Two hours in, the only conversation was her occasional command to take an exit and his grunting reply. It might possibly have been the longest two hours of her entire life. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable. The silence was about to kill her, but she refused to be the one that broke first. Refused. If she never said another word until they got back to Sunnydale, then that’s just the way it would have to be. She wouldn’t be the first one to speak. Wouldn’t. Would not –
“If you need to stop anywhere or anything, just let me know.” Spike’s sudden voice was loud in the otherwise quiet car. So loud, she jumped. At one point she had flicked on the radio, but, without batting an eye, he had turned it right back off.
She felt him glance over at her, and she stared fixedly, straight ahead. He cleared his throat and continued, his voice lower this time, but his words were rushed and laced with barely suppressed energy, “Snacks. Or go to the little Slayer’s room. Isn’t that what you human types do on a road trip? Stuff yourselves with sugar?”
She couldn’t help it, she turned to face him. From the rapid drumming of his fingertips on the steering wheel to his rush of words and the way he kept sneaking quick little glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice… Was Spike feeling…bashful? “What is wrong with you?”
His entire persona changed in an instant. His movements became more smooth and controlled. He leaned back into his seat, settling around it. His chin tilted up and the tiniest of sneers curled his lips. “Or you can just pee in a bush and get poison ivy all over your arse, for all I care.”
She blinked. Ookay. Maybe the whole not-talking thing had been better, after all. But then a twinge of guilt ran through her. He’d been trying to be nice. Which…while strange and wigsome, did go along with his new ‘I love you’ thing. I love you thing to the extent of chaining you up where Drusilla could eat you; I love you to the extent of letting a hellgod chain me up and torture me within an inch of my unlife. She should have said something nice back. Conciliatory. But thinking about Glory led to thinking about Dawn. And thinking about Dawn led to Mom. A thick and heavy weight fell over her. When Willow had been stuck in frantic babble mode after the funeral, she’d described how people used to use wrap the bodies of the dead in a shroud when someone died. That’s what the weight felt like. A death shroud. These days, Buffy never left home without it.
So instead of saying something nice back, she just got quiet. Got quiet in her whole body. “When are we stopping for the hotel?” Even her voice was quiet.
He snuck another glance at her, slow to reply. He could see it – the change in her. How tiny she got in her seat. “Just before dawn. Go ahead and sleep if you’re tired, Slayer.” He refocused on the highway, white dash after white dash. “This will end quicker if you do.”
For once, she took his advice without a fuss.
--------
When she woke up, she was warm. She was warm and surprisingly light, and that was all very different from how it was supposed to be, though she couldn’t remember why. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to end. So Buffy kept her eyes shut and basked in the warmth and the scratchy sheets and the smell of not-home on her pillow.
With her mind stuck on the slow melt of a good sleep, she sighed happily and loudly, burrowing further into the nest she’d found. The sigh turned into an intermittent hum, sometimes dipping to a halt before lurching back up again, never forming an actual tune.
Slowly, her muscles turned restless and she began to stretch. First shoulders, just tensing and relaxing the muscle, and then an arm and then a foot, curling and arching, and then her legs. And when her knee pushed out across the bed, it collided with something just as hard and knobby as it was.
“Oi, watch yourself, Slayer,” came a rumbling voice, thick with sleep.
Her eyes shot open and immediately there was blue. Blue, blue eyes, with heavy, hooded lids. All signs of bask were officially gone. They had fled the premises. Complete annihilation of all basking goodness. It took long, full seconds before her brain synapses made the necessary connections and jolts for her to speak. “Spike?” And then it wasn’t even her voice. That squeaky lurch hadn’t been her voice since that time with Tanner in middle school. This was the voice of a total spaz, not Buffy Summers, Slayer of the forces of darkness.
Just enough light filtered through the curtains into the room to give everything a pleasant golden glow. He was stretched out on his stomach like a lazy cat. All creamy bare skin and white blonde tousled curls. The sheets on his side had ridden low, with the edge resting just at the small of his back, revealing a broad swath of heavily muscled torso.
The second she spoke, those hooded eyes fell to her mouth. “Hmm?” he murmured, the sound coming from somewhere deep. It wasn’t so much a reply as a rumbling acknowledgement that she spoke. And his eyes were still fixed on her mouth. The scrutiny was starting to make her twitchy and she licked her lips nervously. The motion made one corner of his own mouth twitch and suddenly those eyes jerked right back to hers. The ferocity in them took her breath away. Unwavering, the intensity caught and held her, until gradually, gradually, she became aware of something that’d been running along the back of her mind. A slow burning sensation. Her knee was still touching his.
She jerked back so fast, she was about to tip out the side of the bed, when one long arm shot out, snagging and hauling her firmly back onto the mattress, against a very firm and solid body. His arm was like an iron band around her middle. Her arms were trapped between them, hands crushed to his chest. Her face was inches from his, close enough to count every sooty eyelash. Her mind raced, tripping over itself to find some kind of proper response to being pressed against Spike’s chest. Chest of Spike, her mind screamed frantically. “Wh-why did you do that?” Her voice came out short and breathy. Not good. Short and breathy were so not good.
“You were falling.”
“Oh,” she said, her fingers curling, ever so slightly, against his smooth skin. “Okay.”
He said it so simply. Like that was all there was to it. Buffy was about to fall, and so Spike caught her. Simple as that.
But it wasn’t that simple, because her entire body was still burning. Every inch of her was on fire. And between that look in his eyes, the one that said he was ravenous and she was the feast, and the hand that was clutching at her hip as if it had no intention of ever letting go, she was wondering if maybe he didn’t feel the same way, too.
And then her thigh shifted, just a little, and her belly was pressed tight against something that, even through the heavy denim of his jeans, was very hard, and jutting, and impossible to ignore, between them. Her eyes grew wide as saucers even as his fluttered, threatening to fall shut.
She didn’t know what to do, what the appropriate response was, and she couldn’t think with him so close. Could hardly breathe when he looked at her with eyes gone so dark.
But then he spoke. Except it wasn’t so much speaking as it was sighing. Just a small slip of breath. “Buffy.” A slip of breath, and want, but mostly just need.
It made her want to see how many other ways he could say her name. The thought struck her like a jolt of lightening, and her entire body jerked, suddenly capable of movement again. She didn’t miss the harsh drag of breath that escaped him, and his arm loosened just enough for her to squirm away. He barely had time to blink before she was off the bed and rushing barefoot to the bathroom. “I have to take a shower,” she said, without looking back, hoping that her voice sounded stronger to him than it did to her.
If he said anything before she shut the bathroom door, she didn’t hear him. Of course, it would’ve been hard to hear anything with the blood roaring through her ears. She didn’t stop to look at the mirror to see a face she knew was burning red. She didn’t stop to debate and peruse over the brightly colored toiletries she’d packed. She didn’t stop to test to the water before climbing in. No, instead, she stripped, she grabbed, and then she froze – letting the cold, but quickly warming, water cool down her overheated body.
Buffy tilted her face up towards the shower nozzle and let the water pelt her cheeks and eyes and open, gasping mouth. Everything came rushing back. One hand shot out, flailing to get some kind of grip on the wet tiles. Now it wasn’t just Spike in her head and the amazing wrongness of those thoughts. No, now it was Riley and Mom and Dawn and Glory. Now it was numbing. And all the weight that had been missing, her shroud, came and settled like a mantle on her shoulders. Like an old friend saying hello.
While Buffy showered, Spike stayed right where he was. As much as he wanted to not be there when she got out of the shower, the new day was in full swing on the other side of those cheap, barely thick enough for safety, curtains. Plus, he was still tired as hell. There was something about driving all night that took it out of you in ways that a good brawl couldn’t. And the bed… the bed was just heavenly. All stolen warmth and sweet Slayer smell. He burrowed under the covers and spread out wide, settling. He wiggled, chaffing in his jeans, then shrugged and tugged them off. Slayer ain’t in the bed anymore, might as well get comfortable, he thought as he tossed the black jeans on top of the nightstand squeezed in between the bed and the wall.
He wiggled back under the covers, still lying on his stomach. His prick was still semi-hard and he vaguely debated getting in a wank before she came back, but decided not to risk it. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the warmth and scent that clung to her pillow.
There’d been a moment there where he could’ve sworn she was this close to closing the gap between them. Or maybe just stayin’ put while he did it himself. He smiled at the thought, and slowly drifted off into a light sleep.
Two sharp clicks jerked him awake. He opened his eyes to see her standing there in nothing but a towel, her hair dripping and tousled, playing with the fastenings of her suitcase. The air was warm and moist, heavy with the fragrance of some girly shampoo or other.
Every particle of his undead body was awake and thrumming. His eyes drank her in, greedy. His nose flared as he pulled in the heady scents, and his fingers curled into the mattress, desperate for the feel of soft, damp skin.
But he watched her rummage through her bits of clothes and other what-not, and he can see the difference. The difference between the girl he woke up with and the girl who came out of the shower. She found what she needed and, clutching them to her, padded back into the bathroom. He followed her every move, and as she disappeared again his entire body sighed.
When she came back out, it was fully dressed. Pity that. A pair of khaki shorts, a pink tank top, and flip-flops. Her wet hair pulled up in a messy bun. The picture of summer youth, she was, but he knew better. Her eyes fell on him as she reached for her purse. Those colors, that golden skin, and those yellow forest eyes. She was a vision. As sad and lonely as she was, she was a vision.
“I’m hungry. I’m gonna go find some pancakes or something. You want anything?” Her voice was quiet, tired. She didn’t seem surprised to find him watching.
Something in his chest pulled tight. “No, love. But thanks for asking.”
She didn’t reply, just nodded, fiddling with the strap of her purse, before crossing over to the door. She cracked the door open just enough to get through, not letting in any stray sunbeam.
The tightening in his chest didn’t ease for a very long time.
------
Buffy managed to stay away all day. She kept busy because somehow, miraculously, Spike had found a somewhat urban area to stop in. Chatting with Dawn on her cell, she’d wandered from store to store. She even got a chance to kill a demon. A daytime demon. She had no idea what it was, but it sure did spray a lot when she slammed the sign post into its gut. Dry purple ichor had formed a crust on her thighs a while ago. She caught the butcher looking at it, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t even blink at her request. This place must have a decent amount of demon shenanigans. She wondered who the good guys here were. Or if there were any good guys at all. She shoved it out of her mind and made her way back to the hotel, bag in hand. She paused at the door, peering at the setting sun. She’d timed it well. It was almost dark enough to hit the road again, just the beginnings of dusk.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside and found him sitting up in bed, legs stretched out, TV remote in one hand, randomly flipping through channels. She blinked, and realized she’d half expected him to be gone. He wasn’t really one to listen to the sun’s orders to stay put.
His eyes flickered to her and then back to the TV. “Slayer,” he said, with a nod. In nothing but his black jeans, he looked like he hadn’t moved from the bed all day. But wet towels were on the floor and his hair was a mess of damp blonde curls. If nothing else, he’d showered today. Suddenly he twitched, and he turned back to her, attention undivided this time. His eyes zeroed in on the bag in her hand. “You brought me blood, Slayer?” He blinked at her. “I have some in the car, you know. S’what we brought that nice blue cooler along for.”
She shifted. “I figured we should get it when available, and save whatever you brought for back-up. You never know.”
He just stared at her, an indefinable expression on his face. “Yeah…” he said, voice quiet. “You never know.”
“You want it or not?” she snapped irritably, his stare getting to her.
He seemed to shake himself, then waved a hand, beckoning her over. “Let’s have it then.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but instead she found herself bringing it over and perching on the side of the bed. He plucked the brown paper bag from her hands and peeked inside. “This is going to taste foul cold. Always does,” he said as he took out the first container.
“Well, if you don’t want it – ” Buffy reached out to snatch it back, but he quickly held it out of reach.
“Was just talkin’, don’t get all wound up over it. I’m right touched by your sentiment,” he teased. She said nothing, making a face as he unscrewed the lid and twirled around the thick, scarlet contents. His face shifted and he downed a heavy swig, before his eyes flickered back to her. “You smell like T’renqua,” he said, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What did you call just me?” She glared.
He ignored her hostility. “Said you smell like T’renqua.” His eyes swept over her, finding and lingering on the stains on her thigh. “Get in a fight?”
“Oh,” she said, fingers absentmindedly scratching at the purple crust. “Yeah, I killed something today.”
He grunted into his cup. “That’s my Slayer. Always making friends.”
“I’m not your Slayer, Spike. I’m not your anything.”
“Course not. You’ve made that perfectly clear.” He put the plastic container on the nightstand and rolled off the bed. Grabbing his shirt and jacket, he headed towards the door.
“Where are you going?” She stared at his back, suddenly feeling slightly panicky.
“Just a smoke is all,” he said as he pulled open the door. “Better wash that stuff off. I won’t be smelling it the whole way.”
“I was going to,” she snapped, but he was already gone. Buffy stared at the door, dismayed. She hadn’t tried to start an argument. It just always seemed to happen. Her eyes landed on the only half empty container of blood. He’d been so eager to get away from her that he hadn’t even finished it. She frowned, and glared at the plastic container. She was not going to spend another night of driving with tensions so thick she was pretty sure she could stake it. Ignoring her cast off flip-flops, she grabbed the container and stepped outside onto the concrete walkway.
Spike was just a figure in the shadows a little ways off, leaning against a pillar, watching the highway. A slight flare of red lit up every time he pulled on his cigarette. She started towards him and when her toe scraped on a pebble, sending it skittering, she realized the picture she made. Barefoot, streaked in purple stuff, and holding a half empty container of pig blood. So this was her life. She couldn’t help the very small laugh that bubbled up.
Spike’s head jerked up sharply at the sound, his entire body tensing. As soon as his eyes landed on her he relaxed, leaning back into that lazy lounge against the pillar. He peered at her unwaveringly as she made her way over. She stopped with just a foot between them and held up the cup. “I brought this for you,” she said quietly. He stared at her. Her face tilted up to catch the last of the sunset’s ray, a slight turn in the corner of her mouth as the only indicator of the girlish giggle he had heard.
He nodded and took the cup. “So you did, pet.”
“Do you think we’ll get far tonight?” she asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“Depends on how many times we have to stop for slushies and Happy Meals.”
She shot him a glare and then looked out over the highway that waited for them. “I didn’t make us stop at all last night.”
“Maybe tonight is different.”
His voice was oddly thick and she quickly turned back to find him looking at her barefeet. Glancing down self-consciously, all she saw were her tiny feet with pink toenails. She looked back up and Spike’s gaze suddenly jerked off to the side, looking for all the world like a kid who’d just got caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the motel room. “C’mon. Night’s a-wasting. Let’s get the stuff and hit the road.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she retorted half-heartedly, but she turned around and headed back to the room just the same.
He followed her and wondered. Wondered what an onlooker might think to see the two of them together. Such a mismatched pair. He took one last drag and then flicked the cigarette away. Maybe the Slayer was right. Maybe they were too different.
Buffy headed straight towards the bathroom, disappearing through its entryway. The sound of rushing water quickly followed.
Spike threw his open duffle bag onto the middle of the bed, and began poking and searching around the room. Maybe she was right and he should just let her be. Settle into being just the back-up muscle for her when she needed it. Or just move onto the next city. Start over again. He swiped the complimentary matches off the top of the cheap desk and into his duster pocket. No sense in wasting the fuel in his lighter. But starting over would be hard this time. No Dru to keep him company. He took the back off the remote control and peered at the batteries. Irregular; probably wouldn’t fit into a damn thing back at the crypt. Next, he pried open the alarm clock. Snatching the double As, he tossed them into the duffle bag and proceeded to ransack the drawers.
Spike stopped and glanced around. Standing in the middle of the room, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he should leave. Cross the border into Mexico. As soon as this Glory bint was sent packing.
He didn’t hear the water stop. But then Buffy came out, drying her hands on one of the rough motel cheap towels. His eyes instantly zeroed in on her thighs, scrubbed clean and pink. And he remembered when she came to him, dressed like the bot, and had given him the softest, the pinkest of kisses. He looked at her and knew that he wouldn’t leave until death finally took him. If he ever tried, he would just wind up coming back.
She started picking up the random pieces of clothing and girly stuff scattered about. “Don’t you need to pack?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I’m good.”
She looked up just long enough to shoot a doubtful look at him before turning back to her suitcase. It was the blue, nice one. The one her mother would use when they went on trips. The thought made her suddenly desperate and she grasped for a distraction, anything. “Aren’t you going to take the towels? You seem like the kind of guy to steal the towels. And buy ‘guy’ I mean ‘evil undead‘, that which I slay.”
He scoffed and quickly zipped up the duffle bag, thankful she hadn’t seen him grab the batteries. “Please. I may be evil, but I have standards you know. Those things feel like sandpaper.”
“Aww…does the poor vampire have to maintain his delicate, baby soft skin?”
He glanced up to find her smiling to herself as she sorted out her kit. “Tell you what, pet. Why don’t you come over here and find out for yourself.”
Her head jerked up and the leer on his face made her cheeks burn.
Before she could say anything he spoke again. “Or couldn’t you tell this morning?”
She sputtered. She was completely certain her face was as red as a fire engine. “You’re a pig, Spike.” And she turned all her focus onto smushing everything down. He wasn’t worth one of her snappy quips.
“So you keep saying.”
Cool breath rushed past her ear, and she froze, going completely still. How had he moved so fast? So fast and so quietly, she’d had no warning. Of course she could feel it now. Awareness was like a solid wall of electricity at her back. She shifted her weight, and sure enough brushed against the edges of his coat. Carefully, she straightened, then tilted her head just slightly towards him. “Because it’s true.” She wanted her voice to come out steady and even. Firm. But it wasn’t. It was much smaller than that. “Now, are you done? Can we hit the road and do what we’re out here to do?”
And just like that, he was gone, halfway to the door already. “Ready when you are.”
She zipped up the suitcase and the noise sounded definitive, like the end to a long conversation.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Originally written for kellyhk's Hellmouth ficathon. Betaed by the fabulous Avadriel.