“Spike?” Buffy called, her voice rough from sleep. She tried to look around and figure out where she was, but the room around her was dark and someone warm – definitely not Spike – was holding her in place on the bed.
“Spike?” she tried again louder as she tried to pry the arm off from around her torso that was holding her prisoner.
“Spike went down to get more of those pretty plastic discs,” the Bot told Buffy cheerfully.
Buffy started at the loud voice so near her ear. “And you’re all wrapped around me like a boa constrictor around a … whatever boa constrictors eat … why exactly?” Buffy protested, pulling harder on the Bot’s arm to no avail.
Buffy and the Bot were both lying on the bed on their sides with the Bot behind Buffy. BuffyBot had her arms wrapped around Buffy’s upper arms and torso, and her legs twined around Buffy’s legs, holding the Slayer’s back securely against the Bot’s front.
“He said I should keep you immobile until he got back. Boa constrictors eat a wide variety of food. Young snakes eat rats, small birds, lizards, and frogs. Adults will eat monkeys, capybaras, caimans, and wild pigs,” the Bot offered helpfully.
“Great … I’m a rat … again,” Buffy groaned. “And just why would I need to be kept immobile?”
“You were trying to rip off Spike’s dangly bits. He was quite upset. Based on his reaction, I’ve surmised that he’s rather fond of them,” the Bot told her.
Buffy couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her throat. “His 'dangly bits'?” she repeated incredulously. “Why would I do that?”
“You attempted to copulate with him. He was unwilling,” the Bot answered.
The humor of the situation died on Buffy's lips. “I … did I hurt him?” she asked the Bot as she stopped pulling against the robot’s limbs.
“He sustained no serious injuries, although his chip fired several times as he tried to restrain you and defend his delicate, and quite impressive, reproductive organs.”
“Oh my God,” Buffy moaned, not certain whether to be mortified, horrified, or terrified by what she’d apparently done when she wasn’t in control.
“You … got me off him?” Buffy asked the Bot.
“Yes. I’m the Slayer. I’m quite strong and have many combat skills. Spike said that your mind was in disarray, otherwise I would not have so easily subdued you. But, I’m not certain if that is true. I’m very capable. And I have excellent quips.”
Buffy closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “Bot, promise me something. Promise to always protect Spike … from me, from anyone, okay? He’s got that chip and it makes him … vulnerable.”
“You have already directed me to do that. Is your memory faulty? The night you stabbed the knife into your arms and everyone started screaming. That directive has not been countermanded.”
“Right. I forgot,” Buffy agreed.
“Spike is probably right. Perhaps you are ‘off your gourd’.”
Buffy snorted and closed her eyes, relaxing in the Bot’s protective, and fairly immovable, embrace. “I am undoubtedly ‘off my gourd’.”
**~**
Buffy awoke later when something tickled her nostrils and some indistinct aroma made her stomach rumble in reply. She tried to reach up and rub at her nose to get the tickling sensation to stop, but her arms were still pinned to her sides. She blinked her eyes open to find Spike crouched down on his heels in front of her, waving a French fry under her nose like smelling-salts.
“There you are, Slayer,” Spike commented affably, giving her a little smile as if she hadn’t tried to rape him, presuming what the Bot had told her was true. “Got your favorite,” he continued, still waving the French fry around like a sword in front of her face. “Chips and a chocolate milkshake.”
“Sounds really healthy,” Buffy commented, her voice raspy from sleep. “And I told you before, I’m not the Slayer.”
“I’m the Slayer. I fight with weapons,” the Bot offered from behind Buffy.
Buffy quirked a brow at Spike. “See? She’s the Slayer, not me. I officially relinquish my title to her.”
“Her? Not it?” Spike questioned, his brow furrowed, surprised by the use of the pronoun.
Buffy shrugged one shoulder – all she could move. “She’s alright, I guess ...” Buffy admitted. “A bit literal, but … at least she’s brutally honest.”
“Buffy?” Spike questioned, tilting his head to consider her more carefully. “You back, luv?”
Buffy closed her eyes and nodded. “Yeah … I guess.”
“Don’t feel any uncontrollable urge t’ … rip my clothes off, do ya?” he asked, a slight teasing tone to his words.
Him making light of what she’d done stabbed an icicle of guilt into Buffy’s stomach and tears welled behind her lids. “I’m sorry…” she murmured, the sound barely audible even to Spike’s ears.
“No worries, pet. Been wishing you’d rip m’ clothes off for a good while now. Bloody pathetic that when ya finally did, I wouldn’t let ya,” he replied as he stood up and touched the Bot’s arm. “Let ‘er go,” he said to the newly-appointed Slayer.
Buffy rubbed at her numb arms when the Bot released the hold she’d had on her, and sat up slowly on the edge of the bed. “From what the Bot tells me, you needed help fending me off,” Buffy countered.
“Bot’s got a big bloody mouth,” Spike spat, looking at the robot who moved to sit next to Buffy.
“My mouth was created to precise specifications,” the BuffyBot protested, then opened her mouth as wide as it would go to demonstrate. “Uh iau ooo ook eeg?” she asked with her mouth still fully open.
“No – it’s not too big,” Buffy answered her. “It’s just right. You can close it now.”
Spike looked at Buffy with disbelief. “You understood that gibberish?”
Buffy shrugged. “It’s what I would’ve asked.”
“Bloody scary, that is Sl...ummers,” Spike stuttered.
Buffy stopped rubbing her arms and looked up at him gravely. “I’m so sorry … I don’t know why I … I just … I’m sorry.”
“Least ya didn’t break m’ nose this time, pet,” he excused with a casual wave of the French fry still in his hand.
Buffy rolled her eyes and shook her head. If he’d done that to her, could she have been so cavalier and forgiving about it? Even if she was out of her mind with grief and guilt, she couldn’t let that happen again. She’d have to talk to the Bot later, set up some kind of signal when Buffy felt the … madness coming on, so the Bot could restrain her. Madness. The word sent shivers down Buffy’s spine, but it was the only word that fit. She was going – or had gone – mad.
“Peckish?” Spike asked, breaking into Buffy’s train of thought.
Buffy looked up at him. “No, this is America – I’m hungry,” she retorted, choosing to go along with his casual dismissal of her behavior, at least for now.
“Bloody Yanks. Got perfectly good words from the mother country, but you gotta go mucking about with the language. Can’t ever leave well enough alone, can ya?” Spike taunted.
“I’m pretty sure hungry isn’t a new word we just invented over here,” Buffy argued as she stood up and grabbed the French fry from his hand.
“I grew up being ‘peckish’ – it’s bloody well not new either,” Spike shot back.
“I bet ‘hungry’ is older than ‘peckish’,” Buffy retorted as she shoved the fry into her mouth.
“Right – what’s the wager? I got fifty bucks says I’m right,” Spike challenged, pulling a chip out of his pocket. “What ‘ave you got, Summers?”
Buffy frowned – she didn’t have any money. “Can I … borrow…”
“Pffft!” Spike snorted, cutting her off before she could even get the words out. “If ya can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch, luv.”
“I can run with the biggest dogs … wolves … werewolves even!” Buffy objected with a pout. “I just don’t have any money,” she added petulantly.
“I bet you don’t let anyone borrow money in Monopoly, either,” she griped.
“Not a bloody chance,” Spike confirmed. “Pay up or go broke – that’s the way ya win, luv.”
Buffy frowned at him, thinking. “We could bet something else!” she offered, brightening. “I bet you … a massage.”
Spike’s brows quirked up, as did his libido, but he repressed the ‘I got ya now’ smirk that reached for his lips. “Full body… head t’ toe.”
Buffy nodded.
“With oil,” he added.
Buffy twisted her mouth suspiciously, but then nodded.
Spike stuck his right hand out to shake on it. Buffy spit on her palm, then reached for his outstretched hand. Spike drew his hand back out of her reach with vampire speed, making a disgusted face.
"Oi! Don't want your crazy-cooties, Summers," he objected.
"My crazy isn't catching! Geez, Spike – never knew you were so ... prissy! I'll bet you wouldn't complain if it was blood."
"'Course not – that's different, innit?" Spike agreed with a derisive sniff.
"You are so ... " Despite several descriptive words jumping to mind, Buffy shook her head and sighed, not voicing any of them.
She wiped her hand off on her jeans and offered it to him again. They shook once, both trying to break the other’s fingers, but neither succeeding in even making the other wince.
“Sooo … how do we find out now? Normally, I’d ask Giles or Willow…” Buffy let her voice trail off, a hint of sadness sneaking into her mood. She’d almost forgotten; bickering with Spike felt so natural and normal, she’d almost forgotten that things were not normal anymore.
"Bot – reckon you got a dictionary or two crammed in that lovely noggin o’ yours, yeah?” Spike asked, looking at the BuffyBot.
She nodded. “As well as the entire Wikipedia database, the National Archives, the Library of Congress, the…”
“Right – reckon a plain, ole dictionary will do. Need the origins of the words ‘hungry’ and ‘peckish’.”
The Bot ‘went away’ for a moment, then smiled widely, re-focusing on her companions. “Peckish: Adjective. Chiefly British. Feeling slightly hungry; having an appetite. Origin circa 1785. From ‘peck’: a measure of quantity, eight quarts.”
“Oh! Like ‘pick a peck of pickled peppers!’” Buffy interjected brightly. “I never knew what that meant before.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Bloody genius you are, pet.”
Buffy stuck her tongue out at him as she scrunched up her face like a fifth-grader who couldn’t think of suitable a retort to a jibe.
“Do mine,” Buffy encouraged the Bot. “'Hungry'.”
The Bot nodded. “Hungry: Adjective. Having a desire, craving, or need for food. Origin before 950; Middle English, Old English.”
Buffy squealed in delight, clapped her hands, and began sing-songing, “Na-na-na-na-na-naaa,” in a very mature and dignified manner. “♫ You owe me a massa-aage ♫,” she continued in the same sing-song tune as her ‘na-na-na’ chant.
Spike bit back a grin of victory, dropping his head in a bow to concede to her and hide his delight. “Bloody beginner’s luck,” he ground out, sounding dejected as a feeling of elation at the thought of running his hands over her body danced in his mind.
“If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch,” Buffy mocked him as she headed off for the bathroom. “And … could you order me a burger to go with those fries? I’m totally peckified…”
Spike snorted and rolled his eyes as he headed for the phone. “Bloody Yanks, got no respect,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.
**~**
After Buffy ate less than a quarter of what turned out to be the largest hamburger she’d ever seen – easily eighteen or twenty ounces worth – she settled onto a comfortable sofa on the balcony of their suite while Spike got a shower. He’d been in the casino all day while she’d been sleeping, and he practically reeked of cigarettes and whiskey, as well as a cacophony of perfumes and other odors which had settled on him from other patrons. Not that the aroma of smoke and whiskey was all that unusual on Spike, but the sheer volume of it, combined with the mishmash of every designer fragrance known to man, was a bit overwhelming, even for Buffy’s un-bloodhound-y sense of smell. Spike could just stop breathing; she didn't have that luxury.
As she sat in the cool night air listening to the sounds of the always-thrumming metropolis below, her mind darted from one thought to another like a hummingbird would flit from flower to flower, rarely settling on one very long. She thought that perhaps it was trying to make up for lost time, trying to think all the thoughts she needed to think while it had the chance – before she lost the ability again.
While her mind jumped from thought to thought, her emotions were jerked along for the ride. Guilt and shame over attacking Spike morphed into worry that her mind would never be stable enough to allow her to properly raise a child. Then guilt came back once again as she thought about Dawn needing her to do just that. Then anger bloomed in her chest – anger at the monks for putting her in this untenable situation in the first place. They couldn’t have turned the Key into a grain of sand or a rock on the bottom of the ocean? I mean … seriously? Glory could’ve never found it, and Buffy wouldn’t be sitting here feeling … feeling … overwhelmed. What the hell were they thinking?!
And just how did Spike get to smelling so strongly of perfume? Smoke and whiskey – yeah, ok … he smoked and he drank. Just how many women had been rubbing all over him today to get him smelling like a two-bit hooker at Mardi Gras? Jealous fury burst forth out of the tumult of emotions inside Buffy and she began to seethe as she imagined all the skanks that must’ve been hanging all over him – or worse. She could see him turning on that boyish charm – she’d seen him do it before – smiling at them, pouring that stupid, cheesy Cockney accent all over them, calling them ‘pet’ and ‘luv’ and …
“That better then, pet?” Spike asked as he stepped onto the balcony, fresh from the shower. He had on a pair of jeans, but was barefoot and shirtless. His platinum hair was still damp and clung in soft curls to his head.
Buffy scowled at him. “Don’t call me ‘pet’,” she snarled. She pulled her legs up against her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and made herself very small.
Spike gawped at her a moment, gobsmacked, then sat down next to her.
Buffy scooted away from him, pressing herself against the arm of the couch, and continued to shoot daggers from her eyes in his direction.
“Buffy?” he asked with concern. “You with me, luv?”
“Don’t call me ‘luv’ either,” she shot back. “Save all those cute little names for your … stinky, perfume-counter, body-rubbing, skank-hos.”
Clearly Buffy was still with him – she was talking in full sentences, even if she wasn’t making a lot of sense. “Ummm … not quite following. Care t’ share with the class, Summers?”
“I’m not an idiot, Spike,” Buffy continued angrily. “You come in smelling like a perfume factory exploded all over you; it’s really not hard to figure out.”
Spike pursed his lips and watched her a moment, then his lips quirked into a smirk. “You’re jealous,” he accused.
“I am not! There’s nothing to be jealous of. It’s not like we’re … or you’re … or … I’m …” she stuttered. Buffy waved a diffident hand in the air and looked away from his blue eyes, which glittered with amusement. “I’m not jealous,” she repeated firmly, looking out at the city lights.
Spike barked out a self-satisfied laugh, sat back on the couch, and hooked his thumbs over his belt buckle. His legs fell wide in a casual sprawl as he leaned his head back and looked up at the star-less sky. He couldn’t keep the goofy grin from quirking his lips. The bloody Slayer is jealous.
“You don’t have to rub it in my face,” Buffy ground out, trying to still sound angry, but she cringed at the needy whine that snuck into her tone.
Spike pursed his lips and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his thighs so he could look her in the face. “You’re bloody daft at times, Sl...” He stopped. “Running outta things t’ call you, kitten.”
Buffy snorted, still not looking at him. “What’s the matter? Don’t have any cute names for stupid, crazy women?” she shot back tersely.
“Buffy, you’re forgettin’ one thing,” Spike said softly.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Buffy wondered, finally turning her angry eyes back to his.
“I love you.” Spike held his breath. The words were out of his mouth before he thought about what they might do to her. The last time he’d said them it had sent her scurrying back into her shell of madness.
Buffy was silent a moment, her eyes locked onto his. Then her lids fell closed, trying to contain her raging emotions. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” she said at last, her voice low and sad.
Spike sighed in relief – she hadn’t retreated. “No ‘maybe’ about it … but I do anyway,” he replied gently. He reached out and laid a hand over her arm where she had it wrapped around her legs. “Buffy, there’s no one else I want, luv. You’re the only one I see – the only woman in the world.”
Buffy opened her eyes and looked into the depths of his bluer-than-blue eyes and once again she felt guilt surge in her for her plan to use him to save Dawn. Perhaps she should just tell him. He loved Dawn, he may be perfectly fine with it. But what if he wasn’t? Could she chance Dawn’s soul?
“I’m sorry,” she murmured – apologizing for more than Spike could possibly realize. “For everything. I’m just …” Buffy waved a hand vaguely in front of her face. “… I just get overwhelmed with stuff when I can finally think and … let my mind start long-jumping to world-record-setting conclusions.”
“‘S alright, luv,” Spike assured her as he moved his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him.
Buffy relaxed her posture and tucked her legs to the side as she leaned against his bare chest, resting her head on his strong shoulder. One hand casually came to rest on his jean-clad thigh.
Sparks danced up Spike’s leg and settled into a tingling need in his core. He stifled a groan and pushed the desire down, at least momentarily. There was one thing he really needed to talk to her about while she was lucid … or as lucid as Buffy got these days.
“Need t’ ask you something, Sla… Buffy,” he began. He’d never be able to stop calling her ‘Slayer’ – never.
“Sure,” Buffy replied as her fingers began drawing idle circles on the denim covering his thigh. Spike fought to ignore it – she wasn't gonna make this easy.
“Do you … What I mean is …” Spike stammered a bit, suddenly a bit unsure of how to ask his question. Finally, he settled on, “You do know that vampires can’t make … babies, yeah?”
Buffy tensed a moment, her hand stilling, as her mind raced to figure out what he was talking about. Did he know? Surely not. How could he know? She forced herself to relax again and replied casually, “I know. And you don’t carry diseases either – there’s nothing for them to live on. So, if this is about ‘safe sex’ … I get it: You aren’t spending money on condoms.”
Spike snorted. “Who talks t’ Slayers about ‘safe sex’ with vampires? Your Watcher or your mum?”
Buffy flushed. “You really don’t want me to answer that question.”
It was Spike’s turn to tense up. “Angelus,” he practically snarled. Buffy shrugged against him. Spike blew out a breath and recomposed himself before pressing on. “Not really what I was getting at, anyway,” he admitted.
“Is havin’ babies something you … want?” he continued cautiously. If she wanted a family, it would tear his heart out. That was one thing he could never give her. He could give her his love, give her his heart, his mind, his body, but he could never give her a family.
“Why are you asking?” Buffy wondered, still trying to sound casual although she was suddenly worried again.
“Well … ‘cos when you were … errr … That is – the other day, you said something ‘bout making a baby. Didn’t know if that was … a metaphor or…” Spike let his voice trail off, shrugging.
Buffy cringed inside but tried not to let it show. Crazy-Buffy had a big mouth.
“I … uhhh … never really thought about it much,” Buffy replied fairly truthfully. She’d never allowed herself to think about it. Slayers didn’t live long enough to have families – there was no sense thinking about it. She honestly had dismissed the idea of babies long, long ago.
“Having a baby’s never been really high on my priority list,” Buffy concluded. “Never figured it was in the cards for me.” Until recently, she added silently. “You know, being all Chosen and doomed.
“What about you? If you could, I mean … make a baby. Would you … want to?” she asked cautiously. She held her breath, awaiting his reply. Please say 'yes'.
“Me? A father?” Spike scoffed, snorting derisively. “Changing nappies and get spit-up on, right sexy that’d be. Not good for Big Bad’s image, that.”
“There’s more to babies than yucky stuff,” Buffy pointed out, hopefully. “And they do grow out of it.”
Please, Spike ... please say you wish you could have a family...
“Yeah – PTA meetings would be a slap and a tickle, I reckon. Little League could be a bit dodgy … what with the sun and all. No, don’t reckon ole Spike’s cut out t’ be a da. Probably a right good reason vampires can’t make bits – not in our nature – ya, know, evil and all,” Spike finished, sounding resolutely disgusted by the idea.
He hoped he sounded as confident and resolute as Buffy had about not wanting a family. He was relieved that it had just been some kind of metaphor the subconscious, fugue-state Buffy had used for sex. But, at the same time, it hurt a little deep down knowing that he’d never see her glowing with the joy of pregnancy; never see her body grow with a life that they’d created together, never feel the love of his own child – that unconditional, rock-solid love that only a child can give a parent.
Buffy nodded her agreement, despite her heart collapsing in upon itself. She was glad now that she hadn’t told him about Dawn’s soul. He didn’t want kids – not in his nature. “Yeah – we’re just not … cut out for parenthood,” she agreed after a moment, hoping she sounded as confident as he had about it. She sighed inwardly, this mission was gonna all be on her shoulders.
**~**