Chapter Twenty-Six
By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon, Buffy was all but convinced that the entire encounter had been a dream. She awoke alone in her bed, covers pulled pristinely over her lithe form. The clothes that had been piled at the floor were gone—shelved appropriately or consigned to the hamper that they were collecting for the Laundromat that remained far down their list of priorities. Spike’s duster was gone as well. The bowl of soup she had consumed after the demon attack as well as the cup of tea that she never really got around to drinking had also been cleared away. The t-shirt that the vampire dressed her in the night before had been replaced with one of her own; and for that, she could understand. They had somewhat soiled his.
Her panties were missing. That was the only spark that gave way to the prior night’s validity. And while it hurt that Spike had not opted to remain in her bed to enjoy the morning together, she couldn’t entirely say she was surprised. Or that she blamed him, for that matter. What was stolen in the evening hours could not be readily trusted at daybreak. Her own feelings notwithstanding, he had to be as confused as ever for all the mixed signals she was giving him.
The townhouse was eerily silent as she moved through with her normal routine. Spike’s bedroom door was closed but she knew he wasn’t there. No, the house was empty. Cold and empty. No pancakes being made in the kitchen. No snuggles, no teasing, no kissage—morning breath included. Nothing.
Buffy’s heart sank. She was edging toward complete depression. What she and Spike had shared last night was perhaps the most sensuous experience of her life. With everything else she had done, seen, shared with others, there had never lingered that sense of security. That feeling of complete absolution. They had held each other in the aftermath of something beautiful only to quiver at the possibility that it was the first and last. That there would never be such a homecoming again.
Truthfully, she had expected the entire thing to confuse her even more. With the way she was feeling before patrol last night, arriving at such a sudden epiphany seemed unlikely. Seemed beyond the reach of her conscious. And really, she didn’t know what had changed it for her. Perhaps it was the knowledge that despite all else, Spike was there. He was always there. He had come after her last night when he had every reason not to, and he had done it out of a sense of protection rather than intruding upon the space she had been dead-set to put between them.
Buffy made herself a bowl of cereal, forgoing milk and deciding against the group sitch. She hadn’t gotten much sleep for reasons beyond the obvious and didn’t particularly feel like seeing Xander or anyone else who would look upon her critically. So, instead, she curled up on the couch and flipped on the television, hoping for something that would call her mind to distraction.
When she landed on CSPAN, she stopped. On screen was the Press Secretary for the President—CJ Cregg. Donna had mentioned her a time or two in passing; it was amazing how much interest simply knowing the people involved could prompt her focus on politics.
CJ wasn’t talking about politics, though. She was talking about Natchez.
“For those of you who didn’t hear me the first, second, and third time, no, we have no idea why the town has virtually shut itself off. And no—” She took a minute to point at one of the reporters that was off screen, “—we don’t know when we can expect an update from the Communications Director or the Deputy Chief of Staff. Rest assured, we have plenty of armed militia looking into the matter. When I actually have information to give you, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” A low murmur ran through the crowd at that; the ironic sarcasm in the comment not lost on anyone. “Katie.”
As the selected reporter continued with her question, Buffy flicked off the television and climbed to her feet. Staying here wasn’t going to get anything done. Whatever was going on with her and Spike would have to wait. They had a situation, and she had to be a part of it.
She was the Slayer. Personal problems were infinitely on hold. Granted, when things weren’t going well in her personal life, her life as the Slayer tended to suffer in turn.
The blonde expelled a deep breath, dumping the remaining contents of her cereal bowl into the trash and cast her dish into the sink. The last time her emotions played a heavy role in her duties, the ending result was catastrophic. For anything else, she wouldn’t let herself go through that again. She refused to put herself in such a place where she had to choose between love and duty.
No. Not now. Now was a time for work. Not a time for hiding in corners and wishing the world away. One never knew when the PTB might take that seriously.
She decided to go into the main house through the connecting door in the back to avoid bringing attention to herself. Though by the time she arrived, the dining room had been abandoned; left to one of the two maids she had met since they initially checked in. The party itself had relocated to the front parlor where they were discussing the current conclusions in animate, however lowered voices.
Another sigh escaped her throat. There was no use in avoiding them. With a polite nod to the Millers, who had smiled and greeted her upon entering but somehow escaped her discernment, she moved stealthily through the dining room and slipped into the conversation.
It was futile trying to go unnoticed. The minute she pressed herself against the wall, a violent undercurrent of raging blue sucked in her gaze, and her knees sagged, threatening to give way. His eyes had found hers immediately, of course. Burning her to the core. So much storming behind a raging blue sea. He froze and melted her within the same beat; the wealth of emotion plaguing him made her want to break all protocol and bound across the room and pepper his face with reassuring kisses. It was overwhelming; never had she thought that a simple look from Spike would ever affect her so profusely.
But there was nothing to do; nothing she could do. Not with everyone here and watching and matters of more worldly importance at hand. Her sudden appearance had pushed her back to the spotlight. It took a minute to realize that a question had been aimed in her direction.
Buffy blinked and smiled apologetically. She didn’t even know who had asked it. “What?”
Xander smiled at her a bit from his vantage point across the room. She didn’t like the way he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other; it gave her the impression that he was waiting to whip the blinds behind him away to fry the resident vampire once and for all. Granted, despite however much her friend disapproved of Spike, he would never do such a thing without ample motive. And however irrational Xander might have been at times, the consenting relationship between two adults—regardless of societal status—did not fall under the category of ample motive.
“We were just wondering if you were okay and all,” he said. “Spike told us that you had a rough night and planned on sleeping it off.”
The Slayer’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“The buruburu, pet,” the vampire intervened softly, eyes never flinching from hers. “I thought it’d be best ‘f you stayed in bed today. Gathered your strength, an’ what all.”
Oh. “Oh, yeah. Right.” She crossed her arms and edged inward. “I do feel kinda funky, but otherwise, on the side of good.” She made a point of saying that last while keeping her gaze intent upon the Cockney; it was her misfortune that he chose that moment to look away. Before she could convey anything with success. “It was bad last night, but…” She shrugged. “If Spike hadn’t found me, I’d be Slayer chow.”
Donna frowned. “You went by yourself?”
Willow’s eyes snapped to Spike’s face. “You didn’t tell us that.”
The vampire didn’t reply. He kept his gaze stoic and glued to the carpet. The uncharacteristic silence about him was making Buffy nervous. And from the confused stares from the others, she wasn’t the only one.
“You went out by yourself?” Sam asked. “With everything that’s going on? I thought Mr. Giles—”
Xander chuckled wryly. “The Buffster isn’t one for following rules.”
There was a snort from his right. “That’s reassuring. Isn’t she the one that saves the world?”
Donna rolled her eyes. “She’s a woman of the world, Josh. She doesn’t need a supervisor.”
“Case in point by the way the vampire had to come to the rescue, right?”
Buffy’s eyes flared. “Hey! Doing things my way gets the world saved, all right? Hasn’t failed me yet.” She wet her lips at the challenging look Spike sent her way and shrugged her shoulders in concession. “There are just times when I…need a little help.”
“The vampire coming to the rescue,” Josh said again.
The Slayer glanced to Sam. “Can we muzzle him?”
“Trust me,” Donna intervened. “It won’t help.”
“Buffy,” Wesley said, holding up a hand to motion for the others observance to silence. “Can you tell us what happened? Spike claimed it was a buruburu that attacked you—”
“And at this point, I’m not ready to disagree with him.”
“Well, I am. Buruburus are native to Japan, you see. The likelihood of one being here is…well, minimal at best.”
Spike heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Tried tellin’ these wankers that ‘ve been alive long enough to know what a bleedin’ buruburu looks like. Even described it to Anyanka, an’ she said I saw right.” He trained his gaze on Harris. “Also mentioned that she used a couple durin’ her vengeance days. Nice slow way to die, don’ you think, Stay Puft?”
“Shut up.”
“Where is Anya?” Buffy asked. “And Giles?”
“Anya’s going to be sleeping until next Thursday for as late as she came in last night,” Xander replied. “Remind me to never complain about the length of research parties again.”
“Giles is still cramming down the text,” Willow explained. “He found a few nonsensical passages and he’s decided that since he’s in a rut that he needs to punish himself with no food or sleep.”
“Poor guy,” Donna said. “We should go and give him a break.”
Josh arched a brow. “Yeah, you do that.”
“I don’t think he’d be much for breakage right now, anyway,” the Witch replied with a small smile. “He’s all in the groove. We should pop by and see if we can help, though.”
Xander raised his hand slowly. “Been there, tried that. I think he actually threw a shoe at me.”
Sam nodded to Willow. “We can go by. See if he needs help. And I need to check up on Toby.”
“I think Toby’s way of coping with all of this is to not cope.” Josh glanced to Buffy. “He’s probably so far into his denial that he’s convinced himself Herbert Hoover is President.”
“Then we are in trouble,” the blonde assistant remarked.
There was a thoughtful pause. “I believe that if anyone is to help Giles sort through the mess, it should be Donna and myself,” Wesley said before turning to her. “I understand that you are good with research, even if this is a tad out of your field.” She nodded her compliance, and he was satisfied with that. “As for the rest of us, I am under the impression that it would be better if Willow stayed here and attempted another location spell.” He ignored the looks and few moans that the suggestion bore. “I understand that we have had little success in the past, but a part of knowing what Quirinias wants is understanding why he used Faith to bring us here.”
“An’ why there’s suddenly Japanese demons runnin’ around,” Spike muttered.
A look of extremely schooled patience overwhelmed the former Watcher’s face. “We do not know that for sure.”
“I bloody well know it.”
“I don’t think you—”
“Look, mate. You’re not the one who ripped it off the Slayer’s back with your bare hands an’ tore it to bloody shreds an’—wait a sec.” The vampire’s eyes went wide with confusion, meeting Buffy’s gaze in a hurry. “How’d I do that? The chip din’t fire. I jus’ ripped it off you an’—”
“The chip doesn’t work on demons,” Josh intervened. “I thought we covered this yesterday.”
Buffy pursed her lips sheepishly. “We did…I just forgot to tell him.”
There was a long pause. Spike was looking at her in a way he never had before; she didn’t know what to make of it. Whether it was of question or accusation. He was shielding his emotions well, and she could almost hate him for it.
Either way, it was better to amend. “It wasn’t on purpose,” she said. “I just…had a lot on my mind when I got in last night. Then I went patrolling and there was the thing and I…Spike, your chip doesn’t work.”
The silence stretched deeper—the others now audience members, watching a soap opera of events unfold. She really didn’t know what to make of his expression; his eyes remained as hard as rocks. However, despite all else, there was a light of humored adoration in his voice when he spoke. The same that finally sparked his gaze as he tilted his head, watching her with some intensity. “Thanks, luv,” he replied. “Got the memo.”
“So…” Sam began slowly, testing the waters. “Your chip didn’t go off, and you just now noticed it?”
“Was a bit distracted last night, mate.”
Buffy’s cheeks went red and she looked down in a hurry.
“The Slayer was sickly an’ all.”
Donna was looking at the vampire with a new form of admiration, her round eyes as large as saucers. There was a sort of girlish fondness in her expression; one that Buffy couldn’t help but envy. This was a woman who had no reason to hate vampires. She could be as open and candor as she pleased. “So you jumped in to save her even though you knew it would cause you pain?” she asked, her voice wound as though she had just watched the end of Steel Magnolias. “That is the sweetest thing I—”
“Donna,” Josh berated, a bit more snappish than intended.
“It didn’t cause him pain,” Xander argued. “The chip only works on humans.”
“He didn’t know that at the time.”
Spike curled his fingers into the cushions of the settee and threw his head back in aggravation. “All I want to know is why in God’s name there’s a bleedin’ demon runnin’ ‘round out there that should be an’ ocean an’ a fuck away.”
Wesley held up his hand. “We don’t know that—”
“For the last time, you ignorant sod. Yes. We. Bloody. Do. Buffy din’t see it, I did. Can’t spot buruburus unless you’re somethin’ a li’l less than human, right?” He rolled his eyes, reaching for his cigarettes. “It was drainin’ her strength. Made it so I was the warm one, an’ left a nasty cut on her backside from where I yanked it off.”
Xander’s eyes went wide. “How would you kn—”
“What, Harris? You prefer I let her bleed all night?”
“Yeah, like Slayer blood is really something you’d object to.”
“Well, truth be told, mate, I’d be less likely to object to Harris blood right now for all the trouble you’ve caused.”
“Trouble?! I—”
This was going to explode if she didn’t do something.
“Guys!” Buffy yelled, throwing her hands in the air. “Stop. This is getting us nowhere. Yes, Xander. Spike took care of me last night. I was cut. I was bleeding. It hurt. He fixed it. And no, not that it’s any of your business; I didn’t give him a taste of Slayer blood as thanks. And no, he didn’t ask for one. So drop it.” She pivoted at the heel to face Wesley. “Look, I have no idea what this backarack thing is or why it might be here, but if Spike says he knows what they are, look like, and got as up close and personal as he did with it last night, I’m gonna go out on a whim and say he knows what he’s talking about. So maybe instead of arguing whether or not he has eyes and knows how to use them, you should focus more on the ‘figuring out why the hell it’s here’ part of your job. Okay?”
She sealed it with a look she knew Wesley had seen before. One of those ‘you know what happens when you fuck with me’ glares that had him complying immediately. As for the Senior Staffers, Josh just looked at her dumbly; Sam looked uncomfortable. Donna flashed her an encouraging smile, then turned to the former Watcher to confirm what they were going to spend the day doing.
Spike flashed her a grateful smile, but didn’t say anything else. Rather, he rose to his feet as the group dispersed and trailed out without another word. She felt bereft the minute he was gone.
With whatever they had shared the night before, there had to be some way to convince him that it was what she wanted from now on. Him and herself. There would be no first, last, and only with them. Not when she felt the attachment growing to dangerous proportions.
The vow of an hour ago was useless. Her personal life was what commanded her abilities as the Slayer. There was a medium out there; she knew it. And without Spike with her, finding it would be one of the more trying endeavors of her experience.
She just hoped these petty distractions didn’t get them all killed.
*~*~*
That mindset lasted for a few hours before she gave up completely.
There was certain logic in turning to liquor when things started going south of the border in the not-so-pleasant way. If she stopped to consider the irony, Buffy was certain she would be in stitches.
The day had passed slowly, ticking away with a monotone of growing agony. A series of duties dispersed among the willing. Donna and Wesley had been gone for hours now; Sam and Willow following the results of the location spell to the corners of god-knows-what in this forsaken town. She supposed there was a certain amount of respect to be had for a man willing to track down the person who had—all too recently—abused him in a degradingly intimate fashion. Either that, or he was too enamored with Willow to care at this juncture. They were gone, now, and that was that. Away from prying eyes. Able to be together without inspiring mass amounts of disapproval.
Buffy was happy for her friend—she really was. With whatever was going between the two, it was more than obvious that it was mutual. The redhead had given up denying her attraction, and while she likely had miles to go until she was completely over Oz, she was happy now. In spite of all the bad, she was happy.
And no one would ever think of objecting to that, the Slayer reflected bitterly. No matter that Sam was at least fifteen years older than the Witch, despite his youthful good looks. No matter that a country separated them, making any sort of relationship virtually impossible—if they should walk away from this alive. No. Oh no. Everyone was happy for Willow. She had found a link to love again after suffering heartache that had nearly shoved her over the edge. It was all good, because Sam was not a demon or a vampire or some other nasty. All other complications could be safely discarded for the warmth of a beating heart and the active race of a humanly pulse.
Buffy was so sick of doing what her friends thought she should do. Would approve of. She and Xander had taken another daytime patrol and—predictably—he had started in on Spike again. Granted, in a manner that was a tad more discreet, but condescending nonetheless. It didn’t matter—she didn’t listen. Her thoughts had trained steadily on the platinum vampire she was leaving behind, and how all he had told her was to come home at nightfall. That if she wanted to patrol, she was not going without him.
Then he had turned at the heel and closed himself inside his room before she could get in a word. Xander’s arrival had made it impossible to follow. And that was that.
Spike had not mentioned last night. It was as though it had not taken place at all. And had she not known him so terribly well, the notion would have burned her for an entirely different reason. But no. For the storm in his eyes, the quiet surges of his despondent disposition, she knew he was just as miserable as she was.
Though instead of talking, he had already thrown up his defenses in anticipation of her rejection. He was just as bad at jumping to conclusions as she was in that regard. No talk. Just run for the fear of being cut.
And the only thing keeping her from being the runner—from leaping into his arms was the fear of the fall. How badly she would hurt; how badly he would hurt. The glances of shielded disapproval that would shine behind the eyes of all her friends. That blessed unwillingness to understand.
This was crazy. The entire thing was tumbling out of control. She had a job to do. A duty, and yet all she could think of was making an impossible situation possible.
So here she was. Drinking her sorrows away. At the barstool of some establishment Under The Hill in Natchez, Mississippi. A few stray locals giving her long, curious looks. She understood. Natchez Under The Hill was not known for having the greatest reputation, especially at night. The small string of dining establishments and pubs; the only real bad part of town. Yes, a single white female of her size and perceptible strength? Foolish. But she didn’t care if the world saw her slaying right now. She needed liquor. She needed the world around her to dissolve, and it was easier than she thought it would be. Beer bad? She wasn’t drinking beer. And despite the image of reservation, the toothy bartender was more than willing to oblige.
His leers were a small price to pay in drowning her shattered image of perfection.
*~*~*
Really, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Funny how the world could get turned upside down with the ingredients of two consenting adults, a pile of textbooks, and a British accent. She wasn’t even aware of when the conversation had taken a turn, or who had leaned in first. And granted, while Donna hardly ever concealed her attraction for foreign men, she had not foreseen this end to the day when awaking that morning.
She would deny the notion that she ever indulged in casual sex, though it was far from true. She tried to be careful on who she let into her bed, but more over, her perception of the right man was distorted for the ease of melting at a smile, a joke, or lively conversation. The notion of casual sex disturbed her, but it was turning into more and more of what she received. Casual. Meaningless. And really, if this thing with the book and Sam’s fumble into ending the world, leaping into bed with the gorgeous man at her left didn’t exactly strike her as a bad idea.
Only if the world was ending, this was not where she wanted to be. All respect to Wesley, it was not even close to where she wanted to be. This lying together, side-by-side, ticking the minutes away—the quiet was nice, but it wasn’t what she needed. What her subconscious craved.
A revelation that only an apocalypse could bring.
This picture lacked more than something. It lacked an entire person.
“Oh my God,” she said, eyes fixated on the ceiling.
There was a rustle beside her. With whatever her epiphany included, she could not deny that the man looked very scrumptious when unruffled. “Yes,” he agreed. And her heart sank a bit. His tone in itself gave way to something he likely didn’t even realize.
She was going to be the man in this scenario.
A million things ran through her mind—what to tell him, how to thank him and apologize for what had happened. Give him the dreaded ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech while knowing perfectly well that it was a combination. It was her for her stupidity, and him for not being who she wanted him to be. And god, why couldn’t he be who she wanted him to be? Her life would drop from complication and everything would be all right.
For whatever she intended to say, though, her mind kept returning to one irrefutable conclusion. Refusing to stray—needing to be said. “I’m in love with Josh.” And, of course, the second the alien words hit the air, masked in her voice, her revelation turned to horror and her eyes went wide. “No, I’m not!” Funny how her protest sounded wrong in the midst of everything so thoroughly screwed up in the realization itself. Donna’s eyes fell shut and she groaned her frustration. “Yes, I am. Oh God. Oh God. Why me?”
The left side of the bed fell silent for a long minute, waves of dejection rolling palpably into the air. Her heart ached.
Perhaps that had not been the best way to tell him.
“Well,” Wesley said slowly after a long minute, pride broken but expression strangely void of surprise. “Glad I could help you reach this conclusion.”
The words would have been bitter from anyone else. He seemed genuine, if not a little wounded.
Donna didn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear it.
In love with Josh Lyman.
How was that for fucked up?
*~*~*
It had been dark outside for almost ten minutes, and Buffy wasn’t home yet.
All things considered, Spike felt he was handling his frustrated concern in a calm, adult-like manner. Pacing back and forth in the dining area, sending accusing glares to the door every few seconds as though a piece of wood was responsible for holding the Slayer up in any regard.
Five more minutes and he would tear the bloody town apart. For the second day in a row, he had ignored his instincts, shoved logicality aside, and sent her out by herself. With her friends. Without giving themselves the chance to talk about what had happened last night. He knew on some level he was being unreasonable, but for everything, the loom of her impending rejection bore his heart to pieces. To actually hear her voice it would unravel him completely. But he wasn’t the type to wait it out—to avoid an issue like this. There was just something about her that caused all his hinges to become radically unglued.
Another fiery glance to the door. Nothing still.
He was going to break something.
The minute he had her back here, he was going to kiss her senseless, yell at her, kiss her again, and then they would talk. All reservations aside. They would talk. They had to now. This constant avoidance was getting them nowhere. It had to be all or nothing. Right now. Tonight.
And by God, if she did not walk through that forsaken door within the next ten seconds, the town would be a windstorm of chaos before he was through with her.
So preoccupied was he with the door that it was almost a surprise when it actually opened. It was even more a surprise when a very inebriated Buffy stumbled through. The scent hit him six ways from Saturday, but was no match for the bewildered, glossy look behind her eyes and the predatorily silly smile upon her lips. He rushed forward to catch her as her body threatened to waver, all reserve immediately shoved aside.
Anger gave way to apprehension. Confused emotions plus liquor spelled bad in ten different languages. And from the look in her eyes, he received the distinct warning that he was about to find out what sort of drunk Buffy was.
Oh. Fuck.
Spike gulped audibly. “You’re late, pet,” he said.
And that was all he got out. The Slayer’s eyes blazed with sudden feral and she was on him. Over him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling their pelvises together as her mouth hungrily attacked his.
Spike umphed, his arms coming around her in a manner that was purely instinct as she pushed him into the den. Her hands clawed at his shirt, her tongue battling his as he drank her in, almost subconsciously. She had him on the couch within seconds, her lips dancing down his throat as she managed to yank his hem from the waistband of his trousers.
Bad had turned to worse quite successfully. His body quivered with alarmed arousal as his mind duked out between his greater and lesser evils. The scent rising from her center was going to drive him out of his head. His hands blindly sought her wrists, but she was moving too fast for him. The sweetness of her kisses, drunk as they were, drowning out wave after wave of objection until her mouth was away from his and dancing provocatively down his throat.
Spike threw his head back and gasped, doing his damndest not to arch his erection into the welcoming apex of her legs. “Buffy,” he panted. “Buffy, God, you have to stop.”
“No,” she replied stubbornly. Had she not been writhing like a bitch in heat on his lap, he would accuse her of sounding like an insolent child. In the meantime, she had evidently given up on his shirt; decided it was easier to rip the fabric down the middle. “Want. I want now. Want you.”
“Buffy, you’re—”
“Stupid. Buffy stupid. Want Spike.”
He laughed nervously, battling her hands. “Well, then she’s not stupid, is she? Let’s let her have Spike when she’s nice an’ sober, savvy?”
A growl rumbled in the back of her throat. “No. Have Spike now!” Her teeth latched onto one of his nipples, and she ignored his answering howl—her hand skating down to the buckle of his belt. “Don’t you want me?”
“Fuck, Buffy!”
She grinned happily. “That’s the idea.”
Spike released several harsh breaths, glancing down at her in awe. “Yeh…” he said slowly, enjoying the view for a few wonderful seconds before he felt her hand enclose around his cock. God, he hadn’t realized how fast she could move. “No. No! Buffy, no! We can’t do this now. ‘S wrong, ‘s—”
“Betcha wanna feel how wet I am.”
“Stop it!”
“Spiiiike.” She bounced a little in his lap, eliciting several tortured moans. Her fingers were skating over his erection thoughtlessly, running laps that somehow remained tender despite all else. “I don’t wanna be stupid anymore. I don’t care. I don’t care at all. Let’s just do this. You and me. Come on.”
He could nearly weep with irony. “No.”
There was a grumble. Buffy stuck out her lower lip. “Why not?” she demanded, grip constricting around him. “I want you in me.”
“I wanna be in you, too, baby.” Spike’s eyes were aimed at the ceiling, his hands holding her hips steady. “Not like this. Not with you pissed outta your mind. Fuck if I let us get this far for some bloody one nighter where I end up at the business end of a stake tomorrow mornin’.”
Her mouth was at his throat again. “I wouldn’t stake you,” she murmured. “Never could. Not my Spike.”
She really had no conception on just how much hers he was.
“Buffy—”
Her hands abandoned him for seconds to whisk her own top over her head. Spike pursed his lips and refused to look at her, even when she took the hands that were at her thighs and placed them on her laced breasts, encouraging him to squeeze. Her own grasp had returned to his aching cock before he had time to miss her touch. Sweet agonized bliss, this was. A warm, wet, willing Slayer bouncing on his lap, her mouth dancing down his skin and suspiciously nearing the swell of his need and he was frozen.
This was not the Slayer, he reminded himself. This was Buffy. The woman he loved. The woman he would not take advantage of just because she was a horny drunk.
But for the way she was sliding off his lap and nuzzling his belly, he had to do something now.
“Buffy.” Spike’s hands shot to her arms and he hauled her back up. “No. We can’t. You’re pissed.”
“Nope.”
“Drunk.”
“Not drunk.” Oh sweet Jesus, she was reaching for the fastening on her own jeans now. He was a goner. “Want happies. Want Spike happies. Wanna give me happies?”
He was not strong enough to push her off; inebriated or not, the grip she could maintain with one hand still out-powered him two to one. And every time he came close, the chip was there to remind him just how human she was. Even still, that wouldn’t stop him. He wasn’t going to take advantage of her and blame the chip when she screamed her fury the next morning. He wasn’t going to throw everything away for a quick shag that would be sloppy rather than memorable. He refused for this to be it. They had bollixed up somewhere along the way, and it was time to fix it. If he couldn’t push her off himself, he would get some help. It was that or have her hate him in the morning. So bloody unfair.
His hand shot for the phone. How fucking embarrassing was this?
The minute he had the receiver in his hands, he was at a loss. Who in the world would he call? Xander would stake him if he saw them together, despite the drunken state of his friend. Anya wouldn’t care, always an enthusiast of orgasms. He didn’t want Willow to see the Slayer like this, and Wes…
“Bloody hell!” he howled, doing little to scare her off his lap as he furiously punched in the number for the main office. Buffy was becoming more intent on having him off, her hand moving over his erection as the other kept him still. “Get me Sam Seaborn!” he snarled at whoever answered. “NOW!”
Five minutes later, there was a knock at the front door. Ten seconds after that, Sam and Josh walked into the room, looking more than bemused.
If she noticed the sudden audience, Buffy did not show it.
“Having problems?” the Deputy Chief of Staff asked with a ridiculous smirk.
“Get her off me before I rip his balls off an’ shove ‘em down your throat, chip or no chip.”
Sam, thankfully, was all business. He looked a little embarrassed at seeing the Slayer all but naked waist-up, but did not look at her in a way that would surely mean his death the minute she was safely subdued. “Come on,” he said to Josh, moving forward. “You take one arm, I’ll take the other.”
“Never thought I’d meet a vampire that couldn’t handle his women,” came the much-too-amused retort from the other man. “Or a Slayer that can’t hold her liquor.”
The Deputy Communications Director gave him a long look. “Are you saying she has a sensitive system?” he asked. “Because that would be calling the kettle black on your behalf.”
For whatever reason, that seemed to snap some semblance of recognition into the writhing Slayer. She turned dazedly the next second, as though just registering that others were in the room. “Ohhhh,” she said, blinking slowly. “When’d you get here?”
Sam pursed his lips and politely picked up her discarded shirt. “Come on, Buffy,” he said. “We’re gonna put you in bed, all right?”
Her eyes went wide and she glanced back to the vampire worriedly. “Spike?”
“Cover up, sweetling,” he said, tension evaporating. At least she had enough sense to let up when others were present. There was hurt buried in her eyes and something else he couldn’t quite suss out. Something he would have to deal with come dawn, no doubt. If there was any chance in hell that he could look at her after tonight. “We’ll talk ‘bout this in the mornin’.”
There was a long minute; her eyes went wide as though realizing for the first time what she had been doing since she arrived. “Oh God,” she said. “Oh God.”
“Shhh, pet, s’okay.”
“Spike, I—”
He nodded at the Deputy Communications Director. They were not having this conversation or anything else with an audience. And he certainly wasn’t going to make her concentrate as she drifted out of a drunken stupor. “Go with Sam, luv,” he said softly. “He’s gonna put you in bed, right?” Then, by suggestion alone, his eyes set into a fierce glower and he turned to the man with more than an air of warning. “You try anythin’ an’ I’ll—”
Josh glared at him. “Sam wouldn’t put any moves on your girlfriend,” he spat indignantly. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The other man cleared his throat. “Josh, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. This jackass told us to come over here and help him out, and now he’s threatening you if you make a move when you’re the one practically engaged to that redhead and he’s the one that had her on his lap two seconds ago.” He shook his head. “You got real balls, you know?”
“Mine could only be real, Curly. Why? Did you not get a good peek a minute ago?”
“I swear to—”
“Josh!”
Spike sighed diplomatically and released his hostility. “Jus’ watchin’ out for my girl, mate.”
“Then why don’t you put her to bed? Don’t you trust yourself?”
A sharp titter ran through his throat. He had called them for that very reason, hadn’t he? “With her?” Spike retorted, eyes lingering on Buffy as she accepted Sam’s hand and allowed him to help her toward the back. “Never.”
For whatever reason, that seemed to neutralize Josh. The look of angered defense melted and they were left to themselves for the few uncomfortable minutes that Sam spent tucking Buffy into bed.
When he finally spoke, there was an air of resignation in his voice. The sort that released former grudges and accepted the larger sense of apathy alongside shades of depression. Josh collapsed into the chair on the other side of the room and dropped his head into his hands. “This is fucked up,” he said. “This is all so completely and irreversibly fucked up.”
Spike smiled dryly and nodded. “You have no bloody idea.”
*~*~*
In a pub not too far away, Giles was nodding at the bartender to refill Toby’s drink as he toasted his own to nothing at all. They had been there for an hour or so; the Watcher drawn from his research by the sound of a small bouncy ball banging against his hotel room in summons. Evidently, the Communications Director was over his internal crisis and desperately in need of a wasted night. The bouncy ball was simply the way to find a suitable drinking pal.
“The world is ending, you know,” Giles said, wincing as the liquor hit his tongue. “It’s all ending. It will be over soon; humanity as we know it is infinitely buggered.”
There was a long pause. Toby was studying the bottom of his shot glass as though surprised it existed. “Republicans will blame us,” he said a minute later.
“Most likely,” the other man agreed.
And they drank.
TBC