Couple: B/S
Rating: Mostly PG-13 – R
Feedback: Rabid1st@yahoo.com
Betas: Mary from the Crypt Door, Kes from BoB and Rilla from AIGT. Late to the party but still very important, Zyrya!
Summary: Answers the question: "What really happens when you mix one dippy vampire, two Obreo Weevils and a Slayer with Wacky Magically Reconstituted DNA?" OH, Coooome oonnn, you knew it could happen, right? Right? This is a sequel of sorts to my Fem-Slashy Fic The Sweet Spot and contains loads more F/F slashy stuff but it is still essentially a B/S fic…I just decided to have some fun with the concept of a female Spike. For purposes of clarity Spike will remain a "HIM"…personal pronoun-wise. If you didn't read The Sweet Spot…all you really need to know is that Spike is female in this fic and Buffy starts out male. This is due to some little critters called Obreo Weevils that magically change a person into the opposite gender…if you are over 18 and want details go read The Sweet Spot.
Disclaimer: Well, I think this fic settles the question once and for all…Joss won't claim me…so this is not a sanctioned concept and all rights to these characters belong to Mutant Enemy and Fox and Upn. I am being a bad, bad, Rabid.
PART ONE (or maybe THREE)
Murmuring endearments, the Slayer shifted her weight to one side. She couldn't believe what she'd just done. Couldn't believe the way she ached inside at the thought of it. Part of her wanted to run, to scramble from the bed and flee into sunlight. And another part of her wanted to be swallowed up in eternal night. Neither part had the final say. Because she was the Slayer and in love with the very thing she was supposed to abhor.
Sighing, she pulled Spike closer, curling around his new and delightfully pliable body. Cradling his head against one of her well-muscled arms, Buffy gently lifted dampened strands of hair from her lover's brow. He sighed, smiling up at her. Buffy looked down into his sublimely satisfied face.
"You still love me," she said, not making it a question, knowing it was true.
"Always," he whispered.
"I'm a bad man," Buffy argued, "rough and wicked."
"No," Spike assured her, softly. "You're still my sweet girl."
Buffy felt a nearly overwhelming desire to nurture and protect this fragile being. Spike, the frustrating bane of her existence, had somehow become a real person in the span of one day. Breaking contact for a moment, she draped a blanket over his slim hips and her own bulkier ones. She kissed the soft hollow of his throat and he snuggled into her, whispering words of devotion. His eyelids fluttered shut, pale, impossibly long lashes brushing his skin. Buffy held him in her arms as he drifted off into sated slumber.
She waited, for what seemed like forever, for her lover to enter the death state. Beneath him, her arm grew numb. Her back started aching and still Spike didn't slump into oblivion. Buffy puffed out a sigh of irritation. Her euphoric mood was rapidly deteriorating under the pointed prodding of morning-after regrets. She wiggled back, easing away from the other woman in her bed.
There's a naked woman, next to me, skin on skin," the voice in Buffy's head commented, sounding appropriately appalled. "She's in my arms, and I touched her…licked and kissed… and I…made her come…made her scream with pleasure and she's Spike…and so beautiful…" Buffy felt her manhood stirring to life again in quick response to her thoughts, "…and oh, yes… I so want to do it again…over and over…I love her…him… I love Spike…no…No…NO! Dead and evil…dead and evil…keep saying it 'til it sinks in…
She panicked, moving too quickly, casting caution aside, and Spike stirred. Buffy froze, not quite clear of the embrace. She held her breath. If he looked at her, if he opened his eyes, she was lost. After a moment or two the vampire stilled and Buffy was able to free her trapped hand. She watched Spike warily for several minutes but he didn't wake and, finally, Buffy relaxed, letting her head fall back onto the silken pillows. She concentrated on the painful pins and needles sensation in her arm and stared sightlessly at the ceiling as digitally recreated sunlight painted it a golden hue.
Beautiful false light, Buffy's inner
critic chided. It's fake, simulated sunshine, all a lie… like these
bodies. Like his so-called love. None of this is real. It can't be. I can't believe I did this…came to this place…let him do this to
me…let him in. And I still want him…even
as a woman…Maybe I'm gay…I could be gay and not know it, even…I could be gay and
repressed.
She gave a sharp mental snort, Yeah, and maybe I'm
Chinese. Maybe I'm a gay, repressed,
Chinese person…or…you know… maybe I am just a skanky whore for the undead…a
filthy, slutty, disgustingly easy lay for any soulless fiend with tight abs…
I'm worse than Faith…way worse…worse than him even…not like he can stop
himself. This has got to stop! Why
can't I make it stop? Just walk away from the dark?
But the thought of never touching Spike again, never being touched, made her feel so empty. Buffy sniffled and reached up to brush away her unmanly tears. She was so very tired. She'd had her fill of kinky sex. And more than her fill of guilt and lies. She thought back fondly now on the weeks of numbness, just after her resurrection. Only a few months ago, she remembered, she'd been longing to feel…something…anything.
And now what? she silently asked. Now,
I feel too much. And all the wrong
things. Now I'm in love with Spike…no,
I'M NOT! It's not that…not love. It's something else. I'm
just…addicted…wrong…or…maybe in love with death? Like…a death wish. All Slayers have a death wish…he said. And I listened to him…I keep listening to
him…like he knows things…like he knows me.
And Oh…oh, God…he's going to know!
He's going to look at me and know…I love him…and then…then…he'll never
let go!
She felt sick at heart. And gradually she began to feel sick in body as well, uncomfortably hot and bloated. She squirmed, seeking some relief. The cool linen was a momentary balm to her fevered flesh but she was soon sweating profusely again. She couldn't seem to get comfortable. Her skin felt like it was shrinking. It seemed three sizes too small. Buffy sat up, panting.
Finally her physical distress and a growing thirst drove her from the bed. She stumbled toward the bathroom but halfway there she paused for a moment, looking back at her lover, admiring his ethereal beauty. He seemed flushed, glowing almost, in the digital sunlight. Despite feeling decidedly nauseous, Buffy found it difficult to resist the urge to go back to bed. Spike was so incredibly attractive in his feminine form, delicate as spun glass. Buffy was appalled at the force of her lustful response even as she considered giving in to it. She glanced down at her swollen erection and grimaced.
"Such a ho," she croaked. The effort of speaking tore at her throat, reminding her of her thirst. The lash of dehydration drove all other desires to the back of her mind.
She staggered to the bathroom sink. Not bothering to search for a glass, she turned on the tap and began lapping directly from her cupped hands. Buffy couldn't seem to drink fast enough. Growling in frustration, she tilted her head to let the water pour directly into her mouth. Her hands were swelling. She noted it absently, but she couldn't stop drinking. It took the stab of fluid in her lungs to reach her. Drowning? She was drowning. Giving a strangled cry, she pushed away from the sink.
Buffy lurched backward, her waterlogged flesh sloshing around her. She caught one horrifying glimpse of her amazingly distorted male body in the full-length mirror before her false skin burst like an over-extended balloon. Buffy's maleness sluiced off in a splash of protoplasm, puddling on the tile at her feet.
Sputtering and coughing, she pawed at her mouth and nose with both hands, clearing away the thin mucus blocking her airway. She was coated in slime. It dripped off the tips of her fingers and plastered her hair to her head. It clouded her vision. Blinded, she groped for the shower. She turned on the taps and, stepping high to clear the tub edge, ducked under the spray. She rinsed out her eyes and scrubbed at her face until she was able to see again. Then she found a packet of shampoo and some soap and washed herself clean.
Half an hour later, wrapped in a fluffy towel but feeling only slightly less dirty, Buffy wandered back into the bedroom. The sun on the wall was setting; a false twilight was thickening.
'Another sick Spike sexcapade draws to a close,' Buffy thought. It was time to start thinking about excuses and lies. Nearly time to return to the land of the living.
Buffy dressed quietly and sank down near the hearth. After rubbing her hair nearly dry with the towel, she curled her legs under her and stared into the embers of the fire. She didn't want to wake Spike, not yet. As soon as he woke she would have to start lying again.
She practiced the speeches in her mind; Out fighting monsters…all night…lost track of time. You are wrong, Spike…I didn't like doing it…It was sick and perverted…you disgust me.
Buffy glanced over at her...lover? Companion? Nemesis? One of his small hands was curled in a fist and pressed into the valley between his breasts.
Such sweet, full breasts, Buffy mused. She remembered the nipples hardening in her mouth as she suckled. Her tongue tingled with the memory but she managed to push the thought away, hugging herself against a sudden unexpected craving to bury her fingers in soft, wet flesh. Her eyes devoured her lover.
Spike's other hand was draped over the side of the bed, the dark band of the weevil stark against his dangling wrist. Buffy smiled at his relaxed pose. He looked so adorable, so satisfied. She couldn't seem to look away. Absent-mindedly, Buffy watched the light rise and fall of Spike's chest for several minutes before the wrongness of it hit her. When it did, she gave a tiny squeak.
She tried again, and the squeak emerged as a shout, "SPIKE?"
He woke instantly, sitting up with a start. The blanket slid to the floor as he frantically sought the Slayer's relative position, "Buffy? Wha-?"
"You," she said, pointing an accusing finger. "You're breathing."
"What?" Spike repeated, blinking sleepily at her. He combed his fingers through his hair, ruffling the mass of loose curls.
"Breathing," Buffy repeated.
Spike glanced down at his chest. He stared, taking in the pert, oh so feminine breasts in subtle motion. His mouth gaped open. As looked over at Buffy, one of his delicate hands fluttered to his chest and settled, cupping a breast.
"Oh, BLOODY HELL!" Spike yelped after a few seconds of stunned silence. The common curse sounded comical in his new alto range even as it fell naturally from his refined lips.
Buffy was too concerned to smile at the incongruity. Spike seemed horrified.
"What?” Buffy exclaimed, a bubble of panic rising in her chest. “What's wrong?"
The vampire scrambled from the bed and bore down on her. The Slayer started to back away but Spike seized her roughly by both arms.
"When did you change?" he demanded. She stared at him and he shook her slightly, repeating, "WHEN?"
"Get off of me," Buffy snarled, shoving him away.
Spike stumbled, nearly falling and Buffy was immediately contrite but the violence seemed to strike him as hysterical.
"Oh, this is a bloody fuckin' treat, idin it?" he laughed, wiping away tears as he reeled toward the bathroom.
“What’s wrong?” she repeated.
Receiving no answer, Buffy followed Spike at a cautious distance. She paused in the doorway to watch the lady vamp. Spike was in the center of the room. He slowly skirted the puddle of weevil-water, his eyes scanning the floor. After a brief search he bent down to retrieve the clay ball of Buffy's Obreo from a spot near the sink. Buffy noted her rounded weevil was much lighter in color than the one wrapped around her lover’s wrist. She wondered if the color change was important.
Spike stood, very still, turning the Obreo-ball meditatively in his long fingers. Then, quite suddenly, he pitched it full-force at the tub. Buffy jumped as the ball cracked against porcelain. Spike was at the medicine cabinet before the weevil stopped ricocheting. He took out a plastic tumbler, filling it from the sink. Leaving the tap on full-force, he downed three glasses of water in quick succession before holding up his left hand to the light and studying it.
Whatever Spike was expecting to happen, didn’t. There was no obvious change. But, in the bathroom's bright illumination, Buffy could see the weevil on his wrist was no longer as sharply defined. It seemed to have embedded itself in his flesh. The vampire’s weevil bracelet had flattened out. It was almost a part of him now, like a scar or tattoo.
Spike let his hand drop to his side. He was the picture of dejection as he turned in Buffy’s general direction.
He failed to meet her eye. Staring into the middle distance, he sighed, "How long, Pet?"
"Maybe an hour," Buffy said, matching his serious tone. "Something went wrong didn't it?" she guessed. "You should have changed, too? Before I did?"
Spike still couldn’t look at her. "That's the thing about magic…" he said in a small voice. He didn't bother to finish the thought. He moved in a daze toward the doorway. Buffy scooted aside so he could go by. She followed him back into the bedroom.
Spike shuffle to the bedside. He picked up his blue slip dress from the floor and then stared at it as if he didn’t understand what the garment was doing in his hands.
He shook his head at the dress, muttering, "I can't wear this,” and let the garment slip back down to the floor as he turned to retrieve his duffle bag.
Upending the luggage over the bed, Spike continued speaking, more to himself than Buffy, as he rummaged through assorted apparel.
“Have to take the motorcycle. Unless we can find a car…need to be bloody careful…can't get copped…not like this…gotta remember to breathe, too…blood, circulating…hungry…gotta eat. Damn…eat, eat, what do I eat? Pig’s blood? Probably need supplements or veggies or something. Calcium I think. Better talk to someone…find out…soon…but who? Who? Who would know? Never happened before…can't happen…can't be happening now…"
"What can't happen? Spike? Answer me!"
Spike started to turn toward her. Pausing mid-turn, he looked blank for a moment, as if he had forgotten she was there. He was obviously in shock, moving like a woman underwater.
“I need something to wear,” he said, going back to his task without answering Buffy's question. “You can’t drive. I need to.”
"So wear your own clothes," Buffy said, gesturing at the male garments scattered on the floor.
Spike paused in his searching to cock his head at her. He sighed in resignation but responded to her suggestion, scuffing over to pluck up his black tee from its resting spot on the carpet. He held the shirt up for size, grimaced and then dropped it over his head. It swallowed his petite feminine figure, the v-neck sliding down to bare one shoulder. He located his jeans, considered them for a moment and then threw them aside.
"Tha's no good," he growled, glaring at Buffy as if everything wrong in the world was her fault.
"Well, then...okay...we can just wait here until you change back and…"
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Spike screamed with high-pitched hysteria.
“No! Hence the continual ‘What the Helling?’" the Slayer yelled back. Spike looked away obviously tearing up again and Buffy’s patience ran out. Closing the distance between them, she grabbed her lover by an arm, yanking him around to face her as she shouted, "Earth to M Butterfly? Talk to me! What's wrong? Spike? Oh, for the...Have you gone completely blonde? Has the peroxide finally reached your brain stem? Hello?” She shook him like a rag doll, ordering, “Damn it! Stop sniveling!"
“I can’t help it, can I?” Spike said in a very tiny voice, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Don't ya' think I’d stop if I could?”
They held their position for a moment before Buffy sighed and loosened her grip.
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping at Spike's tear-dampened cheek. "I know you're scared and I guess I'm not helping." She petted and soothed the other woman for a minute, stroking a hand over the vampire’s silky curls before speaking with calm authority. "Alright, you need OTHER clothes…I got that much. Different, less slutty clothes, maybe? 'Cause clothes make the man, right?"
Buffy cast her gaze over the assorted sex toys and lingerie on the bed. There were multiple outfit possibilities, something to suit every naughty mood, but nothing practical for kickstarting a motorcycle.
"But you can't make a man out of any of this," she grimaced. With an exasperated little snort she stepped out of her own pants and handed them to Spike. "Here, put these on and then please tell me what happened? Why didn't you change back? What makes you think you won't?"
Spike pulled on the jeans, buttoning the fly with shaking hands, as he said, "Weevil's done its job, ain't it?"
"Its job?" Buffy frowned, not understanding.
Spike shrugged one shoulder as he turned away from her, saying, "Looks like the joke's on me."
Buffy's eyes strayed down, as she unbuttoned her blouse. She noticed her jeans fit very snug around the swell of Spike's hips. What a body he had! And she still had no breasts and too much thigh. It wasn't fair.
Stripping to her bra and panties, Buffy absently picked up Spike's cast-off, blue dress. Her fingers enjoyed the texture of the silk in her hands as she worked on the riddle of the weevils. Moving mechanically, she dropped the dress over her head. The cool fabric poured seductively down the her torso and then, just as she was adjusting the narrow shoulder straps, the answer hit her like a brick between the eyes. She shuddered and slowly turned to stare at her companion.
Spike cocked a brow at her and Buffy gasped out, "No…No, you can't be…you just can't…be," she whispered the word but still it seemed to echo off the walls, "pregnant?"
"Oh, yeah," Spike sniffed, in a mocking tone, "Tha's right…I just can't be."
"But…" Buffy reasoned, patiently, "…you're dead. I mean, sure you're a woman now and I was a man and we did," her voice broke and she swallowed before rushing out the words, "what we did. But…you need to be alive…live sperm and eggs and whatever. You can't make babies this way. And besides…vampires and weevils…you said…it's been going on forever. And nobody ever got pregnant," she hesitated, looking at him for confirmation. "Right?"
Spike gave a half-hearted little gesture, saying, "Well…not as far as I know."
Buffy sputtered at him, "Far as you…? What do you mean, 'As far as you KNOW?'"
"Well, there are magical variables at work here, Pet," Spike elucidated. "You being the Slayer and then…back from the dead…maybe whatever Red did…whatever made you wrong…bollixed up the works…maybe you're extra potent or something…I don't know."
"But you can't create life out of nothing," Buffy insisted. "That doesn't make any sense. A baby needs…things…food and air and minerals and…a dead body can't give it anything."
Spike sank down on the edge of the bed. He studied the Slayer, dispassionately. She was right. It was madness. Weevil induced madness. He stopped breathing. Minutes ticked by…one…two…three. His pulse fluttered to a standstill. He felt fine, comfortably dead. No urge to suck in oxygen. He nodded once and started to get up.
A blast of pain went off in his head like a gunshot. Clutching at his brow, he doubled over, gulping in great lungfuls of air. He staggered and Buffy was at his side in an instant. She put her arm around her lover's narrow shoulders, bracing his slight weight against her body.
"What is it?" she asked, surprised at the note of concern in her voice.
"Chip," the lady vamp gasped. "I stopped breathing and the bloody thing fired."
They both stiffened in simultaneous understanding. Slowly, Spike raised his head. He locked eyes with the Slayer. Buffy stared, lost in her ladylove's beautiful blue gaze as the vampire mouthed the words, "It's human."
"Oh," Buffy breathed. The thought of a child…her child…alive inside her lover made Buffy's womb tingle in empathy. And then she was jerking away and holding up her hands as if to ward Spike off as she chanted, "Oh…no! Ohnonononono…NO! We have to stop this…we can't let this happen."
"Already happened, didn't it?"
"Well, there must be some way to un-happen it. Some way to reverse this Obero-thing. Make you all non-Fem again or something. This has to have happened before. Not with vampires maybe but to somebody else. And they don't just give up their original gender, right? Maybe there's a potion or a spell. Like a weevil morning-after pill or…"
She broke off mid-plea. Spike was glaring at her, his mouth hanging open.
"You want to kill it?" he cried, bristling with hostility. "You want to…GAH," he broke off with a choking gasp and cast his hands up to heaven, beseechingly, "I don't bloody well believe this."
"Spike, I," Buffy began. She didn’t know what she was going to say but whatever it was didn’t matter because Spike wasn't listening.
"No wait…I DO believe it," he raged, bearing down on her with aggressive purpose. Months of neglect and loneliness and heartache seemed to avalanche into the small space between them. "Come to think of it, this is just like you. Callous and cold-hearted. Things get inconvenient and all you can think is how to make your dirty little secret go away. Not like it matters, right? Not like anyone will give a shit if you kill my child. Can't be human, can it? Coming from me. Can't be worth anything? Demon-spawn that's what it is. Killin' it probably be your soddin' sacred duty."
Buffy tried to demure. She reached out a tentative hand but Spike slapped it away, growling, "Don't touch me. Don't even try to explain about your friends and your sister and your precious normal life. 'Cause I've had it." His voice broke on the high note. He leaned past Buffy to snatch the motorcycle keys from the tangle of clothing on the bed and then, turning on his heel, stalked to the door. Wrenching it open, he paused on the threshold for a moment, the very seething picture of wronged womanhood, before concluding coldly, "From now on, you just stay away from me."
And then he was gone. And Buffy was left shamed and shaking. She felt sick inside. Her legs buckled and she sat down, heavily, on the edge of the bed. It was a long time before she noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The phone kept ringing. After the third call in a row brought her half-awake, Tara magically muted the bell, but the answering machine continued whirring out commentary.
The witch finally woke up enough to make sense of the frantic words.
“Tara, are you there? If your there, please pick up.” It was Buffy’s voice. The Wiccan woman groaned, pushing her pillow aside to listen more closely. Then she crawled out of bed and stumbled toward the desk, as the Slayer went on yelling, “TARA? TAAARRRAAAA! Come on, Tara, it’s one in the blessed morning…where could you be? Please don’t have made up with Willow…not that it wouldn’t be a good but not tonight…please…PICK…UP…THE…PHO…”
“B-Buffy?”
“TARA? Tara! You're home! Oh, thank you, thank you,” Buffy Summers panted on the other end of the line.
“Buffy? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Willow’s not here but if you…”
“I don’t want Willow,” Buffy broke in. “I can’t call Willow or Xander or anybody. I need you. I’m in trouble and…I’m sorry, I know I woke you up and you probably have class today and this is a lot to ask but I just didn’t know what else to do…”
“It’s okay,” Tara soothed. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and switched the phone to her other ear. “Tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt?”
Buffy took a couple of deep breaths and then said, “No, no…I’m stranded. In the desert. At a…place…nobody can know about this place…and I need a ride home.”
"What kind of plac…” Tara started to ask and then she thought about Spike and changed the question. “Are you alone? Do you need me to bring anything? Food? Water? Anything? Hold on, let me get some paper…” She flipped open a notepad and plucked a pen out of a cup on the desk while continuing to listen intently to the Slayer's directions. When she was sure she had the location, Tara scribbled down a few notes and then asked, "Buffy, is Spike…involved? Did he do something?"
To Tara's surprise, there was a sharp sniff on the other end of the line followed by a long pause. The Slayer's voice, when she spoke again, was thick with emotion, quavering and watery, "Please, Tara…I can't talk about this right now…I have to get out of here. Everything is a huge mess and…" Buffy broke off in the middle of her sentence, snuffled a bit more and then quickly added, "Just come soon, okay?"
"I'm on my way," Tara assured and rang off.
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