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Author's Chapter Notes:
Previously: Buffy suffered a breakdown in the frozen foods aisle and Spike let a five-year-old talk him into playing beauty salon.

Many thanks to All4Spike, the best beta ever!
Chapter 8

Emma crashed down from the sugar high, and finally devoid of make-up, her head lolled against Buffy’s arm. Buffy finally took pity on her and asked, “Do you want to take a nap?”

Emma mumbled something incoherent, all rosy-cheeked and bleary-eyed. Buffy took it as a yes and took one down-for-the-count child to her bedroom.

Good thing too because she had a bone to pick with a certain bloodsucker who was currently clattering about in the bathroom, and Emma was too curious for her own good.

“I don’t think the bloody stuff’s coming off,” he said, his back to her as he splashed his face with tap water.

She considered snickering and leaving him to his own Rocky Horror Show devices, but her conscience won in the end. Let him make fun of her white hat-ness and see if she’d bother being helpful again. “That’s because you need the make-up wipes. It’ll work better.”

He sighed, snatching a snow white towel and rubbing it over his face before Buffy could as much as cringe. She was so not doing the laundry.

“Well, don’t stand there like a twit. Give me a hand.”

“Say please and I might.”

The muscle in his jaw ticked, which was for some reason incredibly satisfying. She should turn irritating him into a national sport. She’d win every round.

“Fine. Please,” he said with a saccharine sweet smile.

“You look like The Joker, by the way,” she said, pushing past him to rummage through the cupboard above the sink where she’d spotted the wipes yesterday. “Aha! Got them.”

“Thank God for small mercies, eh?” He held out his hand, which she chose to ignore for reasons she didn’t like to inspect too closely. He’d just… he’d do a sloppy job, what with being reflection-impaired, that was all. Better to get this over with quickly than have him pester her later.

And so she lay her palm on his chest and pushed him back until the back of his knees hit the bathtub.

“I can do it mys—”

“Sit.”

“Bossy,” he said but sat down on the bathtub’s rim anyway, his chin tilted up. “What’s with the dominatrix routine?”

“You can’t see yourself. I can do a better job. Hence being practical. But if you don’t want me to—”

“Do it.” He leered. “I won’t bite.”

“You couldn’t if you wanted to,” she shot back, a tissue in her hand.

As she stood in between his spread thighs and cupped his jaw, it occurred to her that maybe this hadn’t been the best idea she’d ever had. Deliberately crowding Spike’s personal space to the point she was hyper aware of every brush of his thighs against hers, of the way he gripped the rim with white-knuckled fingers? This was a bad, awful idea. This was bordering on uncomfortably close, something she had a feeling would become more regular the longer they were stuck here.

A distraction had never been more needed, especially when it was so quiet she wondered if he could hear the quickened pace of her heartbeat as loudly as if it was a canon. “How do vampires even put make-up on?”

His lips were still slightly reddened from the friction and his eyes were boring into hers through the smeared charcoal and if she had to swallow nervously it was because… Just because.

“Darla helped Dru with hers. Then when she left… I did. When she wasn’t up to doing it herself, that is.”

“Wow, she must have been even crazier than I thought, letting you do her make-up.”

The muscles in his jaw tensed under her hands, eyes glaring daggers. “At least she didn’t end up having raccoon eyes.”

“Hey!” She scrubbed his cheekbones extra viciously. “It’s called smoky eyes.”

“Don’t know why you bother anyway. Look better without it.”

“Huh?” Somehow Spike and words ‘look better’ in relation to her just didn’t make any sense. She’d been prepared to subject him to offended silent treatment. Of course he’d have to mess it up, as he always did. “Did you just complim—”

“No!” His brows furrowed, eyes falling shut as she moved up to his painted eyelids. “No. It was just… ah… an observation. Forget it.”

“Right.” Weird, weird, weird. And she was touching his face and his stupid girly lashes kept tickling her skin and maybe she should just shove him into the bathtub and flee.

“Slayer?”

“What?” Just a little more. There, finally, all the make-up was off. She’d never needed space more in her life. She wadded up the tissue and threw it on the counter, moving away more quickly than Xander would if there was pizza involved.

“We’re not fooling her.”

She was tempted to say I told you so but chose not to be petty. And she so could have been. Never let it be said that she wasn’t mature. “Nope, we’re really not.”

“What do we do?”

The Slayer in her wanted to take action, devise a tactic, a way to resolve this, but deceiving five-year-olds seemed a little out of both of their areas of expertise. Helpless was a feeling she hated more than anything else in the world. “Maybe we could hug or something.”

Even though she was no longer touching him, the bathroom still seemed too constricted, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen and all the walls were closing in.

“Hug?” He was up on his feet, voice skeptical.

“I don’t know!” She sure as hell wasn’t kissing him. She wasn’t.

“No offense, but you’re not the best actress.”

“I’m better than you,” she said, full of false bravado.

“Oh really? I hardly think so, love. Want to know why?” He stepped up to her, way too close for comfort, and ran his hand down her hair. “See? You freeze up the second I touch you. It’s a bit obvious.”

“Like you’re all good with being touchy-feely?”

“I can pretend,” he said, dropping his hand.

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t,” he said, almost too quickly. “But she’s mine, in a way. And she kind of grows on you. Today she started singing ‘I wanna be sedated’ and—” He cut himself off and she chose to pretend she hadn’t seen the way his eyes had gone soft before he shook it off. “Besides, not keen on seeing her mope around and give us the sad puppy eyes.”

She was almost afraid to ask, but did so anyway. “What do you suggest then?”

“Maybe we should—” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already was. “Get familiar. So it doesn’t seem so off when we touch in front of her.”

“Touch?” Wow, she’d never known her voice could go that high.

“That’s what it’s called, yeah. Not sure if you know, but hugging does involve touching.” The bastard smirked and she so wasn’t going to be one-upped by someone whose style icon was Billy Idol. “Body language says a lot and she’s not going to believe it when both of us flinch at the smallest contact.”

She squared her shoulders. “Touch me then.”

“How about you buy me a dinner first?”

“Spike! Just…do it.”

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. They regarded each other as if they were gunfighters at high noon. Although in their case it was not only tense, but also incredibly awkward, neither of them quite willing to make the first move.

They moved at the same time without meeting each other’s eyes, she getting closer and Spike reaching out. They somehow worked it out and he ended up rubbing his palms down her bare arms, up and down, slowly and almost gently. It was bizarre.

“I think this is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said while he held her hands in the middle of the bathroom.

“Can’t believe I’m going to agree with you.” He tugged her closer until there was barely any space left between them, any room to breathe. His left hand settled on her lower back. It wasn’t the first time she’d been so close him, but this was different. They weren’t fighting or squabbling, staring each other down and waiting to see who would break first. This wasn’t a spell. And perhaps that’s why she found it so hard to ignore that electric pull urging her to fall into him, that feeling she’d always ascribed to Spike-induced rage. It was a lot like sitting on a chair right before it tipped back, and her hands reflexively shot out to brace herself. One landed on his hip, the other one clutched at his upper arm.

“I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Giving up already?” he asked, a challenge in his eyes.

“No.” She was testy and maybe she’d gripped a bit too hard because he winced and pulled at the back of her T-shirt in reflex.

“Sorry.”

“’S fine. Occupational hazard.”

Their knees knocked against each other and she could see the shape of his collarbones through the fabric of his T-shirt. It was the sudden urge to tug down his collar so she could have a better look that had her shaking him off.

“Enough for now?” he asked, eyebrow raised. She felt as if she’d lost some game she didn’t even know they were playing. Next time, she told herself. Next time she wouldn’t be the first one to give in.

“For now.”

*******

He’d been fine up until now, or as fine as a vampire forced into shacking up with his mortal enemy could be. But it would be gaining an edge soon; that hunger slowly simmering beneath his skin. She’d told him about the trip to the butcher’s and he’d just shrugged and said it was no big deal. He could easily last two more days without going bonkers, probably longer if he had to. Wouldn’t be the first time he had to starve and it seemed as though he didn’t get as hungry here. But it was her, constantly underfoot with her skin that smelled like apples and candy, and the promise of ambrosia right beneath, that made his stomach growl as if he hadn’t had his fill in weeks.

They were attempting to cook now, something healthy at Buffy’s insistence because apparently small humans needed their vegetables. Too bad it didn’t include blooming onion flowers because he could go for something that would distract him from staring at her throbbing artery as she chopped up green peppers.

It got worse throughout the day and he blamed the stupid game they’d started, one that somehow resulted in an unspoken challenge of who would pull away first. And while he was stuck at the small kitchen table, rubbing the inside of her wrist with his thumb and torn between sucking her dry and bending her over the table then sucking her dry, it occurred to him that being hungry was never a good thing. For him, the line between bloodlust and lust had always been tenuous at best, and got more blurry the hungrier he got.

Cabin fever was the only reason he found her attractive at all. Had to be. She was nowhere near his type. She was golden skin while he preferred pale; blond while he loved inky black; short and perky and stuck up while he admired long-limbed, sensual and uninhibited.

And he was currently being dragged away from the table by Emma and he would have been almost grateful for the interruption if she didn’t catch the Slayer’s hand too and pulled them into the middle of the living room with a giddy smile. Or was it devious? He couldn’t decide.

“What’s all this then?” he asked, glancing down at her, feeling as puzzled as the Slayer looked.

She giggled and pointed up to the ceiling where the chandelier hung above their heads. It wasn’t the chandelier that got him gulping though. And it definitely wasn’t chandelier that got the Slayer’s eyes go big and round like coins. She was probably frantically trying to come up with a way to get out of this, just like he was.

“It’s a missing toe. Now you have to kiss. It’s in the Bible,” Emma said, serious and looking much too satisfied with herself.

“Mistletoe,” he corrected automatically. “’S poisonous too, you know. Shouldn’t trust it.”

“But… ill,” Buffy protested, coughing to prove her point.

Emma just pursed her lips and stared until both he-- the fucking Big Bad-- and the Slayer that made vampires piss in their britches, wilted under her scrutiny. Of course they had to get zapped into a dimension where their child would be an evil little manipulator. He was almost proud. Almost.

“Kiss!”

Buffy pulled at his wrist, her shaky breath hit the hollow of his throat, and all he could think of was that he had no excuse. A five-year-old made me do it? Yeah, that’d fly, wouldn’t it? It sounded a lot like a ridiculous, empty excuse in his head, no matter how true it was.

Their gazes met, flitted away like startled birds and then his hand was sliding to the back of her neck and scrunching her hair in his fingers. He willed himself to just get it done and over with.

It’s just a kiss. It’s not a big deal.

So why did it feel so much as though he was betraying Dru when he closed his eyes, when her palms burned where they rested on his chest as if his skin had caught on fire? He’d never felt that way with Harmony, never felt as if he was cheating. It had never meant anything.

This doesn’t mean anything either.

Her heart was pounding and he felt his would have too, if it could, and he didn’t understand why. Had to be the bloodlust making him all wonky because it was daft and awkward, especially when they finally decided to go for it and turned their heads in the same direction. Their noses bumped and her lips hit his chin instead of his mouth. When they finally slotted their lips together he could feel her smile, could almost hear her think, God, we’re so dumb, and he smiled in response before he could catch himself.

He vaguely remembered Red’s spell and tried to compare but couldn’t, because this was nothing like it. He was aware now, painfully so, of the way her pouty upper lip fitted between his just so, and how she tasted of the strawberries they’d had for dessert when she opened her mouth the tiniest bit to suck his bottom lip into her mouth.

When he tightened his hold on the nape of her neck and his free hand settled on her lower back, fingertips meeting blazing skin just beneath the hem of her top, he tilted his head to get deeper and told himself this was as far as he’d let this go. Just a snog. Nothing more. Wouldn’t mean he’d feel something all of a sudden. They were putting on a show and that’s all it was.

Then her teeth caught his lip and tugged, and he realised the distance between them had somehow vanished so they were pressed flush from chest to knees. And it was a lot like fighting with her, the tug-of-war of who would make the other surrender. He refused to be the one to lose, so he brushed the seam of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, just teasing flicks, until she parted her lips and let him in with a sharp inhale, chasing his tongue back into his mouth.

It wasn’t until she sucked on his tongue and breathed a moan into his mouth, until he gripped her hips in response and pulled her against him so hard they may as well have melted into one being, that they both realised at the same time that it had gone too far.

They all but jumped away from each other, wiping their mouths and resolutely avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Gross!” Emma said with a giggle from where she’d apparently scampered off to the sofa, peering up at them from behind it.

“Oh God,” Buffy mumbled low enough for only him to hear.

“No big deal, yeah?” he said quietly, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, feeling breathless even though he didn’t need to breathe. “What’s a snog or two between two sworn enemies?”

“Right. Just a… a snog.” Her cheeks were flushed but she finally met his eyes and there was a mutual understanding there. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

And it didn’t, but he was still relieved when Buffy took Emma outside to build a snowman, something he begged out of under the pretense of doing work. Emma didn’t protest after that, probably thinking he was busy writing.

He went up to the loft and picked up the book, turning it over in his hand. He shouldn’t keep reading it, but he sat down and did anyway, because when had he ever been known to do the smart thing?

TBC


Chapter End Notes:
So... did you like (the kiss)? :)



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