SUBJECT: B/S, slash F/F
RATING: NC-17
FEEDBACK: Rabid1st@yahoo.com
BETA: Mary from the Crypt Door…thanks, girl!
SETTING: A week or two after Older and Far Away…This is a Pre-As You Were Fic…showing the B/S relationship in a working mode.
SUMMARY: According to Wayne Magnuon: English Idioms: The Sweet Spot is "the best spot to touch, the spot the feels good." Spike and Buffy take some time to explore each other after the Dead Things' beating and the rocky reunion of OAFA. This fic started life as PWP and became something else entirely. It's all about motivation and convenience and what might have changed between Dead Things love scene and the one in As You Were. This fic is most definitely B/S but does include female slash of a slightly different bent. If you are even a bit open-minded on the subject you might want to take a look…if the very idea gives you the wiggins…don't bother.
DISCLAIMER: I swear I didn’t know the plot was loaded! Okay, okay, all of this belongs to Joss and Mutant Enemy and Fox and UPN if any one or all of them decide to take it there is nothing I can do…because I have no rights to these characters or situations…I know it…you know it.
FROM “AS YOU WERE”: "Tell me you love me." "I love you, you know I do!" "Tell me you want me!" "I always want you. In point of fact…"
Buffy was confused, conflicted, even angry. And yet, strangely, she was also at peace. She was doing the one thing she had sworn after the “birthday party from Hell” to resist. She was running away...from Dawn…from her Duty…from Life. Running away with Spike. Again. Riding away, in point of fact, on the back of his motorcycle, her arms encircling him and her cheek pressed into his back as the wind tore at her hair and folded the wings of his duster around her. She felt…free, alive, if only in comparison to the undead. She didn't know where they were going and almost didn't care.
Spike had promised, "Something special. Something I've never done…would never do…with anyone…but you."
"Does it involve farm animals?" she'd grimaced, truly afraid that it might. "Or large groups of onlookers? 'Cause I have to say…not really into crowds."
His eyes clouded over at her flippancy. He'd looked down, hurt by her lack of trust, and she'd weakened, the way she always seemed to weaken, "Alright, I'll see if I can make it."
That brought his sly, shy smile and a sideways glance.
"Eleven-thirty?" he'd pressed, holding her gaze and extracting her promise. "Dress to ride. I'll have everything we need."
When she'd arrived, just before Midnight, he was waiting on his motorcycle at the cemetery gates, duffle packed, engine idling. He'd tossed his cigarette away as she approached. She’d straddled the bike without a word, spooning up behind him, sliding her fingers under his shirt to caress. She'd stirred him to a mewling gasp and he'd shifted his weight to press into her, dropping one palm to cradle her knee, before leaning on the clutch and setting them in motion.
The moon was full and bright over the desert by the time they reached the city limits. The ribbon of County Road 537 stretched out, black and silver, toward the horizon and they flew along it. Mile markers whipped past, until Sunnydale was a distant memory. Slowly, Buffy relaxed, enjoying the power and speed of the bike beneath her and the solid strength of her companion. Three hours closer to the mountains, the desert gave way to rolling hills and Spike slowed, searching for a sign. Finding it, he turned off the pavement onto a dirt road; no different to Buffy's eyes than a hundred others they'd passed.
They bumped along for another forty minutes until a rise in the roadway treated them to a view of their destination. Seeing a flicker of light and a dark huddle of buildings ahead, Buffy sat up straighter. Something massive loomed out of the night and she tensed for a strike. But the thing was inanimate, a carved-wood arch built across the road like a portal. It was painted with runes and festooned with assorted skulls and fluttering strips of cloth. Spike slowed the bike to a crawl and then glided it to a stop just past the gateway. Over his shoulder, Buffy could now see the road ended a hundred yards on, at what looked like an airstrip. An assortment of low buildings gathered in a rough semi-circle beyond the twin row of yellow and white lights.
"Where are we?” Buffy said, her voice too loud in the suddenly still night.
Spike responded with a series of guttural syllables in some archaic or demonic language before switching to English and saying, simply, “Sugarland.”
Buffy frowned. His answer was meaningless. She slipped off the bike and stretched, rotating her stiffened shoulders and breathing deep. An immediate and easily identifiable musk dropped her into a fighting stance.
“Demons,” she hissed, “lots of them, very close.”
“Yeah,” Spike nodded, in affable agreement, “but they won’t hurt you.” He leaned forward, pointing to one of the many runes on the wooden arch. “This is a no kill zone.”
“There are zones?” Buffy asked, surprise bringing her out of her crouch. After sighting along Spike's outstretched arm, she strode over to examine the odd hieroglyphic symbol he’d indicated. It was just as incomprehensible up close. She ran a hand over the many carved and painted emblems on the gatepost. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up as far as she could but learned nothing further. She studied a couple of the skulls, recognizing a few of the species from her own encounters, before turning back to Spike and asking, “What else does it say?”
The vampire shrugged, “Ground rules and such…penalties for unsavory conduct…warnings about trespassing, spells of protection and cleansing…a selection of services..."
"Services?" Buffy's overactive imagination pounced on the word.
Spike smiled at her timid tone.
"Some people got," he hesitated, cocking one brow at his lover as he searched for the diplomatic term, "let's say…unusual tastes. And,” he bobbed his chin toward the airstrip where a small jet and a slightly larger one were tied down, “the money to buy satisfaction."
A tiny frisson of fear shot through the Slayer along with her certainty, "You mean it's…this is a…brothel?" She swallowed, shooting an apprehensive glare toward the nearest building, before adding, "For demons?"
"For humans," Spike corrected, dismounting as he spoke, "people of your sort, Pet." Buffy bristled and he grinned, amending, "'Cept you b.y.o.d." His grin widened in response to her look and he spelled it out for her, "Brought your own demon. Vastly more hygienic that way and cheaper too."
"Cheap is right," Buffy announced, turning on her heel. "I am not staying here."
"Suit yourself," Spike called, after her retreating figure, "but it's a long walk back."
Buffy looked around and found he was headed in the other direction, pushing his bike toward a small building set in slight opposition to the others. With an impatient snort, she trotted after him, moving quickly to block his way.
"I said, 'We aren't staying,'" she growled.
"No," he returned, patiently. "You said YOU weren't staying. It's four hours back and only two and a half until sunrise. So, I'm not leaving but if you want to go…" he waved one arm in the general direction of the highway.
"You expect me to walk?" Buffy rumbled, her brow furrowing.
"Or hitchhike," he suggested, backing his motorcycle and angling to go around her.
"Or I could just take your wheels," the Slayer countered, swinging a fist at him. She didn't connect. A wall of energy slammed into her, knocking her to the ground before she could make contact. She lay in the sand, dazed, staring up at the stars.
Spike sighed. He braced the bike against his hip and leaned toward her, offering a hand, even as he admonished, "None of that, Luv. It's against the rules to rough someone up here…unless you pay for the privilege."
"And, I'm guessing, we didn't?" Buffy grimaced, using his assistance to stand.
"Now that'd be a waste of good money wouldn't it?"
Buffy had the grace to blush at his bitter tone. Spike's body had healed from the ruthless battering she'd given it four weeks ago but his spirit was still bruised. He walked away again but after a few steps he settled his motorcycle in a marked parking spot.
Slapping the dirt off her low-rise jeans, Buffy looked back at the road as she asked, "So, what did we pay for? And so help me it better not be voyeurism."
"Just a room, Slayer," Spike soothed, shifting to catch her eye. "A sweet spot of our very own…with a bed and a bath and a digitally created simulcast of the bleedin' sunrise."
For a moment, Buffy was speechless, staring at him in surprise, and then a slow, warm smile lit her face. "Really?" she asked, with something approaching genuine pleasure.
"Really," he confirmed, stepping closer.
"Nothing kinky?"
"Well," he lingered over the word a tad too long, afraid to douse the tiny spark of her happiness, "there was one other thing." She tensed, frowning again and he rushed out, "but if you'd rather not it's okay…the room is all we need…you and I alone, Buffy…more than enough for me."
She loved how he said her name, swallowing the center of it. He used the power of naming like a charm, making her soft and feminine, instantly mollifying her temper. Reaching out, he twisted a loose strand of her hair between his fingers, using it to gently position her for his kiss. They fell into a natural embrace as their lips met. After a token resistance, Buffy melted, swaying against her lover, mouth hungry, tongue searching. Her hands eager and bold. It was always the same, her surrender…like a breaking flood.
"There's a room?" she gasped, when Spike let her breathe. He nodded and still nuzzling and petting, he herded her toward the small building marked, "MANAGEMENT".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"If you two want to do…whatever it is you do together…you'll do it elsewhere," the Management declared, in pointed distaste. "We’re not having that sort of thing here.”
“Room's already paid for, Mate," Spike reminded. "Remember the Siamese and the other little Cuddlies? I do your boss a favor…you do me a favor? Wouldn't want those eggs to hatch before Easter now would we?"
“Look, I’ve already told you,” the blue-skinned night manager sighed, spacing out his words, "It’s not…about…the money! You said you wanted a room…and a very rare specialty service…that was the deal.” He shot a look past Spike’s shoulder through the office window. Buffy was waiting outside, at the management's insistence. “You never said a word about the Slayer."
"And who the bloody hell did you think I'd be bringing?" Spike asked. "She's my woman…everyone knows it. After that, it's not a Mensa puzzle is it, you soddin' git? You can connect the dots for the full picture. What I asked for? In your line of work? I obviously wasn't planning to come alone…"
"Ewww," the clerk shuddered, holding up three rubbery tentacles. "No details, no discussion. You can’t do it here. Not with her. It’s bad for business.”
Spike didn’t bother responding this time. He just pulled another hundred from his pocket and added it to the one already on the desk. Blue-Skin didn’t flinch until two more bills were transferred then he shot another apprehensive glance out the window.
“It could be my head,” he hissed, “literally. If anyone gets wind of this…”
“Who’s gonna know?” Spike asked, rounding the bribe up to five hundred.
"Anyone in a two mile radius with a nose," the clerk countered, with a pointed sniff, but he snaked out a tentacle and seized the money, slipping it into his stomach pouch. After a brief hesitation, he plucked a key from the board behind his head and, with another swaying member, set a small silk-covered box on the desktop.
"Cabin twelve," he said, with resignation, shoving the box toward Spike and making no effort to hide a grimace of disgust. "It's the last one on the right and be sure to engage the dampening field as soon as you get her inside."
Spike rolled his eyes but didn't comment. He took the key, dropped the small box into his duster pocket and headed for the exit.
Buffy glanced up as he came out. She was perched sidesaddle on the bike. Hopping off, she moved to meet him, saying, "Well, that took forever."
"Had to re-negotiate with the bigoted wanker," Spike explained, shooting a venomous glance over his shoulder. "Can't seem to wrap his mind around our forbidden love."
"Negotiate? With what?" Buffy frowned, squinting at him. "Last time I checked you didn't have two kittens to rub together and now you're paying off the local Stable Boss? Not to mention a room here at The Twisted Chicken Ranch must run into serious money."
"I'll work it off in trade," Spike muttered. He knew she wouldn't approve of the deal he'd cut with his loan shark. "Don't let it worry you."
"Trade?" Buffy repeated, favoring him with a look of mingled suspicion and dark delight. "What? Are they putting you on the 'services' menu?"
He grinned wickedly as he reached for her, "You saying I'm good enough to go pro, Pet? 'Cause that's flattering that is!"
"I'm a flatterer," Buffy agreed, with a mischievous smirk of her own. Avoiding him, easily, she hefted the duffle bag in one hand and said, "Everyone remarks on it. And you didn't answer my question."
"No, I didn't," he acknowledged. "Not much of a present if you know what it costs. But you needn't fret 'bout me workin' here, Luv. Where would I find the time?" he asked, twinkling at her. "Or come to that…the energy?"
Flattered herself, Buffy let Spike gather her into his arms. She moved with him toward Cabin 12, purring slightly as he dropped tiny kisses on the nape of her neck. The Slayer's mind was already preparing her body for her demon lover's savage inundation. She was uncomfortably aware of the warm, slick fluid on her inner thighs. And felt the need for something cold and hard to ease her growing heat. Spike's whispered suggestions and insistent hands only served to increase her arousal. The heady scent of it teased at Buffy's nose as she climbed the three steps to the cabin door.
Without breaking contact with the Slayer, Spike forced the key into Cabin Twelve's lock and they tumbled into the room, twined around one another, frantically peeling off layers of clothing. As soon as they were inside, Buffy dropped the duffle. Her fingers were impatient for him, provoking in their eagerness. Spike responded, closing the door by lifting her bodily and slamming her into it.
"Yes," she gasped, into his mouth, glorying in the erotic ratio of pleasure to pain.
Multi-tasking, Spike saw to the Slayer’s immediate needs even as he fumbled one hand over the wall switches, searching for the sensory dampener. The lights flared, accidentally, as his blindly questing fingers hit the wrong button, and Buffy jumped. Then, she blinked and gave a tiny gasp of astonishment. Her eyes widened with surprise as she twisted free of Spike's embrace to get a better look at their surroundings.
The room was exquisite. Beyond anything she had ever imagined.
The furnishings had an Eastern simplicity with a nod to Western decadence. The lighting was recessed, coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The bed was huge but low and sturdy. Built solid in honey blond heartwood, it was dressed in white linen and piled high with silk pillows. More pillows were scattered about on the cream-colored carpet. The Slayer kicked off her sandals and let her toes sink into butter-soft luxury as she crossed to the far wall.
She noted the fire burning low on a natural stone hearth and the bottle of fine wine chilling nearby but it was the wall itself that held her fascinated attention. It was a flat screen monitor of some kind, an obviously magical device, set to mimic the great outdoors. It offered a panoramic view of the desert beyond the cabin, creating the illusion of being able to step through into open air.
Behind her, Spike dimmed the interior lights, enhancing the effect.
Buffy murmured her approval. She touched her fingertips to the screen and the scene changed, becoming a waterfall and floral-trimmed pool. She touched it again and she was overlooking a rocky beach. She could hear the surf pounding and almost smell the salt spray. The sun was just cresting the horizon, coloring the sky with rose and gold.
Coming up behind her, Spike slipped his arms around Buffy's waist. He rested his chin on top of her head, cuddling her close, and asked, "Do you like it, then?"
"It's beautiful," she sighed.
"You're beautiful," he corrected, as if the rising sun could not compare.
He stepped back slightly, shifting his grip. Then, holding Buffy in a one-armed embrace, he lifted his other hand to tug gently at the pins in her hair. The wind had created its own style for her as they traveled. A wild mane of bedroom curls festooned with bits of bone and metal, fell, now, to her shoulders. Spike combed through his beloved’s tangled tresses, savoring the silken weight of them between his fingers as her civilized restraints dropped away.
He could feel the ready heat rising in her again. She blazed up to his touch, dry tinder to a careless spark. Slithering against him, she gave a breathy moan, "Mmmmm…" and transferred a good measure of her fire to him.
"Tell me you want me," he whispered, into the hollow behind her left ear.
"I want you," Buffy replied. She twisted in his arms, turning to face him as she added, "You know I do…." Her lips formed the word, "but" and he placed two fingers against her mouth, forestalling her.
"Nothing more," he insisted, softly, before supplanting his fingers with a kiss.
The kiss was achingly sweet, like the idea of a special place, and Buffy instinctively stiffened, thrown off-balance by a stir of unexpected feeling. She wasn’t used to gentleness from Spike. And she didn’t like it. Or perhaps she liked it far too much. Either way, she didn't understand what they were doing. She broke free of her demon lover's mouth, frowning up at him, the question in her eyes.
Everything about this night, this room, was wrong.
They didn’t require atmosphere in the throes of passion. They fed on one another with immediate need, hunger and flesh. They used tombs and floors and the hoods of abandoned cars. They’d used the damp, cold ground on more than one occasion. Spike treated her like a desperate addiction and she responded in kind. She didn’t want to feel anything beyond the transient rush of satisfaction. She couldn't face anything more. Buffy thought she'd made that clear.
Her unspoken confusion seemed to strike her lover like a closed fist. He flinched, pain flitting across his face. His eyes grew icy and he released her, abruptly, turning his back and walking away.
“Alright,” he agreed, as if she’d spoken aloud, “let’s get on with it.”
To Buffy's increasing confusion, he bent over to retrieve his discarded duster and rummaged in the pockets. After the briefest search, he drew out a small box covered in blue silk and cast the coat aside again. He crossed back to the stunned Slayer. Confronting her, he held the box up between them, presenting it like evidence.
“Not my girl,” he said, with an ironic twist to his mouth. “I got your memo."
“Spike…I,” she began, not wanting to fight with him. She needed something else entirely; something she kept trying to avoid but still craved every moment of the day.
He cut her off with bitter words. "I don’t fit in your world. I don’t understand what you need. Maybe this will make things clear to me.” He flourished the box before using his thumb to pop it open. Resting inside the silk-lined container were two nodules of what looked like rolled clay.
Curiosity got the better of the Slayer, “What is that?” she asked, peering at his odd offering.
“Compatibility,” Spike answered, lifting out one of the two small brown buttons before settling the box and remaining button gently on the bed.
Buffy’s eyebrows arched up. “Compatibility's a lump of dirt in a box?” She tilted her head and tried the light, teasing tone, “You'd think it would be bigger.”
Spike didn't soften. Instead, he fixed her with a piercing glare, repeating his earlier question, "Do you want me?" Before Buffy could reply he jabbed impatiently at his chest with clawed fingers and clarified, “ME? Or do you just need a cold, dead body in the night? Someone as savage and heartless as you are?"
Buffy didn't answer, couldn't answer, because she really didn't know what to say. She didn’t know why she craved Spike's touch. Why she came to him despite her fierce resolve to stay away. Why she let him in and why he alone seemed to satisfy her. She desperately wanted to call it addiction, some monstrous darkness lurking in her psyche, seeking any release. But the more she questioned herself the more elusive her motivation seemed, and the more cryptic her emotional response to the questioning.
The longer this thing went on between them the more apparent it became that it wasn't as simple as need and convenience. Spike was more than a thing to her, more than an object she used to sate her lust. And yet, he wasn't real. He couldn't be real to her, not like a person, like a lover…like a man. She would never use a person as she used him. Unable to articulate her feelings, Buffy remained speechless, staring at Spike as steadily as she could manage.
He took her silence the wrong way, "Someone convenient," he spat.
"No," Buffy denied, sharply. The word was out before she thought to contain it and it stirred a flicker of something in Spike's eyes, a touch of hope, perhaps. Buffy blinked, looking away as she stammered, "I-uh-I m-mean it's…c-complicated."
"It's not," Spike corrected, softly. He stepped toward her, drawing her attention again, holding her gaze. Shifting the small brown ball in his palm, he freed his fingers to tug at his clothing. Without glancing down, he stripped…shirt…shoes…jeans, until he was naked before her.
"Tell me," he asked, when he finished, "does this body please you?"
"Please me?? Oh, God," Buffy thought, her
mind working furiously and her mouth as dry as the desert outside, "It
makes me weak in the knees, it makes me shudder and scream and beg…I can't
resist it and...DAMN...Damn him…he knows that!"
"What do you want me to say?" she asked, aloud, her voice sounding strangely hollow to her own ears.
"Say you love me," he said, smiling despite the shadow of sadness in his face.
Buffy's shoulders drooped, visibly. He always wanted the impossible. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she sighed, "I don't."
"Say it anyway," he returned. "You don't have to mean it. Be a man, Buffy, play along."
The Slayer's eyes snapped open and she growled, "Look, I don't know what you think you're doing but I don't want to play your sick game, okay?"
"Okay," Spike agreed, with a small shrug, "if you won't be a man…"
He let the statement hang in the air between them and, with a deft swiftness, slapped the brown button of "compatibility" down on the inside of his left wrist.
The round thing flattened out and then began to wriggle like a worm. It spread, twisting, elongating, and slithering around Spike's wrist until it met itself on the far side. Front and back parts merged forming a bracelet of brown encircling the vampire's arm. Hundreds of tiny black appendages sprouted along the length of the thing like legs…or teeth. The sharp points bit into Spike's flesh and he screamed. The confidence left him all at once, replaced by overwhelming pain. He grew rigid and, still screaming, fell to his knees, clawing at his arm, trying to tear the worm-thing off.
In the space of a heartbeat, a brown stain spread over Spike's body, up his arm from the bracelet. It mottled his pale skin, leeching away his semblance of life. The sick discoloration swept across his chest and up over his face, swift as a rising tide. His flesh took on the consistency of drought-parched earth, stiffening and cracking, before Buffy's terrified eyes. She stepped forward, instinctively, reaching out to help, but she was too late. The transformation was too rapid to halt even if she'd known how to stop it. Within seconds, Spike was reduced to an earthen statue, a motionless study in agony.
"SPIKE," Buffy shrieked, panic bubbling up in her throat as her mind leaped instantly to the thought of suicide.
She felt shock washing through her body and tried to reason with her racing heart. What she was thinking didn't match what she knew of Spike. He was melodramatic but he wasn't suicidal…and if he was, Buffy told herself, he wouldn't do it like this. He'd push her to do it or he'd go off alone.
She took a stabilizing breath, calming herself, before extending one trembling hand toward the statue of her lover. Gently, she caressed his dull clay-textured cheek and felt the material give to her touch. She pressed down and tiny fissures appeared on Spike's face, spreading out from the pressure of her fingers. Buffy recoiled in disgust and dismay but then paused peering closer.
Clean skin, pale as moonlight, showed through the small hole she'd created. She touched an arm, a leg, his hair, his shoulder and his chest. Each touch, in turn, produced a crack in Spike's shell. The air filled with an impossibly fine powder as the hideous chrysalis broke and fell away under Buffy's careful probing. In a matter of minutes, the vampire emerged as wondrously transformed as any worm could hope to be.
But before he was quite free of his cocoon, the nature of his metamorphosis became apparent to the Slayer and she stumbled back, eyes widening in horror.
"My God," she breathed. "What have you done?"
"Bloody obvious, isn't it?" Spike returned, in a melodious voice. Free enough to move, again, he stood and brushed both of his impossibly elegant hands over the newly pronounced curves of his body, removing the last lingering traces of clay.
"You’ve…you're a," Buffy tried, but couldn't bring herself to say it.
"Woman?" Spike returned, arching one beautifully sculpted brow. "Yeah, I noticed.” He gave a dismissive little flutter of his fingers. “Expectin' it o'course. Told you it would make us more compatible."
"Compatibility is getting along better," Buffy yelped. Her recent anxiety collided with her mounting sexual frustration in an emotional train wreck and she gave a tiny impotent shriek. "This is…just…." She ran out of things she felt comfortable saying and resorted to gesturing with her hands at the petite and perfectly formed woman her male lover had become.
"Compatibility," Spike corrected, gently, "is having the same needs and desires, being empathic, having an almost single-minded rapport."
"Thank you, Danielle Webster," Buffy snapped, scowling ferociously. Spike stepped closer and she edged quickly away, trying very hard not to notice his (or was it her?) nakedness. "Stay away from me…and undo whatever you did."
"Can't," the other woman said.
"You mean…Oh, God…this isn't…permanent?" Buffy squeaked, her heart sinking.
Spike laughed, a low haunting sound, and her liquid blue eyes sparkled, as she said, "No, not at all! It wears off in about four or five hours when the Obreo Weevil gives up on me and takes back its gift."
"The ober-what?"
"Obreo Weevil," the other woman said, touching the dark band around her wrist. "It’s a symbiotic organism from a dimension where life as they knew it is nearly extinct. To stave off the end as long as possible, gender, and for that matter species, had to become a matter of convenience rather than hardwiring. You meet another living soul you breed…simple as that."
"You can't breed…you're dead."
"Jokes on the weevil, then," Spike said, flashing Buffy a bright smile.
The Slayer didn't smile back.
Giving a small “whatever”-shrug, Fem-Spike let it go. She wandered over to the duffle and crouched down to unzip it, treating the Slayer to a stunning display of female anatomy in dynamic motion. The lady vamp pulled a red, floral print skirt out of the bag, held it up for size, grimaced and tossed it back. After a bit of rummaging, she came up with a blue slip dress. Standing, she dropped the satin confection over her head. It was too long, nearly past the knee, and snug at the chest but otherwise a nice fit.
Buffy gave a delicate shudder of distaste. She tried to stamp down her inner wiggins at the realization that Spike had packed multiple outfits, as the vampire continued her commentary on Obreo Weevils.
"Vampire's been doing this for centuries, Pet. One of the perks of dead wigglies in your spume. Dru and Angel used to love playing Obreo dress up. Always after Darla and me to join in the festivities. She did it once or twice but I never saw the need." She paused, before adding, "Until now, least ways. Since our nasty spat…well…I was thinking it might help to create a little rapport."
Buffy was aghast, “How could you possibly think I would go along with this? It’s sick, even for you. It's…perverted.”
“The Wiccan Lovers know you feel that way?”
“That’s different,” Buffy ground out, between tightly clenched teeth.
“I don’t see how?”
“Will and Tara are wome…” she began, heatedly, but broke off mid-explanation. Holding up her hand, palm out, the picture of total exasperation, Buffy cut to the chase, “They’re gay! I’m not.”
“I’m not either, Luv,” the Spike woman sighed. "Which is why I’m here with you and not Xander…or rather that’s the first reason among many…though I suppose we could…”
Buffy glared and Spike immediately broke off her musings to sooth, “Okay, okay, nobody is forcing you to participate. If you won’t budge on the girl/girl issue, there’s another weevil,” She inclined her delicate chin toward the box, still sitting innocently on the bed. “Slap it on and we are back to a strictly hetero-encounter.”
“EWWW, Gross Spike,” Buffy exclaimed, looking like she might vomit. “I don’t want to be Tarzan to your Jane. Why would I…why would anyone want to do something like this?”
“To understand how others experience their sexuality,” Spike responded, with calm assurance.
“Who cares?” Buffy snarled, still supremely putout.
Spike rolled those extraordinary eyes and Buffy felt a twist of some indefinable emotion catch at her insides. There was a tugging in her heart and a tingling somewhat lower. The implication was appalling. She did want him…still…even like this…as incomprehensible as it was. Why the hell did he…she…Spike damn it…have to be so phenomenally, irresistibly hot?
Buffy tried to get a grip on herself. She frowned; mentally lecturing her newly discovered inner Lesbian on the fixed nature of her sexual orientation. It was hopeless. And Spike's clingy blue dress did nothing to shore up Hetero-Buffy's case. Accentuating, as it did, the other woman's figure, playing up her best features. Not, Buffy groused silently, that Fem-Spike had any BAD features to play down. From her high full breasts to her delicate ankles, from her fine-boned face to the fall of soft white curls that framed it…Spike was the loveliest woman Buffy had ever set eyes on.
But beauty hardly mattered, the Slayer told herself, forcefully. Because she, Buffy, was definitely, absolutely, positively NOT GAY! She never had been, never would be interested in going there. Even if there had been that one tiny moment with Faith in the Bronze…and that dream about Cordelia…those were transient notions…a perfectly normal and healthy reaction to female rivalry...Dr. Walsh even said so in Psych 101.
“It's not just vampires doing it. Lots of human types do it, too,” Spike was saying, as Buffy's inner debate raged on. “And for any number of reasons. To appreciate the difference between men and women on a personal level. To learn to love your unique perspective and/or that of your partner. To give pleasure with a greater generosity. To become more compatible with the one you love…so you can please them, make them feel special…let them know what it's like for you when you're deep insid…” The vampire's voice broke. “Bugger it,” she muttered and looked hastily away, blinking back sudden tears.
Buffy felt the familiar slippery slope sensation that generally rode shotgun on a Spike suggestion. Her boundaries had been redrawn so often she didn’t really know where they were anymore…but changing her sex or her sexual orientation was, she was sure, far outside the realm of consideration.
“I’m sorry,” Buffy sighed, shaking her head. “I just can’t do this."
Still turned toward the door, Spike sniffed, delicately, and then gave an almost imperceptible shrug, "Doesn't matter," she said. Her voice sounded weepy even as she added, brightly, "Guess we got a bit of time to kill though."
Buffy fought down an inexplicable urge to comfort, instead remarking, sardonically, "Yeah…just us girls."
Spike turned to look over her shoulder, inherent good humor driving the rain out of her eyes. “So what do you want to do, Luv?"
Unfortunately, Buffy's mind went straight to the one thing she really wanted to do. She blushed head-to-toe and the companionable warmth in Spike's gaze blazed into open lust. Flashing a sliver of tongue, the vampire began to slink toward the still speechless Slayer.
"We could have a slumber party," Spike suggested. "Paint our nails? Plait each other’s hair? Maybe we could find a pack of cards and play strip poker. Not like I've got a lot to lose." Buffy's blush became a flush of anger, forcing Spike to tamp her inner fire down to a glow. “Or we could just talk if you like…about girl stuff…make-up? Or shopping?”
“Or boys?” Buffy returned, with biting sarcasm.
The other woman favored her with Spike’s slow seductive smile, purring, “Fine by me, Pet!” She moved to within inches of the Slayer before whispering, “Tell me, now, just between us girls, what is it you fancy in a man?”
“The essential anatomy,” Buffy snapped, stepping hurriedly away from any contrary temptation.
She moved quickly but Spike was quicker. The vampire reached out a hand as Buffy darted by and trailed pale fingers along the exposed skin of the Slayer's throat. Buffy froze. It was Spike's touch. Unmistakable. Not his hand, not his fingers but his touch. Buffy's body responded like a cello to Yo-Yo Ma, thrumming all the way to her core. She quivered and felt the other woman tremble, too. Spike pressed closer, setting up a harmonious vibration of empathy. They were both in uncharted waters now, both shy yet craving each other and wet with need.