The sudden stop of the car jerked her awake. Buffy blinked groggily. Her neck hurt. Stupid car. It took a moment to realize they had stopped. “Wha… Spike?” she called, voice thick with sleep.
“Shh. Just fillin’ up the tank, pet.” She forced her eyes open, immediately regretting it as the bright lights of the gas station glared forcefully. “Need anything while we’ve stopped? Won’t be stopping again for several hours yet.”
She grumbled incoherently and shoved the door open. Her bladder was about to explode. She was going to have to brave the restrooms. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she heard Spike mutter behind her. She didn’t stop, just trudged towards the building, slightly blind and slightly crooked
“Slayer-like awakeness can kick in any time now,” she grumbled to herself.
She spotted a door on the side of the building and changed course. She hated the outdoor bathrooms. They always seemed twice as gross as the inside ones. Yanking open the door, she grimaced at the odor that rose to greet her. The tiny room was only half-lit and she studiously ignored any and all suspicious discolorations and stickiness underfoot.
With as minimal physical contact with various surfaces as possible, she relieved herself and then washed her hands, splashing a little water on her face while she was at it. Feeling only slightly more awake, her thoughts shifted to the sugary sweet and caffeinated variety.
She felt the familiar twinge in her back just as her hand fell to the doorknob. The door shoved wide open before she could brace herself, slamming her back, into the wall. Her head bounced off the tiling with a force that had her seeing stars. A snarling laugh sounded on the other side of the door, and though she still couldn’t see it, her spidey senses were screaming ‘Vamp!’
She grit her teeth against the fuzziness clogging up her head and braced both palms flat against the door. “Big mistake,” she ground out. With a fierce shove, she slammed the door back the other direction, and a figure lost their balance and tumbled into the bathroom as the door shut with a definitive bang.
Buffy stood with hands on hips and eyebrows raised expectantly as the vampire – ridges and fangs firmly in place – righted himself, regaining his balance. “Now what exactly was your grand plan here? Did you think you were going to eat me in this bathroom? Because hello, kind of gross and kind of smelly.”
The vamp blinked at her, clearly wondering how things were suddenly very different from how he’d envisioned. Why she wasn’t cowering and helpless from the scary monster. “Plus? This is the little Slayer’s room,” she quipped, rapping her knuckles against the door. “No boys allowed.”
“Li-little… Slayer? You’re the Slayer?” The vampire’s voice trembled slightly.
“Yup.” The word popped off her lips. Not much with the survival instinct, this one. “And you are – ” Her hand groped blindly at the small of her back. No stake. She wasn’t carrying her stake. “… dust?” she trailed off weakly.
The vamp didn’t hesitate a second. He lunged for her, fangs bared and dripping. She ducked, hooked her shoulder underneath him and sent him flipping over her back. Normally, it would have sent him sailing, but in the tiny room he was slammed into the wall, crumbling in heap.
Buffy’s eyes raced over the contents of the bathroom. Not a single piece of wood. Not even a splinter. Okay. This was okay. No need to panic. She was just going to have to do this the hard way. A sharp kick to the back of her knee had her stumbling forward. Seizing the moment, the vamp tackled her from behind, sending them both crashing to the floor, one of her flip-flops suddenly flying solo. Face mashed into the dirty floor, she bucked upwards, trying to dislodge him. He snarled, pressing down with his full body weight and preternatural strength. He grabbed her by her ponytail, yanking her head to the side to bare her throat. One less hand holding her down was all it took to get loose – her arm shot out and she snapped her fist back, slamming square into his face. It unbalanced him just enough for her to roll away.
They both leapt to their feet, ready, waiting for the other to make a move. The man growled in irritation, gold eyes glittering meanly. Slowly, he reached behind himself to the door.
“Don’t tell me you’re giving up that easy,” Buffy said, her voice sounding much more confident than she felt.
His fingers found the door lock and turned, sliding the bar home with a small click.
“Oh.” A twinge of doubt ran through her as he smiled. This could be bad.
Spike leaned against the car with a sigh, gaze wandering. He didn’t know what to make of the Slayer. Whether he’d made things better. Whether he’d made things worse. The one thing he did know was that he had kissed her and she hadn’t staked or maimed him. Granted, it was only on the forehead, but still, he’d kissed her.
He squinted against the fluorescent lights in the direction she’d wandered off in. She’d been in there for a while now. Much longer and he was going to have to drag her out by that pretty blonde –
Someone screamed. It was quiet, obstructed. If he wasn’t a vampire he probably wouldn’t have heard it. If he wasn’t a vampire he wouldn’t have known it was Buffy. He launched off the car, running towards the bathrooms.
Buffy screamed as the fangs tore through her bicep. She could feel the muscles and sinews tearing apart. Apparently this vamp was just as happy sinking his teeth in her arm as her throat. She tore free, slamming her elbow into his nose in the process. He howled, stumbling back and clutching his broken nose. His neck and shirt were drenched scarlet in blood. Blood that belonged to both of them.
He opened his mouth to yell, fury in his eyes, and she snapped a kick, hitting squarely over his broken bones. He shrieked again and charged blindly, arms flailing. The bulk of his weight hit her like a Mack truck, crushing her up against the stall wall. She forced her still good arm between them, grabbing onto his throat, only just able to keep his jaws from closing over her own throat. He roared, the sound deafening in her ears. She flinched as flecks of spittle and blood sprayed across her face, hitting her lips and eyes. He was raving. Crazy off rage and pain and the little taste of Slayer blood he’d gotten.
Buffy could feel her own heart jackrabbiting as he held her pinned to the stall. One arm was almost completely out of commission. The other was at full exertion just trying to keep him at bay, and her body was rapidly tired.
And she still had to take his damn head off.
Her jaw clenched. Fine. Her fingers tightened infinitesimally around his blood slicked neck.
Spike slammed against the door. “Buffy!” he yelled. He rammed his shoulder against it again. The door buckled but the deadbolt was still intact. “You better unlock this door, Slayer!” he snarled, as he reared back to hit it again. He could hear her slamming around in there, her heart going so fast it was a wonder it hadn’t burst. And he could hear whatever it was in there with her, raging and shrieking. “You die in there cause of a fucking gas station lock – ” he hit the door again and he could feel the lock start to give way, “ – I’m gonna bring you back just so I can wring your neck myself!”
Through the door he could hear Buffy’s strangled gasp of pain, and then the beast screamed again, drowning out her heartbeat. Panic washed like ice through his veins, and he slammed into the door with new desperation. With a snap of metal the lock finally gave and he stumbled inside, ready to rend something or someone into tiny bloody pieces.
Instead, all he found was her. Her, kneeling in a pile of dust, one arm cradled protectively against her chest, blood seeping out in a steady trickle. She looked horrible, like she always did after a particularly down and dirty fight. Her hair was a rat’s nest, she was covered in blood from her arm and from the vamp. One cheek was starting to look puffy from what must have been a particularly hard hit. Her legs were smeared with a mixture of vamp dust and blood. She was filthy and exhausted from the fight. She looked amazing.
He made an abrupt move, intending to hold her, or touch her, or just do something to know that she was really okay, but then she finally looked up at him and it stopped him in his tracks. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, unable to keep still, needing movement of some sort. “You okay there, pet?”
She hadn’t said a word. Just sat there looking at him with those too large eyes of hers. “I – ” she started, then faltered. “I really needed that.”
One eyebrow went up and he couldn’t stop small, nervous chuckle of relief that escaped him. He quickly pushed it away and bent to help her up, careful of her injured arm. “No, what you need is a bath, and a look at that arm.”
Buffy caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and grimaced. “You aren’t wrong.” She yanked several paper towels from the dispenser and turned on one of the water taps. Spike slumped against the wall, taking in the scene as she started scrubbing at her face. The tank top was clearly a lost cause.
“He took quite the chunk out of you, Slayer,” he said as casually as he could manage. Inside, he was a tumult of rage and fear and possessiveness at the bite on her arm and the swelling in her cheek. “You don’t usually let them get that close.”
She didn’t look up. “I didn’t have a stake.”
He watched her face through the reflection of the mirror as she ran her arm under the faucet, a scowl on her face. “So… you took the ugly sod’s head off?” He blinked. “With that arm?”
“Yep,” the word popped out of her mouth.
He looked at the arm again. She was treating it with kid gloves. The wound became clearer as the blood washed away. It was far from a clean bite. It was jagged and torn, like that vamp had sunk his teeth in and pulled.
Spike tried to imagine having to take someone’s head off with that arm. Torn muscles pulling from the bone. It took quite a bit of effort to decapitate something with your bare hands using two good arms.
He watched as she frowned at the bite. Blood continued to steadily seep from the gaping wound. “Think gas stations sell bandages?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
He shrugged. “Doubt it, pet. Nothing bigger than a Band-Aid, anyway.” Pushing off the wall, he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and started pulling it off.
Buffy blinked at him and forcefully dragged her eyes from the flat plane of his stomach as he pulled the shirt overhead. “What are you doing?”
He shot her a dirty look. “Figured it was a good time to sully your virtue,” he snarked as he started to rip the shirt into long black strips. “What do you think I’m doing? Got to wrap that thing up.” He nodded at the arm she still clutched to her chest. “Super healing or no, that’s a bitch of a bite.”
She looked at the strips of fabric and conceded. “And it’s not like you don’t already have twenty of those shirts,” she said, proffering her injured arm.
“Ha bloody ha,” he grumbled half-heartedly, as he took one of the strips and hung the rest on the sink. He grasped her wrist and twisted the arm up with a gentleness that surprised her. Slowly he began wrapping the wound. She glanced up at him through her lashes. His brow was furrowed and his blue eyes were intent, face a study of focus. Her eyes fell to the sweep of his neck and the dip of his collarbone before travelling down his naked chest. He was so very close. Suddenly the bathroom grew extremely hot. Her cheeks felt flushed.
As if sensing the shift, he suddenly looked up, clear eyes meeting hers. They held for a moment, both of them caught, before he blinked. Looking down, he cleared his throat before looking back up. “Probably going to bleed through this real quick, but it should put a stop to things.”
With that, he let go of her arm and took a deliberate step back. The new space between them was like a rush of cold air. She could breathe again, the heat wave dissipating.
He slid a hand through his hair again, letting curls loose. “We need to hit the road if we’re going to get there before sunup. D’you want anything from the store?”
She nodded slowly. “Soda. And chips or something.”
He fished a beat-up, black leather wallet from the back of his jeans. Pulling out a twenty that looked like it’d been crumpled up in a really grimy pocket for the last ten years, he handed it to her. Buffy took it without a blink. Like Spike giving her spending money was the most natural thing in the world.
With a swipe of his hand he snagged the rest of his ripped up shirt and, tossing it in the trash, started for the door. “Try not to blow it all on sugar, Slayer. Some of us have to put up with you after all,” he said with a grin before stepping outside.
Back in familiar territory, she glared at his back as he headed to the car. The cool night air hit her overheated skin like a dream as she watched the vampire. His pale torso gleamed under the white lights against the backdrop of the night. Walking into the shop and catching the clerk’s eye, it suddenly occurred to her what the two of them must look like – coming out of the bathroom together, him shirtless, her disheveled. But they were out in the middle of nowhere and there was no one around to scandalize but the cashier.
Dumping a handful of cereal bars and a bottle of brambleberry tea on the counter, she looked up at the cashier. He was staring at the blood drenching her shirt and the near sodden black fabric wrapped around her arm. She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, I just spilled some Kool-Aid in the car. That’s all.”
The gawky clerk looked up from her shirt. Judging by his expression, he wasn’t buying it. “That doesn’t look like Kool-Aid. That looks like major blood loss, lady.”
Okay. Definitely not buying it. “Yeah… it’s just a… medical… problem I have. Look, could you just ring me up?”
He took his time in responding, giving her another careful once over before he said, “Sure.”
As soon as she paid, she booked it out of there. Flip-flops slapping against the asphalt, she could feel the attendant’s eyes on her, following her every move under the fluorescent lighting.
Upon reaching the DeSoto, she jerked the door open, slid in, and shut it again in record time. She whirled around to face Spike, who was watching her with a small frown. “We have to leave.” He didn’t move. “Quickly, Spike! Like now.”
He arched an eyebrow in question but began to start up the car. “What’d you do, pet, rob the place? Know I gave you some money.”
“I’m pretty sure the cashier guy thinks I killed someone.”
He blinked and his gaze fell to the crimson staining her shirt. He shrugged. “Fair enough. In a way, you did.” Smoothly, he shifted the DeSoto into gear and pulled out of the station.
As soon as they got back on the highway Buffy twisted around, stretching over the back of the bench seat to rifle through her suitcase. Spike peered at her, brow furrowed, as he tried to watch both the road and her, not at all put out by the lovely view of her bum and thighs. “What are you up to?” The click of her suitcase opening was the reply.
“Duh, changing shirts. Like you did.”
It was true. As much as he liked the idea of as little clothing as possible between the two of them, there was still a long trip ahead of them and he had fished out a new shirt as soon as he got back to the car. The meaning of her words suddenly pinged in his head, and images of a soft, golden Buffy in nothing but those tight khaki shorts and a pink colored bra began dancing through his brain.
“And you better not look,” she said firmly, turning back around with a new top in her hands.
Spike scoffed. “Please, what are you, five? Besides, I’m watching the road. I am driving here, Slayer.”
“Spike,” her voice snapped. He didn’t even have to look at her to know the glare she was givin’ him.
He sunk down in his seat. “Fine,” he mumbled, cross.
There was a beat of silence, doubtless she was still glaring, before a flurry of motion ensued. He barely had time to catch a flash of a long strip of flesh before the new top was firmly in place.
Several seconds of silence ticked by, and then –
“You looked.”
“What? I did not, I – ”
“You looked.”
“No, I merely saw in my peripheral vision – ”
“You looked.”
“Of course I bloody looked!”
And that’s how the next few hours went until she fell asleep. And until she awoke to the smell of burning flesh.
“What could have possibly been running through that thick skull of yours that made you think this was a good idea?”
“Thought I could make it,” he hissed, angry and in pain.
“You thought you could make it? Extra flammable beings aren’t supposed to race the sun, Spike.”
“Well I’m just so glad you’re here, screechin’ a reminder in my ear. I’d forgotten that whole burst into flames thing over the last hundred years,” he yelled, sarcasm dripping off his words.
“You clearly need something,” Buffy snapped back, eyes glaring daggers.
He glared back before turning and stomping toward the small motel bathroom, white cotton wrappings in hand. “Thought you’d be grateful. Should’ve known better when it comes to you,” he muttered darkly.
“Excuse me?” She stared at him in disbelief before fury washed over her anew, and she stormed after him. “Grateful? You thought I’d be grateful?”
He stood at the sink running cold water across the back of his hand and forearm where one long, angry burn was seared across. “And what exactly should I be grateful – ” She glanced into the mirror to better see his face and came up short. The only one in the mirror was her. Her, standing there, in a dingy motel bathroom, looking disheveled, angry, and bewildered. Buffy jerked her eyes away to find Spike peering at her out of the corner of his eyes.
“Should be grateful that I got us here, Elk bloody City, before the new day was here. Told you I would. Know you want to get back to Sunny D.” His voice was calm now, even as his fist was clenched.
And like a balloon, she deflated, all her bluster escaping in a rush. She looked away from those blue eyes and gently took his hand with both of hers. Slowly, she uncurled his fingers as the water rushed over them. “You vampire boys are all alike sometimes. Taking stupid risks and getting hurt when you don’t need to.”
His hand, his entire arm, stiffened in her grip. “I’m not Angel.” There was an odd edge to his voice, and when she looked up to meet his gaze, it sharpened into a precipice. A precipice you could walk along or just dive right over.
“I know,” she whispered.
She held his gaze another moment before turning her attention back to his hand and arm. “This is starting to blister. We should wrap it up.”
Spike stood still as stone, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had gotten into her this time. He watched closely as she grabbed a towel and softly dried off his hand. He watched every move, drinking in the details greedily. The way her bare hands looked against his. The heat of her body as she stood so close. The smell of her skin after a down and dirty fight and long, long car ride.
He wanted to protest, say he didn’t need the bandages, but he didn’t want her to stop touching him. He didn’t want to discourage whatever odd sentiment had come over her. So he let her fuss over him. He watched ever so closely as she wound the white fabric round and round his hand and arm. Watched as her eyes drooped, and when she was finally satisfied that she had done all she could do for him, he watched as she trudged back into the main room and fell to the bed, asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.
Only then did he move, only then did he say a word. He took off her flip-flops, a steady stream of words pouring out of him, and he kicked off his boots, settling carefully in beside her. He stretched out, curled towards her, as close as he could without actually touching her. In seconds she managed to turn all his caution to naught, rolling over in her sleep to face him, letting their limbs tangle. And he lay beside her, low, rumbling words pressed right against her ear for a long, long time before sleep finally took him. “… was in a dream that I first knew, and I knew it was for good, for forever, forever like the sun, forever like the ocean …”
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