But Not Forgotten Part 2

Disclaimer and Summary -PART ONE

By 1st Rab-id/Raeann

BUFFY

She was bored.  Beyond bored, numb.  Her skin felt cold.  And her mind was filled with the senseless hum of the overhead fluorescent bulbs.  Their flat light leeched the texture from the room.  She hated the bright plastic booths in the dining area.  Hated this job.  Hated everything about it.  Hers wasn't a passionate quick-flaring hatred but a slow soul-killing one.  The kind of hatred that ate out a body from the inside, leaving nothing but an empty shell.

She glanced at the "lifers" around her, Gina by the soda machine; Walter at the drive-thru window.  They were staring blankly into space, half-asleep or rocking slightly like animals at the zoo.

The walls of Buffy's cage closed in on her at the thought and a tiny spark of desire ignited in her heart.  She wanted out.  She needed to get out.  Outside in the cool air, running free under the stars in her nocturnal habitat.  She needed to hunt something.  Kill it.  Feel alive again.

"We're not allowed," Gina said and Buffy wondered if the zoo tigers ever laughed at such remarks.

"Thus quoth Manny," Buffy replied, thinking about how she could break Manny in half without breaking a sweat.

But that wouldn't change the rules.  Manny would just be replaced, a hundred times over, a hundred-thousand times.  Normal human society was full of Mannys and, tempting as it was, Buffy couldn't possibly kill them all.  They would just keep coming at her with their petty concerns and regulations.  They were the clipboard-carrying auditors from Hell and each of them took another sliver off her spirit.

She had a customer.  Gina nodded toward the service counter and Buffy turned to confront the one person she wasn't prepared to face.  He was pretending to consider the menu selections.  She wondered briefly how he'd found her.  He must have searched.  Come for her, to the house or the magic shop.  Two nights ago, he'd thrown her out.  Ordered her to stay away.  And yet tonight, he'd looked for her and someone had told him where she was.  Dawn or Willow or Xander or Anya, one of her friends, had believed his lies.  Someone had sent him here to torture her with his sculpted face and body and his knowing eyes.

'I'm working," she said, stating the obvious because so many times he needed to hear it.

"Service me," he said, rocking up on the balls of his feet and favoring her with that suggestive little smile.

"Good God, I can't take this," Buffy thought, as her heart clenched in her chest, "not here, not now."

She suddenly knew what a caged bird felt when it heard the wild ones singing.  She snapped out her reply.  He teased her with his version of the truth.  She set him straight, relaxing into the familiar give and take.  He was wrong.  He had to be wrong, she thought, the odds were so much in her favor.  He couldn't always be right about her.

"Buffy!"

He cut her with her own name.  Reeling up the distance between them, he leaned on the counter, suddenly serious.  He was as deadly to her as poison, his eyes caring and sincere.  Those eyes were killing her.  Like this job was killing her, but what he offered scared her far more than slow death.

"You're not happy here."

"How?" She wanted to scream at him, "How can you tell?  How can you see what my best friends and my blood kin can't?  How can you know what I've hidden so long and so well?"

Her lower lip trembled.  He was one surrender away from opening her stem to stern.  One well-chosen word away from spilling her insides on the sterilized Formica and swirling them like the DMP cow and chicken.   And he was that close to making her bleed, because he loved her.

"This place will kill you," he said, as she twisted out of his grasp.  But his love, his understanding of her, was what pierced her deep.  It sent her slinking off.

He'd been so much easier to talk to when he wanted her dead.  He never hurt her like this when he'd only touched her to bruise and only spoke to insult or inflame.  Back then, she'd been able to tell him "no" and mean it.  Then when she'd pushed him away, she'd been free of him, free to walk off without a second thought.  Now, she needed an excuse to escape him.  "Gary and the fries",  and "really it's too bad, but you must understand, I can' stay, can't love you...because...I have to go....earn money."  Now, her mind stayed focused on him long after he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buffy watched the grease boil up in the fryer.  She tried to not to think about last night.  Tried not to think about her dream of pale skin and cool fingers.  Timothy came back.

"You can take your break now," he said.  His voice was a monotone, all natural animation squeezed out of it.  Buffy embraced the numbing power of that dead voice.  She let it sooth her as she crossed the room.

Spike was freeze-framed in the drive-thru window.  She looked up in time to catch one moment in his stalk-by casing of the joint.  He was circling, peering in and testing the air, just to make sure that she'd quit the place.  He hesitated when he saw her.  He was angry; disappointed in her.  She snatched off her hat.  He moved on.

He was half-way across the parking lot when she exited the building.  She let the heavy metal door slam closed.  He walked to the far curb before stopping.  His shoulders hunched as he fought against turning toward her.  He turned.  Buffy raked through her hair, lifting it from her face, the way he'd done three nights ago.  Like him, she was still learning the new length.  Like him, she enjoyed the heavy, silk pull of it between her fingers and the way the strands broke free, showering down.

He loved her hair.  He'd told her so.  He loved the shine of it, the softness and the way it bounced when she rode him.  She had tried to deny him that pleasure but, of course, he would not be denied.

They were alike that way.  She signaled her need to him, bobbing her head toward the alley.  She didn't wait to see if he would come to her.  She knew he would.  Because they also shared the gift of insight.  It wasn't pretty.  It was far too real.

She took his hand, pulling him toward the wall.

"Touch me."

If he'd done as she asked.  If he'd surrendered to her need.  Stoked over her belly or ripped open her blouse.  If he'd teased her nipples into sharp peaks with his tongue or pinched them in his teeth as he suckled.  Then she would have walked with him into the night.  She would have given him as much as she'd ever given Angel or Riley.  But he was stubborn and he wanted more.  He wanted her to tremble for him and die anew each time he touched her.  He wanted her to let go of her fear and cling only to him.  To love him as completely as he loved her.

She wasn't ready.

But she forced her body to take him in, regardless.  It hurt.  Buffy pushed against the pain.  Her nails bit into black leather and her breath caught at the back of her throat.  Spike filled her, as only he could.  She contracted around him, tightening with each beat of her heart.  The hot swirl of need spiraled through her gut.  She grew slippery, almost pleading for his kiss.  His hands were splayed against the wall.  He hadn't, wouldn't touch her.  He had told her no.

He spoke her name, drawing her eyes.  Buffy felt the lubricant seeping from her in response to his guttural whispers.  She couldn't look at him and hide her feelings and so she looked away.  She thought about money and Dawn and her seemingly pointless existence as her lover took his pleasure in her.  She refused to take anything from him in return.  She played the Victorian wife, thinking of king and country, knowing Spike would hate her for it.  Better that he hated her than loved her to the point of pain.

He came because he couldn't help himself.  The creamy fluid spurted out of him, tickling and caressing her depths.  It was cool and honey-thick and in a second or two it filled her, surrounding his shaft.  It cushioned his cock, relieving her pain and shifting their balance of power.  She held his melt inside her body, savoring the essence of pregnancy.  It diminished her fears and multiplied her desires.  She had to leave, quickly, before she begged for more.  Before she gave herself away.

"Later," he promised, reading her mind.

She never had to ask.  He always knew.

"I love you," he said.  The achingly beautiful words fell from his lips like poetry and struck her like fists.  She fled...

...from her own demon.

Back in the building, back at her station, Buffy kept him inside.  She held on to him as long as she could before excusing herself to the bathroom.  She locked the door and leaned against it.  Stripping to her underwear, she draped her shirt over the mirror so she didn't have to face herself.  So, she didn't have to face her feelings.  She told herself there might be cameras hidden behind the glass, a way to catch the slackers.

The cramping between her legs was almost unbearable.  She rubbed her fingers against the aching nub of her clit, wrapping the silk of her panties around it.   She twisted the cloth back and forth, imagining his tongue darting in to tease her.  The thought made her pant and buck her hips.  She slipped two fingers under the lace edge to touch herself, flesh on flesh.   She groaned.

Letting her head fall back against the door, she alternately probed and pumped into her soft folds.  Keeping the pressure on, she mimicked Spike's incomparable technique.   She was swelling under her frantic strokes, leaking his come as she bloomed open.  Buffy struggled against her involuntary responses, wanting to hold onto him, but needing this release.

She sliced one thumb along the slight dip and curve of her belly, gathering silk in the palm of her hand.  She fisted up the crotch of her underwear, pulling it tight against her body, roping and rocking it.  Her other hand played over her breasts, pushing under the lace to cup over one hard, high nipple.  He would suck her there, lightly.  He would lick her here with firm assurance.  He would touch her, kiss her, hold her close and he would slide deep into her...now...like this...just like...this....

"Spike, oh...god," she moaned, as she let go, folding herself around three fingers, "now...please...anything you want...anything."

Hot come pooled in her palm.  It slicked her fingers.  It soaked through the thin layer of her silken underwear and trickled down her legs.  Spike filled the room, his musk overpowering the scent of public toilets and disinfectant.  She had taken his seed and heated it, giving it the semblance of life.

But the semblance of his love left her craving the real thing.  She would go to him.  Later.  Tonight or tomorrow.  One day soon.  She would meet his eye and he would know what she was keeping hidden.  And then she would be lost to any possibility of a normal life.  All of her dreams smashed.  All of her hopes wrecked.  All of her denial of him swept away...evaporated...gone!

PART ONE

THE END

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