a dangerous slayer-killer sought you out and then proceeded to not engage you in battle.”
“I know. I was right there.”
“It had to be something extraordinary, don’t you think?”
“No,” Buffy retorted dryly, rolling her eyes. “I think he wanted to exchange banana-nut-muffin recipes.”
Willow glanced up from where she was hunched over a pile of books. What she was researching, Buffy didn’t know. For the past few days, when they weren’t fending off whatever Angel or the PTB sent their way, the redhead was usually buried nose-deep in a book. Not that it was doing anyone any good. Sunnydale citizens were still showing up dead with not-so-mysterious neck wounds, no blood, and twisted messages from the Slayer’s once one-and-only.
The chances that the anecdote for Angel’s killing spree rested on some aged page in Giles’s library were obsolete.
“You make banana-nut muffins?” she asked, her eyes wide. Then she paused, shifted uncomfortably, and glanced down. “Okay, so I only caught the end of that. Did I mention I’m really hungry?”
Buffy snickered. “I was just explaining to Giles for the umpteenth time that I have no earthly idea what Spike wanted with me. He didn’t stay long enough. I think he was a little shook up.”
“Presumably because of what happened while the two of you were possessed,” Giles agreed, staring at her intently.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Well, he came to you for a reason, and then backtracked after the possession was over. Sounds to me, Buffy, that it has quite a bit to do with what occurred.”
She waved a dismissive hand, doing her best to keep herself introverted. The memory of Spike’s melt-worthy kisses had fueled fantasies about the gorgeous vampire that she’d thought long dead. Fantasies that had haunted her longer than she wanted to admit. From the second that he stepped out of the shadows at the Bronze, locked eyes with her, and called her by that stupid pet name. And then on Parent Teacher Night, she’d returned home, tense and excited from their first fight. Her body tingled at the thought of how he felt against her. Hard. Masculine. Aroused. Even when he was kicking the crap out of her, there was a part of him that remained infinitely male, and separated from the larger part of him that was demon.
At first, she’d felt like she was cheating on Angel when she thought of Spike. After all, until Angel had barreled into her life, she’d never had an inappropriate thought about a vampire. They were all the same. All game-face, snarly, and quick with the dustage. Spike was definitely not the same. He certainly wasn’t like Angel or the Master, but he was immeasurably different from the fledglings she was accustomed to slaying. There was a part of him that remained alive. There was a part of him that could not be bogged down by what he was, and was rather defined by who he was.
Buffy wasn’t blind; she’d seen that from the start. Spike was different. He was different, and they were enemies.
Until last night, remembering that hadn’t been too difficult. In the days following the ruined St. Vigeous festival, her relationship with Angel had taken off, and her appreciation of Spike’s fineness—not to mention his sexy accent—had taken a backseat to her souled boyfriend. Sure, she’d make a quick appraisal of the blond Brit’s abs or whatever body part was most prominently displayed through all that tight clothing, but it only lasted for a blink. Until she threw a punch his way, or hit him in the head with something heavy and quip uselessly to herself as a large organ crushed his sexy self. Angel, until the very end, had been the center of her universe when it came to men.
Since Angel had rejoined the Unsouled and Proud Club for Vamps, however, Buffy hadn’t felt like noticing the opposite sex at all. Not until last night.
Not until she found herself kissing Spike.
Not until all her naughty, forgotten fantasies were suddenly substantiated. In the midst of her heartache—of the guilt-crushing knowledge that she had, time and time again, let Angel slip through her fingers—she’d reawakened. She’d opened her eyes, and for a blink, the part of her that was consumed with guilt quieted, and she could forget about her failure. That people were dying because she couldn’t bring herself to do the inevitable. That Giles had lost the woman that he loved because of her. For a sliver of a second, Buffy had ceased being the Slayer and had simply been a girl. Any girl. Any girl kissing any guy. She’d had her coveted normal, and the taste had been so sweet it was a miracle she hadn’t collapsed in tears.
It was fleeting, of course. She wasn’t just any girl. She was the Slayer, and Spike was a vampire. Spike was a vampire who very much wanted her dead. Angel was still out there—still killing people. And it was still her fault.
However, Spike had given her something back. Something that reality couldn’t take away. And even if his gift was an accident—even if he could care less about what their stolen kiss had given her—to Buffy, it meant the world.
“Buffy?”
She started and shook her head, forcing her thoughts to the back of her mind. If Giles knew that Spike’s lips had restored her faith in men and her own femininity, he’d accuse her of having some sick vamp fetish. This was just one of those things that he could never understand.
“Hmm?”
Her Watcher’s eyes were saturated in concern. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell us what happened?”
Buffy pasted on a grin and shrugged. “As I’ve said, nothing much happened. Spike came in after James had me. I think it took a few minutes before Grace nabbed him, ‘cause he sounded…I dunno, confused for one thing. Confused and almost…resigned.”
“Resigned?”
Oh crap. She was talking about it. How had that happened? “Like I was his last resort, I guess. Like it was the last place in the world he wanted to be. I dunno…I might be imagining things. I was kind of possessed at the time.”
Giles cleared his throat and offered a jerky nod. “Go on,” he encouraged.
Willow placed down her book and nodded her encouragement. “Yeah, this might be helpful.”
Helpful for what? For non-research? Buffy groaned inwardly, her will encouraging her mouth to shut up and keep the rest for herself, but her mouth had a way of running without giving her will or her mind much consideration. She really needed to get that checked out. “We did the whole sordid song-and-dance,” she continued. “I shot him. He fell over the railing. I walked to the music room and put on the Flamingos. And I would’ve shot myself had Spike not rushed in and taken the gun from me.”
The redhead frowned. “He was still possessed, right?”
“Umm. Yeah.” Buffy’s eyes narrowed. Where had she been all night? “He was still possessed. It was Grace all the way. Grace didn’t want James to kill himself…and since Grace’s…I dunno…essence was trapped in a body that couldn’t be killed with a gunshot, she got to reach me—James—in time to let him know.” She paused. “It was a mistake. The shooting. I don’t…I don’t know what James was thinking with, you know, bringing the gun in the first place…but what I felt when I shot Spike…” She shivered and her stomach turned. There had never been a more frightening moment than the widening of Spike’s eyes as he grasped his wound, and the love-drenched betrayal that he’d washed her in before toppling over the railing. There was nothing about shooting him—or Grace—that had been intentional. “What I felt…it wasn’t on purpose. He didn’t kill Grace on purpose.”
The library fell quiet. Buffy glanced up and shifted awkwardly. “Not that it…matters. To us. I mean, the ghosts are gone and everything is back to its normal, Hellmouthy state. Spike didn’t kill me, I didn’t kill him—”
Giles heaved an exasperated sigh. “Yes, yes, we know that. You simply haven’t been very forthcoming in what happened between you two to lead to your pacifism.”
“Not forthcoming? I just told you—”
“What happened between James and Grace, yes. That much was rather obvious.”
Buffy slumped, pouting. “I didn’t notice you stopping me from stating the obvious,” she grumbled.
“There is something you’re keeping from us.”
Willow looked confused at that, but that didn’t stop her from shooting a mildly accusatory glance in her friend’s direction. “You’re keeping stuff from us?”
“No.”
“You honestly can’t expect me to believe that Spike had you alone and did nothing about it. You put him in a wheelchair, Buffy…and he’s a vampire. They are not creatures capable of forgiveness or change. If he didn’t attack you, then—”
It angered her to hear her Watcher so carelessly clumping Spike together in the overall generalization of vampires. He was different. Spike was different. He was evil, yes, but he was hardly a mindless bloodsucking machine. He had amazing capacity for feelings of compassion and empathy. Hell, Buffy knew that just from watching him with Drusilla.
“Well, we were both a little startled from the having-been-possessed thing,” she retorted sharply. “Why are you harping on this?”
“Because—”
“You wanna know what happened?” a deep, familiar voice interrupted from the head of the library, followed by the metallic clink of a lighter striking to life. Buffy’s heart stopped and her legs turned to granite. “Simple. We snogged. We fondled. We woke up. The end.”
Giles froze. Willow gaped. And cigarette smoke filled the air.
Nerves shaking, mind racing, Buffy turned slowly—very slowly—until her gaze clashed with his.
Those eyes.
Spike only smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile, but that didn’t stop her legs from turning to butter or keep her clit from throbbing, especially when his eyes glossed over and dropped to her mouth before raking down the length of her.
When their eyes met again, his were alive with heat.
“Hello, cutie,” he said.
And Buffy inhaled sharply.
Oh God. She was in so much trouble.
TBC