Depressing.
Yes, definitely very depressing.
No one should have a funeral on a Monday; it just sets the whole week up as one long mope fest. But, leave it to Buffy. If anyone would call the shots at a time like this, it *would* be Buffy Summers. Even in death, she's got everyone hopping. It was the same in high school, and nothing seems to have changed, she's probably up there somewhere just loving this.
"I hope you're happy!" Cordelia tilts her head back and addresses a watermark on the ceiling that reminds her of Xander Harris' pointed little head. Oh God, now she's like one of those redneck hicks that you read about in the National Enquirer seeing the face of Jesus on tree stumps. If Buffy is going to drive her crazy, and send hallucinations of carpenters, couldn't she make it the original Son of God instead of Xander Harris? This is just cruel and unusual punishment.
It hadn't been a treat to see *him* at the funeral, with some rude, *blondish* chick clinging to him possessively and shooting pointed, 'hands off…he's mine now' looks.
As if she'd want that pathetic loser. Hello! Queen here. Ruler of a demon dimension, chosen to mate with a guy who had all the packaging of a Chippendale's dancer //but *unlike* LA, not homosexual//, overthrew a fascist, religious dictatorship and freed an entire planet of humans, possessor of the mind numbingly painful visions that saves this town one sorry ass at a time.
She's another freaking Joan of Arc, except without the dressing like a man, and the whole burning at the stake thing, 'cause that's not good. No, crispy is out. She'll take the mini-seizure brain hemorrhages.
Okay, now she's sounding a little bitter. It's not like that at all. She chose to come back; she chose not to transfer her visions to Gru. The truth is, she's resigned to them now, and, you know, feeling for once in her life like she's got a purpose. A mission. Not some vacuous waste of space that's had one too many brain cells sucked out with the weekly liposuction. She's making a difference in the world *and* looking good //say it with me-NATURAL// doing it. And she never wanted Buffy dead.
Okay, so in the *past*, she's wished Buffy never heard of Sunnydale, but she never wanted her *dead*.
Gone.
Absent.
That's just for the record, if there's some Karma police or someone out there listening: she *Did Not* wish for Buffy Summer's death. Fame? Wealth? Power? Attractive, semi naked men? Those were checked yes. Bad mojo death thoughts? No. She wants to keep that already partially tarnished halo intact
She knows full well she might be bordering on paranoia.
But even if she *is * wigging out, she's not even a blip on the psychosis radar screen. That title rests firmly in camp Angel, who come to think of it, she hasn't even seen in the last twenty-four hours.
At the funeral, he had to wait in the car due to the ill timing of the event, pulling his standard incommunicado act. He drove them home without a word as she and Wesley sat perched in uncomfortable silence, afraid to fully settle into the leather interior of his car for fear that all this quiet was the calm before hurricane Nutso Angel, that any one syllable would set him off. Wesley offered condolences at the graveside, and quickly backed off when Angel shot him 'that' look. She hadn't even tried after that.
And speaking of baby man, where the hell was Wesley anyway?
She tosses the spiral bound notebook that holds a list of contacts for a case on the desk in front of her. //Yeah, like that one is ever going to be solved// swivels her left hip as she comes around the corner of the desk, clearing the polished wood edge with the ease she'd learned after the first dozen times she had nearly broken every bone in her pelvis.
Three quick steps to see the clock, that ridiculous Elvis Presley with the swinging legs Angel bought, that PROVED vampires are socially retarded. She seriously thought Angel was losing it when he showed up one evening, shopping bag in hand, and pulled out that ridiculous atrocity of kitsch. //"See, his legs swing." In wonderment, he'd demonstrated that fact of the mechanics with his index finger.// Oh God, it was hard being an oasis of culture in a desert of retards.
Wesley was supposed to be in an hour ago. Hasty check of the clock, make that *hours* ago. Was she the only one with a work ethic around here anymore? //The asset column doesn't grow all by itself, it takes a little effort people.//
She just had time to decide to call Wes and see where the hell he was, when the jangling of the bells on the front door distracts her. The object of her rant, Wesley, comes sliding through followed by a shapeless lump of leather that she recognizes as Angel by the familiar coat draped over his head in protection from the noonday sun.
They weren't alone though. One more figure shuffles in. A second, long, black coat stretched over a smaller figure like some giant leather condom //thanks for the visual! I'll never get that association out of my head// also recognizable as Spike. The vampires uncover their heads in time to notice her disapproving glare at the blonde.
Wesley and Angel exchange a glance; obviously they've discussed the possible scenarios that this moment could bring. Talking about her behind her back? Let's see if they've figured this one into their little preparation talks. No one can second-guess Cordelia Chase.
"You'd better shut that door, you're letting the flies in." Arms crossed across her chest, and if looks were stakes, Mr. Bleacho would be so much dust on the floor now. She concentrates on him, Sissy-man and the figurehead boss of this operation would get theirs later. Oh believe that.
Spike shrugs his shoulders, rotating them until the coat settles back onto his frame, and studies her intently for several seconds. Wary, but not properly considerate of just how much a hell she could make his life. With head tilted, he waves his hand near his face in a crude replication of her hair style, and says in a frighteningly accurate imitation of her stylist, Brandon, "I love it, it's so *sassy*!"
"I'll show you sassy, you freak." She redirects her attention to Angel who's watching her without speaking, "What in the hell is he doing here? Am I the only one who understands the concept of bloodsucking, evil vampires? Maybe we could rent some of this space out as a rabid pit bull day care? "
"Cordelia," Wesley's voice remains modulated, used to dealing with her fits. "Angel's… it seems…well, he's… there's been a development."
She wants answers, and she wants them now. Wes is an easier target than Angel. "A development is where they cut down a bunch of trees and put up low rent housing. Now, unless Angel's gotten his contractors license since yesterday, you'd better just spit it out."
"Don't stand there all day chatting her up, pick your nads up off the floor and lets move this party inside." Spike taunts from behind her.
She ignores him, but Angel gets the full 'what the fuck' glare. When they were in Sunnydale, Giles and Willow, and Xander for god's sake, had tried to argue that Spike had changed, reformed, that the blonde vampire helped Buffy save Dawn. Her exact words at the time had been, 'my ass'. The sentiment was carried through here, but phrased a bit differently, "Will someone just tell me what the hell is going on here?"
Cordelia feels a subtle shift in the air behind her. No actual contact, just two warring energy fields and the raising of the fine hairs along the nape of her neck. A tingle of surprise down the knobs of her spinal column as she hears a question wavering in the air next to her ear.
"Is that any way to greet a returning hero?"
"Jesus Christ." She lurches and spins halfway around, hand to her throat as she feels the beat there under her palm. Tries to recall if having the shit scared out of you could trigger a heart attack or not. Takes a deep breath and wills her pulse rate to drop. "Okay, I have a three foot personal space bubble that must be respected at all times. Keep it in mind or I'll put a bell on you."
Spike bobs his head, raises an eyebrow at the bell around the doorknob, and back to her. "I see that, you might try a little spontaneity. It never killed anyone."
"Well I'm sure you're an expert on what would kill someone." Peevish, and she knows it. Why the hell did vampires have to stalk around so quietly all the time, it wasn't natural. Okay, thus the tag: supernatural
He slides around her, both hands raised in plain sight, with an exaggeratedly innocent expression on his face. "I come in peace, just claiming asylum."
"Asylum is right, because you must be crazy if you think that *you* are staying here." She turns to gel-boy and addresses him next, "Tell me you did not bring him here."
"Well actually, he just showed up. So, technically, I didn't bring him here." Angel manages to look properly sheepish as he feeds her a line of what he must have recognized as bullshit.
He isn't going to get away with that semantics crap though. She stabs her finger in the air, pointing at Spike. "You want to get us all killed?"
Angel gets that open mouthed 'uh' expression as he answers her accusation. "They've assured us that he's changed, that he's helped them many times and that he tried to save Dawn's life himself."
"Well he didn't try very hard, because Buffy's still dead."
His chin drops and his focus drifts as the pain flits across the shadows of his face. Placating face gone, all stone now. There's a fine line between tact and truth, and she's dangerously close to falling in that chasm. That the floor of his universe had fallen out from under him again, that she'd been ignoring the subtle clues he's been giving off since they'd gotten back from Plz Grb, and found Willow waiting for them. But, she doesn't want to indulge his sorrow, enable him to wallow when there is so much work still to be done.
"He didn't have anywhere else to go," Angel answers with quiet tones that barely travel the space between them, but her ears are in tune to some lame ass sense of guilt that linger there, something that spurred the choice to bring his grandchilde here.
"He has a whole world out there, that is *not* here."
Wesley clears his throat. " I understand your concern, Cordelia, but if Giles assures us that Spike has changed…"
"Yeah, I heard about the whole chip thing," she interrupts, "but it's Government Issue technology. Please, when did Uncle Sam build anything that actually worked? That thing could malfunction at any second."
Angel shuffles silently past her, deposits his car keys in a small ceramic cup on the counter top. He frowns slightly before looking over at her, "Then I'll be here to deal with it."
"Oh, now I get it. You think this is one you *can* save." Angel's eyes sharpen; she takes in the stubborn set of the lines around them and realizes she probably should have confronted him about his Buffy grief earlier, because now he'd obviously lost all sanity. "Did you forget about Darla? Some things in the past are better left in the past."
"I wish everyone would stop second-guessing me," the vampire's voice finally rose in obvious anger. "Dawn told me that Buffy wanted me to bring Spike here. It was one of the last things she'd said, that he'd changed, and she wanted Dawn to tell me to bring him here, to help him find a new life. That he should be here fighting with me, because a new slayer in Sunnydale probably would just stake him on sight, and she felt he deserved better than that after all he'd done."
Wesley's mouth falls agape in shock; Angel apparently hadn't shared that little tidbit with him on the way back to LA. Cordelia thinks her expression's probably pretty similar. It was like a deathbed wish! There was no way Angel would break that noble hero mold and go against something like that
"She said that?" Spike whispers from his new position near Wesley, genuine astonishment in the question.
"She said that," Angel confirms, but he doesn't turn to face the blonde, he remains facing forward, daring either of his two co-workers to question him further.
"Well damn me if I'm going to go against the last wishes of Buffy Summers, " Cordelia grumbles with just enough sarcasm to not seem disrespectful. The slayer must have known what she was talking about, but still, she isn't going to take her eyes off him for a second. It's probably time to fill that squirt bottle with holy water again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All week he's been coping with idiotic games.. The chit trying to ignore him, with deliberate lack of eye contact and busy little mindless tasks to keep her occupied as she sits at the desk. For Christ's sake, she's already sorted those paperclips a half dozen times, if she's done it once. One more time, and he's going to call her on it.
From a stool at the front counter, Spike watches her as she scribbles something down on a notepad that appears suspiciously like doodling. She leaves off with the kitty-cat drawings and picks up the box of paperclips again and dumps them out onto the countertop in a clanking jumble.
"Do it again, and you'll be wearing them in a noose around your neck," he growls.
"What?" she asks with wide-eyed self-defence.
"Those sodding paperclips. Who the hell cares if it's a big one or a little one, just stick the damn papers together. Better yet, staple the bloody things and screw the clips all together. Everyone knows they're dangerous anyway, fold them out and they're all sharp and pointy. Ya could put someone's eye out if you're not careful."
//How could he possibly have sunk this low? Crawling back to Angel of all people? He'd grown so accustomed to being the Slayer's bitch that he couldn't pull himself out of the gutter anymore. Craves even that spark of annoyance to drive away the emptiness washing his every waking moment in tired apathetic monochrome.//
"Hmn," she snorts, one hand dangling a thin loop of wire above the box in front of her. "It's not like you have any say in it anyway, being the person with *zero*…" with the "z" word, she drops the clip in one side of the box, where it poinked against the cardboard side. "…Seniority around here."
He twitches slightly at the sound that proves she has some obsessive-compulsive disorder and would soon drive him to one. Fortunately, he'd long ago given up his murderous rampage fantasies //damn chip// and is able to address her in a rational tone. "What are you talking about woman, I'm centuries older than you."
"Centuries?" Cordelia raises an eyebrow at him and smirks as she drops a smaller paperclip into another compartment.
She's certainly a bossy damn bird, reminded him a lot of the slayer. "Well, multiple decades then. What's your claim, most stripey hair?"
"Ah, " Cordelia choked, "Stripey! Stripey?! You cockney hedgehog, I'll have you know this cost two hundred and fifty dollars to get done, and it got me a final go-see for a cellular phone company commercial they're shooting next Thursday."
He just shakes his head at her, "No wonder you and Angel get along so well, you're both obsessed with your hair. I've known him longer…therefore, I win."
"Oh yeah, you've known him years longer, but for a hundred of those, he actively hated your guts. I've already been through three office relocations, *AND* I have a 401K. A 401K for god's sakes, I'm practically a shareholder. You've got nothing."
"Well I used to have sex with him when he was the Scourge of Europe. Have you seen him naked? If you haven't diddled the boss, you haven't a leg to stand on in my book."
That got her, five blessed seconds of silence; mouth parted in stunned horror while her tongue pushes against her bottom teeth. He can't tell if she's trying to push words out, or hold them back, but she holds like that long enough for one triumphant guffaw on his part, and then cracks.
"You made that up. You are such a liar, you and Angel never did it."
Spike swings his boots up on the countertop, wedging his back against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries for a constipated look like that nancy ex-watcher seems to have so often. "As I recall, Angelus always was something of a feltcher."
"Okay, I don't even know what that is. And I don't want to."
The topic of their conversation arrives on the scene, and Spike watches Cordelia scrutinizing her employer with a newfound uncertainty. She's probably struggling with a visual that would never fade quietly, every time she spoke with him, there would be that small, niggling doubt in the back of her mind, and that is a beautiful thing. Spike adores nothing better than to superimpose his worldview on others. That's the one true way to leave your mark on this world, and something he's been missing lately.
Angel stops on the other side of Cordelia's desk, running fingers through his hair uncertainly. He adjusts a small paperweight, turning it 20 degrees clockwise, then pulls his hand back. Two seconds later, he changes his mind and rotates it sixty degrees counter-clockwise. Finally, he looks up. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Are you asking me out on a date?" Definite suspicion in her voice.
"Am I, what…" Angel tilts his head and narrows his eyes in confusion, wrinkles pooched at the corner of his lids. "No, I'm not. I got a disturbing phone call from Darla. She sounded drunk, made some threats. I'm worried she might try something. I think someone should be here tonight with you and see that you get home."
"No can do boss. I was going to ask you if I can get off early tonight, I'm going out." She glances at her watch, bounces in her chair, and begins shoving the paperclips on her desk haphazardly into their box with no regard to further organizing them.
"You've got a date?" Spike can't stop his own contribution, and the sound of the question rings out in unison from the two vampires.
"Uh, yeah. I'm not a complete shut in. Unlike some people," she sniffs in Angel's direction and then Spike's. "Well, it's not really a date date. I'm meeting some friends at a club." She leans over, opens the bottom drawer of the desk, and produces her purse.
"Friends as in birds?" Now this is getting a whole lot more interesting. Spike drops his heels from the countertop, full attention on the other two in the room. It's been a long time…and it had been Harmony at that. He needs someone fresh, a good-looking, aspiring Hollywood starlet, hopefully, someone with *some* brains.
"No. Friends as in people of the female persuasion, something I'm thinking you may have heard of at one time, but are sadly lacking now." She favours Angel with a look of refusal. "And I'm not taking you."
"Oh God no, I would never go to a club, and especially not with…" Angel notices as she leans back in the chair in warning. "Um, I have to meet a client tonight. I can't do it. I was thinking of…"
"Oh not Wesley," she complains, cutting him off. "He's like the second worst dancer I know. "
"Second?" Angel asks nervously and then decides to let that one go. "Anyway, he can't. He and Gunn are going to a baseball game."
"Th-they're what?" She sputters in disbelief.
"Throwing the wolves off the scent, eh?" Spike pipes up.
Both Cordelia and Angel turn at his outburst, and shake their heads simultaneously. Angel was the first to turn back. "Why don't you just stay in tonight," he suggests. "It would be a lot safer."
She unzips her bag, retrieves a lipstick, and applies it perfectly without a mirror, presses her lips together while plopping the tube back into her purse. "Hmn, let me think about that…NO!"
"Cordelia, be reasonable. It could be very dangerous for you if Darla makes you the target of some vendetta against me."
She bends down again, and a small pile of black fabric joins her purse on the desktop. She appears not to hear, or at least to not be paying any attention to the unsolicited advice, as she holds it up in the air and whips it in the air to knock out the wrinkles. After a second, Angel can ascertain that the black object is an infinitesimal amount of fabric masquerading as a dress. "I don't care if I have to bathe in holy water and wear a garlic necklace, I am going out tonight."
The sudden flash of an idea on Angel's face would have been frightening if Cordelia was paying him the least bit of attention. Spike's seen that same expression many times, and none of them had led to a good outcome. In fact, a century ago, he would have already had the horses saddled and ready.
"Then take Spike with you."
She stops mid-shake, lowers the dress enough to peer over it at Angel as if he's lost his mind . "Hell no!"
There's no way caveman brow was serious, Spike decides to play along. "Okay, I'll do it, but only if you promise to set me up with one of your chummies. How about a brunette with a nice rack?"
She hugs the material to her chest, lowers her chin, and looks up at her employer. "I'd rather throw myself at Darla's mercy."
"You won't consider it?"
She stifles her laughter and just succeeds in not choking. "Absolutely not."
"Then at least just stick to Caritas?" There's no arguing with him when he got that stern, parental expression. And despite all her fire, it looks like Chase is no match for him either.
With a loud exhalation of breath, she answers, "Fine, but the only thing I'm going to attract there is losers and singing demons, not that those terms are mutually exclusive." She pulls herself to her feet and heads for the bathroom to change.
"Think of it as a personal favour to me?" Angel calls to her as she walks away.
"You'll owe me for this one, " she snarks over her shoulder.
Spike pats his pockets, comes up with a pack of cigarettes, then mutters "shit" under his breath as he realizes there was only one left.
"Spike, I'm serious. I want you to follow her tonight."
Raises his face quickly, since his grandsire had stopped yakking, he'd almost forgotten he was in the room. Kind of like a piece of furniture. "I'm not your errand boy. I don't know why I even agreed to this." Why the fuck hadn't he picked up more smokes earlier? "LA is a stupid town."
"You're looking for something, a change. Cordelia's very important to me; she's not only my link to the Powers that be, she's a friend. I don't know if you understand that, but I know that you understand loyalty. I don't want anything to happen to her."
He also understands the concept of noncing about and giving orders to everyone like everything you say is the gospel from on high. That's the first thing that's going to change if Spike's going to stick around here. "Then do it yourself."
"Don't make Buffy a liar."
A low blow even for helmet hair, Spike can see his future and it involves the great ponce bringing up the whole slayer issue every time he wants to blackmail Spike into doing something. At the moment, he just didn't have the strength to argue. "Oh God, stop lecturing me. I'll do it if you'll shut up about it." He feels the need to add an extra warning. " But she's not going to like it."
"Be discreet."
"Which means I'm the fall guy, and get to take the brunt of her wrath if she finds out?"
"Now you're getting the hang of things around here." Angel leaves the room with those words.
Shit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cordelia stalks down the sidewalk. $20.45 really was just too much for a cab, but she *still * didn't have a car, and it's not like she feels like going through the whole effort of asking Angel to borrow his. She keeps her movements regular, hips swinging, head bobbing, and focuses her hearing. *snick, crackle, snick * Fourth time she's heard it, and whoever it is, close enough for her to smell the cigarette smoke. Not that she has to guess. Angel probably sent him after her like some psychotic bodyguard. And she *knows* how to defend herself, two stakes in her bag, holy water filled water gun, the .22 she carries for all the other possibilities. Darla won't take her, no fucking way, but leave it to Angel to send someone even *more * unstable than his sire to watch over her.
Thirty feet from the bar, about to whirl around and scream for Spike to fuck off and get the hell away from her when the pinpricks of light start. Pressure in her head accompanied by the bizarre dislocation follow, and she flails her arms out to connect with anything solid to keep herself from hitting the pavement //fur, fangs, drool, blue hair, screams and screams//
"Cheerleader, you ok?"
"No."
"You want me to help you?"
"No."
"How about I do anyway?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
Cordelia attempts to concentrate on keeping the key in her grip, to ignore the suspicion that all the bones of her fingers have melted, leaving her with useless appendages, shapeless lumps of flesh that won't obey her mental commands. //Come on, please just let me get inside and into my bed. I've used all my quota of brave little soldier today, and I desperately need some tea, or hot chocolate. Better yet, some vodka, and an old movie.//
Why do they make keys so small? Impossible to hold the proper edge upright, the teeth keep slipping against her thumb.
"Here luv, let me get that for you."
That accent's one she'd never thought to hear offering assistance. Didn't have the energy left to argue, let him take the key from her, fit it effortlessly into the slot and twist. Her doorknob turns, and he pushes number 2c in, waiting for her to go before him.
She doesn't lift her head to see if he's waiting for an invitation. No way he's getting one in this lifetime. This isn't a social call after all. He's a bloodsucking vampire, and if she took the fact of the chip into consideration, he's at least a spy. Angel had to have put him up to this.
She tosses the keys into the opening of her purse. They easily fly past the zipper, jangling harshly as they strike her wallet. Jumps slightly at the sound, closes her eyes against one more stimulus in an already overcrowded day, and counts to five in an effort to calm herself. She gets to three before she yanks the zipper closed and strides through her door.
A slightly bitter reply over her shoulder. "You're welcome very fucking much."
What does he expect, a medal, her undying appreciation? Right now she doesn't have anything remotely resembling either of those things. She tosses her bag on top of a small table, where it knocks a pile of mail to the floor. Not a second glance as she turns toward the kitchen.
As she catalogues why exactly she should stake Angel and look into a new career, a large brown rat makes itself known, dripping water on her carpet. All those stories of rodents swimming their way through the sewers and up through people's toilets don't seem so ridiculous suddenly. When their eyes meet, the creature flashes those beady black points and begins scurrying directly at her. She scoots a step back in shock and another when the animal keeps coming.
"What the fuck do you want?" she shrieks in rising panic as it increases its speed. A throbbing starts just behind her right eye making it nearly impossible to open. Tries to roll her face into her shoulder, to put some pressure against the socket and push the pain back inside. Damn, not another headache. This one at least was just a normal, garden-variety migraine, minus visions, or it could be a delayed reaction put off by the shock of coming to in Spike's arms.
This was just too much, she stumbles blindly, knowing the little brown fucker was probably inches away by now, and wondering how long a rat attack took before you were finally dead. The intense twinges in her skull echo when she opens her mouth, "Shit! Kill it! Kill it!"
"Sorry, I'd like to, but…"
"Quit being an asshole. Kill it. Get in here and kill it."
Cordelia's skin pricks when Spike whooshes past her, hears him stamp his foot down fast and hard and what sounded like a surprised grunt. It was only the squeak of leather as he steps up to her.
"You okay?"
No, she really isn't. Nausea washes over her as the tattoo in her skull kickes it up a notch. "Oh God, drugs…please?" she falters and his hand catches her at the elbow. He steers her over to the couch and shoves her gently down into the cushions.
"Where?"
"In the kitchen." She twists, bouncing her spine against the backrest, and stays in the position she'd landed, neck arched back over the headrest of the couch. "In the kitchen," she repeats again, even though she hears his boots thumping away from her.
He's not gone more than thirty seconds before the couch dips next to her. An avalanche of plastic vials clicking against each other and against her coffee table as he dumps a handful of bottles there. "Oy, you've got a lot of drugs here. What are you, some kind of junkie, movie star?"
"Well apparently not a very good one, since I'm sitting here without any body guards to kick your sorry ass out of here." She sticks her open fist out sharply, "Here, give me something."
He rolls the bottles to look at their labels knocking some over in his quest. "Tylenol, that shit never works. You need the good stuff. Ah, hello Mr. Darvocet, that's more like it."
Two round little tablets press into the palm of her hand and a glass to her lips. Tepid water from this morning, but who the fuck cared? Pills on her tongue, a gulp and swallow and she's waiting for them to kick in. Two more would probably knock her ass out. The creak of leather again, she opens her eyes to see him pop a few of the Darvocet into his mouth, swallow them without benefit of water. Dry. And if that wasn't the definition of desperate, she doesn't know what is. "Those things aren't free you know, and they're supposed to be for pain relief." Her eyes drop shut, and her head lolls against the back of the couch. Her brain's already feeling less explode-y.
Shift, dip, and Spike tossed his coat onto a chair. "My life *is* pain, leave me alone when I'm self medicating."
"You're not going to stay here are you? Isn't there some banishing ritual I can do?"
Static and crackle of the TV. switching on. "Yeah, but it involves you standing up, so I'm thinking the odds aren't so good right now." He flicks through about ten channels before he saying, "Your TV sucks, and this reception is crap. Don't you have cable?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. That's in my *other* luxury penthouse, the one in Paris. If you scurry to the airport, you might just make it before the sun comes out."
"I've been to Paris, it's highly overrated. The French are rude. Not the fun kind of rude."
"Aww, did they hurt your bitty vampire feelings when they refused to lie down and be dinner for you?"
"It wasn't so much that, more when they tried to stake me. That's just the limits of my patience. I mean, if you're going to promote tourism…"
"These pills must be working, because I'm still sitting here talking to you. Oh, my life is pathetic."
"Wanna live on the edge? How about we open one of those bottles of wine in your fridge?"
"You looked in my fridge?"
"Yeah. You know, my mum always told me that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, and what's wine, but fermented sugar?"
"Was that your mother Dru? And have I ever told you how kind of strange that whole thing is? Very oedipal, you're a therapist's wet dream."
Cordelia hears him get up, walk into the kitchen, and open the refrigerator door. Why did she even bother talking, he obviously wasn't going to do anything *she* said, even though it was her place after all.
"This is more like it, take the edge off of the Darvocet bitterness." The clink of glass against glass precedes the wineglass he handed her.
"The last time I did this, I puked all over Wes, maybe we could just call him over and get a replay."
"No good luv, he's out playing hide the sausage."
"Does anyone ever know what the hell you're talking about?"
Spike downs his glass, refills it, and tips the bottle in her direction questioningly. At the shake of her head, he answers, "No, I'm universally misunderstood."
"Imagine that." Who cares, she figures as she takes a sip of the alcohol, and he's right, it does produce a warm, fuzzy feeling, a tingling mellowness that slowly erases the tension in her body. The lame sitcom on the screen becomes more fascinating than it should be. He slides down further into the cushions next to her, props his boots up on the coffee table, and they both sit there in silence, watching TV. Occasionally, he fills his glass again, or hers.
During a commercial for a late night talk show, he asks her, "Why don't you have a man, Streaks?"
"What are you talkin' about?"
"Why are you goin' out with a bunch of birds instead of out with a man? You asexual?"
"You're wasted aren't you?"
"I'm not pished."
"I didn't ask if you were continent, I said you've had too much wine. Now I know why narcotics and alcohol shouldn't be mixed. Face it, you're wasted."
"No," he argues, "I'm just nicely drunk. So, you're not into boys, eh?"
Too difficult to lift her head up, instead she rolls her neck, tucking her chin into her shoulder bone and opening one eye at him. "Right now, I'm reminded of my life's motto: Men are pigs."
"Righto. So, I didn't know you walked on the Red side of the street."
"Fuck off, Spike, I have bad luck with men." Wasn't that the understatement of the year? Maybe she's cursed. She tries to think if she'd ever seen Willow mumbling freaky chants at her or dusting her with any dried herbs.
"What about one off's?"
"Are you trying to get in my pants?" She notices the glass she holds is empty, and she sees as he puts the bottle back on the table, that it is as well.
He gulps the last of the amber liquid and licks a few remaining drops off of the rim before answering her, "If I was, you wouldn't be askin'."
She'd never noticed how bizarre his tongue was before, longer than normal, and really…agile. Was that the proper word? He used it a lot while talking, sticking it out and curling it around his lips. Even now, it darts against the glass, like a snake's tongue testing the environment. Kind of hypnotic, and freakish…and she's spending way too much time obsessing over it.
A wave of dizziness makes the room swirl, and she clamps her eyes together against it. When her lashes touch together, the change in perspective from too much visual stimulation to the black nothingness behind her lids causes her stomach to jump, but soon, it settles and she floats in a euphoric bliss.
After a while, she kind of drifts mentally, seeing the image of a snake curled around her legs. Brown and tan markings roll in a wave as the skin moves over a tube of raw, boneless energy. Dimples of flesh form and disappear to create the next in line as it curls upwards with determination, circling her knees. It glides up between her thighs, pushes its diamond shaped head into her, and she spreads her legs languidly, surprised and pleased at the tickling shudder the scales cause as they writhes against the knot of flesh she tries to ignore as much as possible. Some part of her mind cautions that she should be afraid, but the pleasure center of her brain quickly overrides that warning.
No clear point that the image shifts, just a gradual realization that she's mentally replaced the snake with Spike's tongue, and it isn't just some shamanic fuck totem she's thinking of, it's vampire tongue. She should be more worried about it, but that familiar fluttering begins, spreading over her relaxed limbs, and she shuts out why this is wrong and bad and dirty, while she tightens the muscles of her pelvic floor, squeezes her buttocks together, and wonders what it would feel like to tighten around his…
Okay, not a good train of thought right now. Imagination high, inhibitions down, the math only leads to big, fucked up trouble. Blame it on the pills…and the wine. Yes, definitely a bad combination. At least she wasn't puking this time, but she must be insane. Vision induced mental defect.
He'd answered a question; she tries very hard to remember what it had been. When she opens her eyes, she's confronted with the reality of what she'd just been imagining, and their conversation popped back into her head. She was a little too defensive when she answers, ""Whatever. I don't always go to bed alone, not that it's any of your business."
"Angel know that?"
Who was Angel, her personal diary? There were some things she didn't tell him. Although recalling some of the strange glances she'd received occasionally after a date, she realizes he probably knew more than he let on, and it came to her. "He must smell it." She guessed a loud in wonder.
The blonde nods knowingly, a smug, self -satisfied expression on his relaxed features as he asks, "He ever kill any of those blokes?"
The thought of Angel showing up on any of her former dates' doorsteps made her giggle, then stop in shock, "God! I forgot to call Wes! Where's the damn phone?" she makes a feeble attempt to sit up and find it but collapses back against the couch. "Ugghh, oh God. I am *not* moving. Hand me the phone."
"It's a no go pet, I can't even see my own hand right now."
"What are you good for anyway? Angel Investigations has no room for spongers, you better start pulling your own weight you undead slacker. Dennis, hand me the phone would ya?"
The thin handset floats in the air to her hand, and she dials with her thumb, not even bothering to look as she punches the buttons from memory. Seconds, and several mechanical beeps later, she grunts in frustration, "Wesley, you dork. Is your phone turned off?"
"Those pillow-biters aren't gonna answer you, pet."
"Wes, look, when you get around to remembering the fight against evil, there is some blue hellhound roaming Santa Monica. You and Gunn might want to cruise out there and kill it before it eats some old lady."
"Don't call me that," she orders as she dials Angel's cell number. " and I don't want to talk about the Wes/Gunn thing, or pillows, or biting, or any of those concepts in the same sentence."
"Thing, hm? You're not as dense as I thought."
She lowers the receiver of the phone a fraction of an inch, so she can say over the plastic, "Did you think I had a chromosome missing?"
"No comment," Spike snorts back at her, nudging the wine bottle with his toe to assure himself that it was truly empty, even though he'd finished it himself within the last half hour. He looks pissed when the empty container topples over, rattling noisily, and his next words are sarcastic, " How about Angel, has he noticed the boy love blossoming right under his nose?"
"Angel?" she repeats " Hell no, he *is* as dense as you thought." Cordelia jams her thumb against the hang up button several times in frustration. "Uh...He's not answering either! What the hell?"
"You know what he's doing don't you?" the vampire pokes the wine bottle again with the tip of his boot; it slips off the edge of the table and bounces on the floor without breaking.
"What?" Cordelia asks disinterestedly as she drops her hand and allows the phone fall to the floor. Hopefully Dennis will pick it up. If not, she'd do it in the morning.
"I'll give you three hints, four hundred years old, blonde hair, has sucked him dry on more than one occasion."
"Darla?" She mumbles as though the thought hasn't really occurred to her. "That undead moron is looking for Darla again?"
"Very good, head of the class. Face it, It's just you and me, pet. You wanna go after the nasties?" He rotates his shoulder and glances at her earnestly, hopefully.
She yawns and tries to speak around her flexing throat muscles. "Okay, that's a humorous mental picture. We had to get Dennis to get the phone for us." She shuts her eyes, and this time they don't want to open again.
"Too true."
" I Hate Darla! I hate hate hate her! " Her diatribe's punctuated by another yawn, slightly minimizing it's effectiveness. Her last words are a frustrated sigh as she falls asleep. "Why did she have to come back now? He's already losing it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Awake before his eyes can fully open, and he wonders why was someone's head in his lap. Shakes his head and concentrates on forcing his eyelids apart, looks down and sees streaks laying horizontally across the couch, mouth slightly open facing him. He had to be asleep for this action? He's not in the mood for regrets for missed opportunity. The clock on her vcr shows that there's plenty of darkness ahead, and he might as well be up, making use of it.
Carefully tries to ease her head off of his thigh, carries it to the cushion with the soft curtain of her hair cupped in his hand, stops when a muffled snore escapes from her lips and continues as her eyes roll behind her lids. She's deeply asleep and doesn't stir again as he stands up. He almost trips on the wine bottle he'd knocked on the floor earlier, picks it up and sets it on top of the table.
From the corner of his eye, he notices the bottle of darvocet; he picks it up and shakes it gently. Hmn, twenty-five left? Two more shakes, make that twenty-seven. Gazes down at the sleeping girl. She must have some quack somewhere prescribing it for her; she could tell him she'd lost the rest, that her dog ate it, that her boyfriend sold them. Flash a smile, turn on that acting ability, and voila…new prescription. Thinking about it that way, he doesn't feel so bad as he pockets the bottle.
"Yeah see ya Dennis," he says as one of the other bottles explodes off the table. He makes sure the lock's turned as he shuts the door, bad elements in this part of town, doesn't want to leave the girl defenceless.
He pauses after opening the front door of her building, takes a deep breath of the night air. He'd done as Angel asked, saw the girl home safely, picked up a little something for his troubles, and still had half the night to have some fun. This working for good was a pretty decent gig all told.
One leap forward, and he clears all nine steps of her stoop landing on the pavement with a loud slap of his heels, immediately taking off at a fast clip down the street. Rounding the corner at the end of the block, he bumps into a bloke that seems to be in a hurry.
"Whoa mate, have a care. There's enough room for all of us." Spike jokes good-naturedly, somewhat surprised that he really doesn't feel any animosity towards this stranger. There used to be a time when he would've taken him apart one limb at a time.
"Man, watch where the fuck you're going," A deliberate shifting of the man's parka showing the handle of a semi automatic tucked into the waistband of his trousers. A clear warning that he considers himself someone not to be messed with.
Spike attempts not to laugh as he puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Oh pet, there's no problem." No urge to beat the fellow down, no rising anger that demands to see the human's body lying on the street in a puddle of quickly congealing blood, just the humorous vision of road rage boy pissing himself when he realizes his bullets had no affect on the vampire.
"I don't have time for this shit." The youth already walking backward in the direction he'd been going, he faces Spike for three or four paces, "but if I see you again around here, I'm gonna put a cap in your ass. Believe me." Then he turns around and hurries on his way.
Spike waves, "Alright then you little pisser, until we meet again." Turn back around and mutters under his breath, "If I ever see you around here again, I'll put a fang in your neck, boy, and paint this sidewalk with your blood." A little shudder of pleasure winds through him at the image of violence against a human, that secret thrill that he'd been suppressing for so long. He really misses that.
Lost in his own world of happy thoughts when another voice shocks him out of his euphoria.
"Freeze right there buddy."
"Huh?" Slides back to reality to find two uniformed cops holding him at gunpoint. "What's this all about?"
"What did Kenny give you boy?" the older cop asks him, gun steady.
"The clap? What the hell are you on about? I don't know anyone named Kenny."
"You were just talking to him," the younger officer shouts with a slight quavering to his voice, a rookie if the vampire has ever seen one. So green, he was still wet behind the ears. This would be the one to work on if he was going to dig his way out of this little mess.
"That one," Spike nods his head over his shoulder in the direction that the man had gone. "Never seen him before, we just bumped into each other."
"Then you won't mind if we have a look." The first policeman grins as he gestures to his partner to search the vampire.
"The hell I don't. I've seen the vids, I know how you people treat suspects in this town." Not exactly the smartest thing that's ever come out of his mouth, shades of Angelus and beatings that had him flat on his back for days and the remark that set the ball rolling. He never said he *wasn't* a smart ass.
"Put your arms straight out to the side," the younger officer instructs him, sandy coloured hair and light hazel eyes, he looks scared to death. Spike tries to decide if he feels sorry for the lad, checks, and decides that he doesn't particularly. Just annoyed at the hassle of being detained.
"Listen, let's not have a big production with this, I don't know the bloke; he didn't give me anything." He moves his hand to swing the gun barrel away from him, and a blow connects with his shoulder. Hit again before he realizes it's a baton.
Police brutality poster boy shoves the vampire forward with his hands behind his back, and Spike has to hide a rueful smile against the black metal of the car bonnet he finds himself staring at. Of all the bloody rotten luck, this would happen to him. If he was going to get out of this without the chip wreaking havoc in his brain, he'd have to time it well. God, he missed the old days; 'give me a sec while I kill this guy' those were good times.
"You don't have any sharps in here do you?" A hand reaches into his leather duster from behind and tosses his pack of smokes on the metal next to his head.
"No, not in there." Runs his tongue along his front teeth and detects the sharp tang of blood, just a small amount where he'd cut the inside of his mouth. He squashes the taste against his canine with his tongue, imagining…
The hand comes up with the Darvocet bottle next. "What do we have here? Ron, let me introduce you to Ms Cordelia Chase."
"Those aren't mine," the blonde offers in explanation.
"No shit? Whose are they, your grandma's? Make it interesting."
"Um, they're a girl's."
"Rip 'em off from you're girlfriend? Either way, we're going for a ride."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He really wasn't looking forward to this, but the thought of sunrise in three hours spurs him to go through with it. A female officer holds the receiver to his ear and dials the number he recites.
[ring…ring…click]
"Hello cutie."
"Who is this?" Cordelia Chase's annoyed voice barks through the line into his ear.
"Who else do you know with a cockney accent?" The woman holding the phone suppresses a slight smile; he returns it with a long-suffering version of his own.
"Mom?" she guesses sarcastically before she continues. "Why does my caller ID say 6th precinct?"
"Give ya three on that pet."
Now she really did sound put out, "Why are you calling me from jail?"
"That nonce isn't home, and I have this pressing bail issue before the sun rises." Truth be told, he hadn't even tried Angel's number. Hers was the first to come to mind. Probably because he knew that no one else was available this evening.
"Wes could come."
"He's out sucking..." one glance at the officer standing next to him, showed she was listening intently while trying to pretend she wasn't. "Forget it, listen, Obi Cordy, you're my only hope."
"Okay, if you're going to steal cultural references, do it to your own country's. Honestly, you people come over here and think you can just take everything that we…"
"Oh yeah, it's an outrage. Listen ducks, if you're done blathering, could ya come down here quick and spring me?" He wonders if there was a time limit to the 'one phone call' concept.
"Fuck off, Spike. I am not coming to a grimy police station at three in the morning to bail you out...what did you do?"
"Nothing."
"Whatever." Not a lot of belief behind that word.
"I was set up! I didn't do anything this time!"
"Uh huh."
Man this bird was a tough one to crack. "Ok, I nicked your pills, and they got me for forging a name for prescription drugs."
"You stole from me and want me to come get you?"
Another smirk at the officer holding the phone and a rollof his eyes. She looks at the clock on the wall with sudden interest. "Pretty much."
A sigh on the other end of the line, then, "I'll be there in a half hour, but only because Angel wouldn't believe me when I told him what *really* happened."
"Sure, spin it how you want."
"I could *not* come still, you know!"
He shifts restless legs, wishing he could slap her through the phone line. "Fuck all. Birds and roses, and we're best mates, just hurry the fuck up!"
"Fine."
"Fine," he mimicks in a perfect impersonation.
[click]
"She hung up," he says to the officer with a shrug of his shoulders, like he couldn't believe it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cordelia touches the end of the brush to the nail of her big toe. She needs some pampering today, and if anyone says *one word* she will go off. She thinks she might just do that when the very last bleached blonde she ever wants to see strides through the door.
"I feel like hell."
She paints a stripe down the center of her nail, followed by one to the right of it, and to the left, until the surface is completely colored. "Well, you could have had a bunch of new friends. You know, the special kind who like to see you naked."
Spike rummages around under the counter and comes up with a small silver flask; he unscrews the top and glares at her. She pretends not to notice. Like he has anything to complain about. "Well, a good prison rape will do that to you I hear."
"Sod off." He spits out and takes a swig.
"Nice, you kiss your sire with that mouth?"
"I have, do you want the story in lewd, graphic detail?" He replaces the cap and tucks the container back into its hiding space.
"Yeah, cut the attitude. You *owe* me, Spike." She begins on her next toe, blowing on the wet varnish between words.
"I don't owe you shinola."
She's careful not to get any polish on her cuticle. There isn't anything tackier that a messy pedicure. It just screams- white trash; book me on the Jerry Springer show. "If it weren't for me, you'd be dust."
"If it weren't for you, I would never have been arrested."
Pausing with the brush poised in mid-air, she focuses on him. "What? You mean because you're a lying, two-bit con artist who stole from some stupid, trusting girl who let you into her home?"
"No, because you're a raving harpy, just like every other bint I ever met."
Cordelia puts down the polish, because she feels like this could take awhile. The last toe is done anyway. "Like every other? Are you comparing me to Harmony? You *so* don't know a damned thing about me..."
"I forgot all about Harm, yeah, add her in the mix."
"What? Then who? Dru? Whatever, she is completely off her rocker." She watches as he jumps up, seats himself on the counter, and she wonders if he ever uses a chair like normal people.
"True, and you think you won the sanity lottery?"
"Really, did I mention that you're from the same mama's boy mold that Xander fell out of?" Tossing the magenta bottle back in the desk drawer, she feels the urge to start a colossal rant. Good, it was daylight, and he's stuck here whether he likes it or not. She'd follow him into every room of this hotel if that was what it took. But before she can open her mouth, Spike rambles on.
"I can't meet a normal, sane child of the night, now can I? It's all riot grrls and feminists, and 'I can do it all on my own, I don't need you, Spike'. "
"What in the hell are you talking about? Like, I'm totally the injured party." He isn't paying her any mind though, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers and sighing loudly.
"All I ever wanted was someone who would say 'Thanks for remembering my death day, Spike.' What do I get? A dead slayer who couldn't even let me wipe her tears, an insane sire who liked her dolls more than me, and we won't even go into the rest."
Time she instilled a healthy respect for the power of rampaging estrogen into him, she stretches her glare an extra five seconds…four…three, make it count. See if she could get the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes to cut deeper into his face. //Very good// "Uh, and how do I have anything to do with that?"
Wave of his hand in her direction dismissively. "You're the same as that lot."
She straightens her spine in indignation. "I'm not like Buffy! I mean, she's dead, so I don't want to say anything really, you know, true, but she was a brat who thought the world revolved around her."
"Don't even start on her, Cheerleader."
He hasn't learned yet that she didn't take orders from anyone. Well, Angel sometimes, but that's a boss thing, and he knows to ask nicely. Plus, he signs her checks. Spike is another horse of another color, possibly not even a horse, a donkey. "Oh yeah, you and Angel and the sacred memory of St. Buffy! She was a person, just like the rest of us, well, not like you or Angel, but she made mistakes, and she almost got us killed half the time with her lame plans and just run in and fight tactics."
"She knew more about a good kill than you ever will. Shut your mouth, tart!"
Hell no, he did not! "Watch your mouth, don't call me that. I mean, lame and old-guyish."
"How about bitch?"
The last straw. Yeah, he just reached it. Up in a rage, on her feet and bellowing. "Get out of here, now!" One taloned finger pointing the way.
"Actually, pet, I live here, so why don't you leave?"
Smug face, reasonable, even tone, like he doesn't give two goddamns what she did, and ohhhh how much she hates that unruffled approach. God help her, where was her purse, she still has a stake in there. "I was here first."
"Wrong again. I was very much *here*, as in with Angel, first." Mentally chalking one up, and his pleasure increases her ire further.
"You were with *Angelus*, not Angel, and keep that straight! Don't you dare come in here and try to step up to me. You don't know me, and I will sweep you up in the dust buster!"
"You don't have it in you." His voice full of contempt, examining his nails like she's not even worth the effort of eye contact.
Her hand itching to punch his ass, she wishes she'd just left him in jail last night, or called Wes to go get him, let him get a little sample of what Wesley's like at four in the morning. Now she would just settle for putting the fear of God into him, or the fear of an enraged female. "Why don't you come within staking distance, and we'll see about that."
Off the counter in one smooth bound, he's approaching her with arms open in invitation.
That cocky bravado drives her crazy. The road rage was on her, and she didn't even have a car. Maybe she'd be a headline: Disgruntled Office Worker Snaps, Kills Annoying, Mooching Leech. Of course, they wouldn't find a body. So it would be more like: Secretary Sweeps Pile Of Dust. Ohh, newsworthy. "Why don't you get over yourself, Spike? Buffy's dead, Dru is gone, move on like everyone else."
"Oh, like you? Miss I Have Visions That Make Me Special AND I Was a Demon Princess? Who needs to get over something, you hack actress?"
Her frustration level was at an all time high; talking to him was like arguing with a violent ten year old on crack. Not even the time that Wesley threw away her brand new distressed jeans, which cost $357 on sale (!) was she this pissed. The only outlet she can imagine for her anger is violence of one stripe or another, a slap, a kick, a half-staking. Somewhere in her ear, she could hear Ms Tavish advising 'use your words Cordelia' but she never could heed that advice, even twenty years later. There's always a certain point from which she couldn't turn back, where her behavior just seems to be dictated by an invisible string, the 'Act like a bitch' string. First level- the name-calling, second- the sarcasm. Now she was at the def-con three where all she can feel in her frame is the urge to just beat her opinion into him curling tighter and tighter. Her fist flies before she fully realizes she's moving.
A lot of good it does her. Spike's ability to harm humans might be gone, but his reflexes are still very much intact. He thwarts her punch and holds her arm, not enough to hurt, just enough to effectively immobilize her.
His narrowed blue eyes suggest that he's contemplating jumping that fine line between stopping her and *stopping her*. "Nice Chase, that's just the kind of reaction I'd expect from some drunken slag in a bar."
"That's the kind of reaction you'd get from anyone, drunk or sober. You are absolutely the most fucking annoying person I've ever met." She watches a fine spray of her spittle drift between them, but she really doesn't care about Spike being repulsed; she hopes he is. "The only reason Angel never killed you is because he's like repressed emotion guy. I'd have tied you out in the front yard to wait for the sunrise *years* ago."
"Make a mental note Cor*dee*lee*ah, you wouldn't have done shit, because Darla would have broken you like the little girl you are inside of five minutes. Now *there* is a bitch I respect."
"Well it takes one to know one. You've already been everyone's bitch, first Angelus' and Darla's, then Buffy's crotch-sniffer. Wow, did you *EVER* have a dick, or have you always been a eunuch?"
"Oh my God. No wonder you can't keep a man. You castrate anyone who even gets close to you. Here's some advice, loosen up and get over yourself princess."
"Don't call me that," shakes her wrist, trying to get free, but he holds on.
"Why? Princess? Your daddy use to call you that?"
"Doyle used to call me that." Emphasis on the name, and darts from her eyes for the rest.
"The mick? You know, I've long suspected he offed himself to get away from your vicious tongue." So intent on his clever, verbal assault, he doesn't see her other hand come up until it rattles his teeth.
"Your filthy mouth isn't good enough to say his name. He was a good guy, and he doesn't deserve you talking crap about him, even if he won't ever know," tremors in her face and hands, and she would hit him again if she thought she could get away with it.
"Yeah, he was a fucking saint."
"Hey, he was fighting for something good." So loud, and right in on him, his ears ring with the concussive force of her voice.
"So am I!" Stunned by her out-burst, he replies before he knows what he's saying..
"Ha!" Haughty hair flip, one corner of her mouth raised in her almost-sneer, he wishes he could hit her, just the once, a sweet blow right to the mouth. "You were fighting to get into Buffy's pants."
"And he never tried to get into yours?" Knows that's a score, because even if he never knew that demon-kid personally, he knew *of* him, and no one with a rep like that couldn't have tried, at least once.
"I told you to shut up, quit talking about him." He's surprised she's already given up on pummeling him, expected her to go in for a volley, not a just one shot. Expects less her just asking to be turned free. "Let go of me."
"No, I don't think I trust your right hook." Seen her sparring with Angel and knows that right hand move, but doesn't trust his own reflexes not to land him immobilized with eye-liquefying pain. "I won't hit you back, but that doesn't mean I have to stand here and get the crap beat out of me."
"By a girl," she reminds maliciously.
"By a god damned harpy," he corrects.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One feeble tug of her arm, and she just drags him closer. Warm body, blood thrumming, heart bom-bom inches from him, and he has to touch it somehow, anyway she'll let him. Another yank at her arm, and he lets that bring his body up against her. Before she can wriggle free, he's kissing her. He knows why he did it. Kind of like the old days when he used to spar with the slayer, mad, and hot, and horny as hell.
But he also keeps getting flashes of Dru when they used to play the whipping game. Images of her chained beneath him, with him trying like hell not to just bury it inside of her. Only used to last as long as it took her to moan his name and beg him 'fuck me Spike, right now'.
And he knows it's incredibly twisted to link the three of them together in his mind, but he does, and there are thoughts that can't be taken away once they arise. Just like actions, once they're fully born, they just are. The kiss is real and happening, and he doesn't want to take it back, instead, he reaches around to grab the back of her head and hold her still. At least she can't yell at him anymore. Maybe he can keep her quiet if he keeps kissing her, maybe a gag would be less taxing in the end.
Strangely enough, Harmony only occurs to him because the chit brought her up a bit ago. That could be because Dru, Buffy, and Cordelia offered some sort of challenge, as though he'd had to earn their attention, and Harmony had been a clingy thing. In fact, she'd sucked him off the very first time they'd met, and then proclaimed them boyfriend and girlfriend. He'd tried to blow her off, but after a week of her whining, he'd just given in, because…constant, free sex that didn't necessitate him moving.
A plastic binder in his gut distracts him from touching, moving into his own head-space where there's just William-stream and skin touching his. He jumps at the sudden pain, jumps again when the fist of her free hand connects with his solar-plexus. Grunted into it, but since he doesn't have to breathe, the pain is bearable. The feral look on her face, and the comprehension that she was trying to hurt him did cause him to become even harder if that was possible. That's when the sudden insight struck him.
He likes it, this constant bickering, the mental stimulation, and the uncertainty of when he's going to be verbally massacred. The fear of humiliation and the desire to please but not be seen to care, keeps him on his toes. Laughter burst forth at what a sick little bastard he truly is.
"What the fuck, are you crazy?" Cordelia holds the binder up in front of her, ready to prod him if this is the beginning of a complete psychotic break.
"Yeah, I think I am."
"Well get the hell off of me if you're going to go all postal or something," She shoves at him, but he stands his ground.
"Oh quit acting like a prissy little Victorian. I'm not going to rape you for Christ's sake. You're a liberated woman; don't be ashamed if you like sex." The leer he'd patented over a hundred years ago, full-fledged and toothy pops out, but he waits for her to get to the place he's arrived at.
"Oh my God, you are insane. Why would I ever have sex with you?" Horrified tone, but she knows she hasn't tried all that hard to get free, and that she's talking way too much for this to be a normal exchange.
"Oh, I'm not good enough for ya huh? Have your fill in that alternate universe?" The look of scorn on her face works wonders for his libido, and he determines that she's definitely hot when she's quarrelling with him. So predictably, he pushes her just a bit further. "Did you let that Grusawhatsit stick it in ya?"
Chortling noises like she might be choking burble out as she snipes back, "Not that it's any of your business. You ever get any off Buffy?"
Automatic eyebrow cock, and he loves the fact that she's not even pretending to try to get away. "The robot her"
"Eww"
"You asked." The vampire rested the palm of his hand on the denim of her skirt, right around mid thigh. "She felt good, but not like this..."
"Spike, you really are like totally gross."
Suddenly, her words aren't annoying him anymore, more amusing him than anything, and he wants to shut her up as soon as possible, because finding her tolerable is the most disturbing thing he can remember feeling in a long while. "Do you always wear the ugliest possible clothes so that blokes imagine you without them?"
She stares at him with bemused disbelief. "Is this your idea of foreplay?"
"I like a little banter." Delighting in the fact that she doesn't register his other hand until it comes under her skirt, brushing the skin of her inner thigh and pushing her legs apart. When middle finger brushes against silk, a hiss of breath escapes him, sounds to his ears like a snake; and she freezes and snaps her eyes shut, gives a tiny shudder, and he wonders if she has a fear of reptiles. He might be mistaken, but he'd swear she spread her legs a fraction of an inch wider. He shimmies his hips in between her legs.
While his fingers began outlining the curves under her panties, his free hand plucks at the neckline of her shirt. "Get rid of this, Streaks."
"You want me to take it off?"
"Yes," gritted teeth because he's going slow, being calm, and he can see at this point that she's going to ride his ass forever.
"Beg me." Looks right in his eyes as she says it, and this is more than he bargained for. Not the girl he'd thought she was, not the under the covers with the lights off type after all, and he pops the button on his jeans without noticing.
"We aren't to the begging stage yet. I haven't even sampled the wares." Hand back under her skirt, stroking the elastic on the outside of her thigh.
"Whatever!"
A try to get a finger past the elastic leg of her panties, and in his enthusiasm, hears the fabric tear. Wonders if he just blew it all to hell.
"Hey, those were *silk*! They cost me 47 dollars." She protests, skittering and squirming away, lifting her skirt to inspect the damage.
"I'll buy you a new pair." Pleased that he now has better access, now that he sees that she's not really going anywhere. He wastes no time, yanks her back to him and slips his fingers under the rip in the fabric.
"With what?" she gasps the question as his finger strokes right *there*. Another inch and his finger would be inside of her. "You don't have any money."
"I'll work it out in labor. I'm quick, and I'm good with my hands"
She grunts out in a soft, high exhalation of breath, "Okay, the quick part is not helping your case." Not really listening to his words anymore, just the satiny, rich voice with the weird vowel sounds that make her melt against him that make the tendons in her legs quake.
The courtship is over, he bends, and kisses the line of her throat, licks it with the flat of his tongue from the hollow between her collarbones to the tender spot just behind her left ear. Sweat and heat, and the lingering scent of her arousal wafting up from between her legs, and his head is fogging up from over stimulation. In one suspended moment of clarity, he could swear he hears her whisper something that sounds like 'GUH' and the corners of his lips twitch upward in a lazy grin. He trails one hand over the bony cage of her sternum, knowing from experience that they're more fragile than they appear. Rather easy to crack them open, and everything the bones once protected lays open and vulnerable.
But he doesn't test its strength, not this time; he just skims his hand along the skin to her breast and grasps the mound in his palm as he moves his mouth against hers, rough and seeking. Drags his thumb across the apex and is rewarded when her nipple pops out. He gets his tongue past her lips and flicks hers, really wants to use it on her puckered areola, but he knows it might be too soon for that. He rethinks that decision when her hands came up; gripping his elbows in what he figures is an attempt to push him off of her. But he's wrong, she runs her fingers over his biceps, around the back of his arms, and ends up digging her fingers into his back as she traces every ridged definition of muscle.
He flexes against the pressure, narcissist that he is, knowing that Dru always loved a show of muscles. Hopes that Streaks is a normal female and doesn't have some weird toe fetish that would require him taking off his boots. Seduction is seriously hampered when has to say 'hold up a mo' to remove Doc Martins, and he's glad she's just asserting herself.
He wedges himself further between her legs feeling the muscles of her thighs contract against his hipbones. By bringing their torsos closer, it naturally helps his finger to slip deeper into the warm haven between her legs. The inherent differences between sex with Dru, or Harmony, and being this close to that rushing flow of humanity are obvious: heat of blood contained below a flimsy layer of skin and tissue, warmth that spreads between them until he can imagine it as a red halo that flickers from her lightly tanned belly and just touches his paler abdomen. Each part of them that comes in more intimate contact enables that aura of blood to creep over him, crackling in a low voltage hum of electricity that causes the fine hairs of his arms and stomach to stand straight up in homage to its archetypical power. She possesses the one thing that spells his very existence, and she'd never appreciate how important what to her was just another body fluid is to his kind.
Her hands round to smooth over his pecs, running down the front of his chest, leaving a shadow of electricity like a blurry radiance of light caught on a frame of high speed photography and singled out for eternity. His body hums with want and uncontained activity, but his brain slows, drowning in a sticky, surreal place that holds his logic captive. He only thinks…more contact. Looking at her with sleepy eyes, he says simply, "Take this off " as he flicks the first button of her shirt with his free index finger.
She rushes to do it, but halts after one button and peers at him expectantly, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
Doesn't know what her deal is, and then figures it out, his brain clicks slowly, like some rusty cog in an ancient machine. "Please," he drawls, smiling slowly at such a teasing little dolly, and suddenly really appreciates what a ball breaker she is. Can't look away as she unfastens the buttons, shrugs out of it, and presses up against him to slide it over her shoulders and arms. He closes his eyes and inhales as her body heat cascades across the front of him and internal muscles clamp around the digit still inside of her.
Cordelia's bra is lace, lace and plum silk- the color of royalty, how appropriate. She reaches up and snatches at his t-shirt, tugging it over his head, and he's only too happy to help her, even though it means disengaging his hand. Raising his arms over his head, he helps her pull his black t over his elbows.
She flings it aside and looks him straight in the eye. "You can't impregnate me with demon spawn, right?"
"Oy, are you nuts?" He growls in desire and confusion.
"Forget it," she murmurs, reaching for the button of his jeans to find it already undone, "Just thinking out loud."
The zipper seems to lower on another timeline, taking forever. But his brain's not exactly processing information correctly at the moment. And you know, he really does want to plead with her to hurry up. Maybe she read his mind, because she suddenly changes her tactics and jerks the denim down, scrabbles at him with bony fingers digging into the flesh of his buttocks, drawing him closer.
Frantically, he ditches the trousers, hikes her skirt all the way up to her waist, hands skimming along the smooth skin of her outer thighs. He feels the slight film of moisturizer she'd used //freshly shaven?// and the light sheen of fragrance that clings to her skin, something tangy and oriental, hint of woody undertones with an orange top note, like a time capsule to the Boxer Rebellion and the heady pride of his first slayer kill. Invincibility, and the claiming of his manhood wrapped up in a sense memory and forever linked to a girl whose visions are the salvation of this lost city.
When she accepts him into her, allows the length of him inside of her, he becomes a part of that, is able to grasp a tiny bit of that hope and believe that he could fit into this apocalyptic vision somehow. Her intake of breath, followed by a low moan of pleasure seems to be the acceptance of his belonging, and he needs her to scream it out so there's no mistaking it by him, or anyone else.
"Say it," he groans, but it ends up as a strangled gasp.
"What did you say?" A low, guttural question ground out from clenched muscles in her neck. She squeezes her legs around his back, contracting around him. "I couldn't hear you. Louder!"
His brain won't form words, all available blood rushing to other, more important areas.
He leans into her neck, gliding his tongue and pausing at her pulse to suck and rub his human teeth over the thump-thump-thump. She scratches her nails over his chest, leaving four welts that fill with red.
"What the hell, wench?"
"Trying…" [thrust] "…to…" [thrust] "…bite…"[thrust] "…me?" She demonstrates her question by actually biting his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.
The pain layered over the intense friction of their fucking is his undoing; the tightening in his belly as his balls jerk and twitch accompanied by his strangled, "Fuck…Cordelia." He'd been mid protest as his orgasm came, and the words spew out of him as his release blanks his mind.
He feels her reach her climax just as he spasms in aftershock. In-drawn breath, and he has the presence of mind to open his eyes to watch her face.
"Don't get used to this," she warns. When he collapses against her, she allows it for about three seconds before she pushes at him. "Get off."
"I wasn't going to snuggle, you shrew." As he gazes down, he notices a slight dimple in her chin. It isn't the fact that he registers it that surprises him, but the realization that he'd known it was there, that it isn't a new discovery. That implies that he'd been unconsciously memorizing insignificant physical details. That's what frightens him, that way leads to nights spent camped outside her door and dangerous obsessions that he'd thought himself free of. And he doesn't care. Lingers a fraction too long, allowing her to get in an elbow to his ribs.
What a truly sick bastard he is.