Couple: B/S
Rating: Mostly PG-13 – R
Feedback: Rabid1st@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Set just prior to BtVS S6 eppy As You Were
and just after AtS eppy Couplet.
Betas: Mary from the Crypt Door, Gwen, Kes and Green from BoB.
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/HE"…personal pronoun-wise except when someone first sees him.
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 TWO
"Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, BITCH," Spike
chanted, mentally, as he wrestled with the motorcycle.
His pitch perfect exit had left him stranded outside the motel room, with no other option but the highway. He didn't mind and really hadn't considered any other course. But he also hadn't considered the physical limitations of his new body.
At first, his bare feet and slighter build slowed his progress to a crawl. He got the engine started easily enough. But he struggled to balance the weight of the bike on the bumpy dirt road. The chassis seemed too long and the throttle felt too bulky in his tiny hands. The front wheel lost traction in loose sand, twice. The second time, the bike bucked him into a bramble bush.
Spike brushed the dirt off his ass, pulled a few thorns out
of his skin and channeled his anger into relearning to ride. He sure as Hell wasn’t going back to the
room. It was a frustrating
thirty-minutes but, by the time Spike hit the highway, he had mastered the
motorcycle again. Cool night wind
ripped the leaf rot and stickers from his hair. He crouched low on the machine and flew over the blacktop,
pushing the Kawasaki's speedometer into the red zone.
"BITCH…I hate her…I wish she was…”
His mind veered away from the word.
“Damn! I…WISH…SHE…WAAAASSSS…sorry.”
"SORRY?" He exclaimed, with a snarl. The wind stole the word from his mouth.
"You Wanker! You PATHETIC, TWAT-STRUCK, POSH-FUCKED
PONCE!!! SORRY? I wish she was sorry?
I'm sorry. Sorry, I ever met the
thankless, heartless, self-centered little Cock-tease! What the bloody hell is wrong with
Deeaa…FUCK!"
He had never had this trouble with Drusilla. He'd wished Dru into a pile of dust a thousand times over. And Harmony? Hell, he'd staked her himself.
It galled Spike that, as furious as he was, he didn't want the Slayer dead. Every time he came close, his traitorous heart would call up the image of Buffy's broken body…the casket…the funeral…the gravestone…and he would feel icy fingers fisting in his gut. It brought tears to his eyes, even now.
“God, it was horrible…for weeks afterward…months…no end in sight…never felt so miserable…never! Like an endless hangover." He remembered balancing the stake in his palm, standing just out of the sunlight and then, somehow, holding on for Dawn…taking it minute by minute. "And the…dreams…every night…waking up to the pain again every day…DAMN!”
Spike shook his head, making the motorcycle swerve dangerously. He didn't want to think about losing her. Didn't want to think about the very real possibility of never seeing her again. He wanted to stay mad. He wanted to keep the rage boiling until he was packed and on a plane back to England.
"Because this bloody well HAS TO END. It’s not love. IT’S NOT!!! I don't know
what I was thinking. She's the Slayer. My enemy.
My prey. I hate her. HATE HER! I
wish…"
Tears blurred his vision, forcing him to slow the bike. The speedometer edged down to 85 m.p.h. He conjured up the memory of Buffy beating him and then set it next to the idea of killing his baby. Their baby, for Cripe’s sake…her own flesh and blood. He got himself under control.
"I wish I had never come to this HELLHOLE…that's
what I wish. That I had never set eyes
on Buffy Summers and her oh, so shaggable ass.
Bugger this. Bugger her,
too. Yeah, she likes that. Just not in front of her precious
peons. Ohhh…"
He growled. It was a
deep, menacing sound, even with the female vocal cords.
"I hate her SO VERY much. I wish she had never been
born. I should go back in time and kill her parents.”
He felt a small twinge, remembering Joyce once served him
hot tea and gingersnaps. He sighed. “Now there was a lady…fierce and sweet
with the bouncy, shiny Summers’ hair…and come to think on it…the high, tight
little…Okay, not Joyce,” he capitulated.
“But that wanker of a father. Yeah! I could gut him and
make the world a better place. Joyce
would be better off, too. I could buy
her a hamster or a plant on a stand even and she’d have a healthier
relationship.
"I bet Buffy takes after him. Users!
Takers! Both of them. He couldn’t handle parenthood, either. I should do it. I should go back in time and kill the dodgy geezer so Miss
Stick-up-my-Ass (and not in that good way) will never be born. And then, Joyce and I can raise my baby.”
He smiled, enjoying the blood-soaked fantasy.
“Only…there won’t be a baby if I do that…no Slayer…okay, screw it…I wish she would just Di…aarrrGGHhh…BITCH, bitch, bitch…"
Righteous anger kept him warm and focused all the way to Sunnydale. His reckless driving reduced the four-hour trip back to just over three. By the time he reached his crypt, Spike had decided to risk the time travel and let Joyce father a new baby. He would figure out how the weevil's worked, gut Hank and dust Dru in her sleep.
“Because I have had it up to here with thankless, heartless, childish Bitches. Don’t even WANT their babies growing inside me, mucking up my body. I want a real woman. Go back in time, fuck Joyce, turn Joyce and live the happy…"
"That is the soddin' plan," he said, decisively as he slammed down the kickstand.
He let the engine idle and ran a hand through his wind-tangled curls, sighing at what felt like an extravagant case of poodle head. Leaning over to check the fuel gauge, he dropped the hand to his belly.
"I wonder if a Joyce baby would look like Buffy? Or
Bit? Or would there be more of me in the mix? My lips or nose
or…cheekbones? Hopefully not the big
bobbly head."
His fingers traced lightly around his navel. "Would it look like this one? My eyes and Buffy's smile and…the Summers'
hair…"
Spike shook off the fantasy and focused on reality. Less than half a tank. He did a quick calculation. Not enough to make L.A.X. He needed petrol, so he needed money. And he needed to get moving or sunrise would catch him on the coastal highway.
Sighing, he turned off the ignition. He straightened his spine and his tee shirt, reflexively yanking at the neckline. As he dismounted, the oversized shirt slipped off the cap of his shoulder, exposing one breast. Spike's lower lip trembled and his eyes started filming over.
"Oh, BLOODY HELL! Not again. You're a vampire,” he reminded himself, sternly. "An evil, blood-thirsty demon. Stop SNIVELING. Naked is good. In fact, naked is the way. You have breasts—Flaunt 'em. Run about starkers and enjoy the view."
He seized the black tee in both hands and ripped it down the front. The sartorial violence caused a brief Buffy flashback. Spike resolutely pushed the thought aside. He was through thinking about her. He let the ruined shirt slip to the ground. The cool night air tightened his nipples. The puckering sensation caught his attention and he glanced down, really seeing the change for the first time. He took a moment to admire the ripe curve of his new figure.
"Those are some truly mouthwatering Manchesters."
“See?” he encouraged. "Think how easy it'll be to wank off with a view like this."
Then he remembered that, sadly, he had nothing to wank.
A throwback to Victorian morality, sounding suspiciously
like his long dead Aunt Ruth, rose up in Spike's mind and whispered, "Soon
be swollen with child…not so pretty then, you unwanted Slut!"
He bared mental fangs at the repressive internal comment and stomped his way to the crypt door.
"This," he ranted, as he entered his home. "This is what she's reduced you to…set you back a century."
The clang of the crypt door and a feminine voice, just to his rear, startled Clem from his post-M.A.S.H. reverie. He leaped out of Spike's comfy chair, spun on his axis and stared at the bare-breasted stranger.
"PHHWAAGgghk," he gagged, spraying yellow moon-pie shrapnel.
Absently, he wiped at his chin. He wasn't squeamish. Not usually. He'd seen humans wearing very little. He'd seen Spike. And the Slayer. She went around showing skin. Clem had tolerated it, up close…for an extended period. But Buffy was generally, at least partially, clothed…except on that one occasion…and even then she'd dived under the sheets before his stomach purged.
This woman was standing in the doorway, making no move to cover her appalling nakedness. Proud and defiant in all her deformed glory, she glared at him.
Clem's line of sight dipped down. Only two mammary glands…hairless, tight-skinned...like a grape or a drum…it wasn't natural. He tried not to heave.
"Clem?" Spike growled, in no mood for company. "What the bloody hell are you—? No, never mind, just push off!"
"Excuse me…Miss…have we met?"
"Have we—? Of course, we've met you slack-jawed git, you owe me 80 quid." Spike shook his head and strode toward the entrance to his second level. "Not to mention the number of kittens you've set me back and…are those my moon pies? Tell me, do you just drop in and raid the pantry every time I take a road trip?"
Clem started. "Spi—?"
Picking up his half-empty bottle of Yoo-HooÔ from the arm of the chair, the loose-skinned demon peered at the label. He frowned and looked again at the bare-chested figure. The newcomer was struggling to remove the marble plug from the floor. The passage to Spike's lower level appeared to be sealed shut. "Uh…Spike? Is that you?"
"You were expecting Mary Poppins?"
"Oh…well…expecting? No…not really…that is I wouldn't say…expecting."
Clem shuffled from foot to foot. There was a uncomfortable pause and then he repeated, "Uh, Spike?"
The vampire stopped hurling his weight against the trapdoor to glance fleetingly at his floppy friend. "Yeah?"
"Do you know--? That is…you appear to have…well, first there's the voice! And you're shorter…and then…and then there's the…" Clem gestured with both hands in front of his chest.
"It's an allergy," Spike snapped, returning to task.
"Oh!"
Clem blinked. It was possible, he supposed. He studied the ceiling, while he thought about the horrors of histamines and what he knew of vampire physiology. From the corner of his eye, he noted girly Spike was still manhandling the door, while simultaneously standing on it.
"I have a second cousin," Clem said, after a certain amount of consideration. "Matilda? And every single time she eats guinea pig she sprouts a third horn."
"Fascinating," Spike said, as if it was anything but. He puffed and strained a moment longer and then backed away from his project. "Look, give us a hand with this soddin' marble. My arms are too short. Can't get leverage."
"Oh, sure thing."
Clem's stomach protested but he mentally shushed it. "It's
only Spike," he repeated, silently. "It's only Spike. Don't
look at the skin. It's only Spike…"
He took a fortifying swig of chocolate-y goodness and set his bottle back down on the chair arm before ambling across the crypt to help his transformed friend. The vampire stood to one side, watching as Clem used his mass and height to advantage. The floppy demon grunted and swished. Finally, Spike added his own muscle, wrapping both arms around Clem's elbow and pulling, until the portal gave way. A puff of noxious air gushed out of the opening.
After setting the slab of marble aside, Clem waved one hand in front of his nose.
"WHEW! What IS that smell?"
Before Spike could answer there was an ominous growl from the lower level. Something moved in the darkness. Something massive. Clem backpedaled. When nothing else happened, he eased forward, again. He peered cautiously over the rim of the hole and then raised a questioning brow at Spike. Spike shrugged.
"I got a cat."
"Well, it's gone off," Clem remarked. "I wouldn't eat it if I was you."
"See you don't try."
The vampire started down the ladder to the basement but paused on the third rung.
"Clem?"
"Yeah, Spike?"
"Among all those relatives? Did you have any Obero Weevil pregnancies?"
"Obero? Oh, is that what…?" The saggy demon blushed as his mind skipped off to a very bad place. He spoke with a hint of forlorn hope in his voice. "You and…some guy you picked up for the night?"
Spike shook his head, eyes downcast.
Clem swallowed hard. "So? Then? It would have to be…you and…Buffy?"
Spike nodded, chewing on his lower lip. He didn't look up.
"Whoa!" Clem exclaimed, softly, and they both took a moment to ponder the miracle. Then, the loose-skinned demon snapped his talons together and said, "It's got to be the Resurrection Mojo! I mean…what else? With you being dead?"
"That's what I figure. Willow screwed that spell over six ways to Sunday. Buffy comes back wrong and now I'm…"
"Knocked up?"
"And pregnant, too. You know anyone who could help me suss this out?"
"Well, I had a cousin once, she was resurrected by this kooky Shaman. Boy, was that a mess! But Grandma Weezie killed him, so no help there."
"There's a Squaikti Demon in Africa," Spike mused. "He might be able to tell me something. Might even send me back in time if I wished hard enough. But the price is steep."
"What you need," Clem suggested, "is a vampire expert. Maybe someone who knows about Slayers and Spells, too."
"Like a ruddy Watcher," Spike smiled. "I should look up Rupert when I get to Merry Old. Worth it, too, just to see his face when I break the news."
"You know, it's a shame we don't know any disgruntled Council members."
"A has been Watcher, you mean?" Spike asked. "Passed over for promotion? Never got the Slayer call?"
"Or one that was fired," Clem added.
A bell rang in Spike's head. He followed the noise to a glimmer of an idea. There was someone who fit that description.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As soon as she hung up the phone, Buffy shouldered Spike’s duffle and headed for the distant highway. The Management, having rousted her out of her room at midnight, saw her off the property. Buffy tried not to be insulted by the demon’s attitude. After all, having the Slayer camped out in his office had to put a damper on the happy spirit of the place. Nothing ruins that “good lovin’” mood like the threat of imminent disembowelment.
“Still…he could have been nicer about it,” Buffy grumbled, pausing to adjust the duffle strap to a more secure position. “I’m a paying customer…or client…or whatever. He didn’t have to disinfect the phone every time I used it.”
A hundred yards on, she picked up a stone in her sandal and stopped to work it out.
Certain that Spike would return before sunrise, Buffy had cried herself to sleep and been caught off guard by the sudden eviction. She wasn’t dressed for hiking. When the Management knocked, she had scurried about hastily bundling Spike’s duster, some fruit and several bottles of water into the vampire’s empty duffle bag. She'd yanked on a shirt and her own jacket almost as an afterthought. The added warmth helped make her a little more comfortable. But, unfortunately, her legs were still bare and her sandals were offering little protection from rocks and burrs.
She had just over three hours to cover 30 miles. It was a grueling test, even for the Slayer. If anything slowed her, she could miss Tara’s car. She doubted her friend would find the turn without magical assistance. Buffy hadn’t thought to suggest a locator spell. She had been too embarrassed by the location. After removing the stone, the Slayer kicked off her shoes and dropped them into the duffle. She moved quicker then, shrugging off the discomfort of lacerated feet.
She focused her attention on staying in one of the two wheel ruts that formed the road. The full moon and abundant stars gave sufficient light. It was easy to follow the tracks. The Slayer settled into a fast lope, eating up the distance. Several large, hungry predators took pains to avoid crossing her path. She arrived at the rendezvous winded but with time to spare. A short while later, Tara’s car crested the slight rise to the west. Tossing the remains of an apple into the underbrush, Buffy wiped her mouth with the back of her other hand and then waved.
Tara braked hard, tires squealing as she pulled off the highway. In one smooth motion, she slammed the car into park and, leaving the engine running, popped out the driver’s side door. She dashed around the front of the sedan and came at Buffy in a maternal rush, sweeping the Slayer into a hug.
"Oh, oh, Honey, are you okay?” the witch asked, breathless with concern. Words spilled out of her with no hint of a stutter. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to stop for gas and I was just thinking I might have missed you. I was going to turn around in another minute. And then there you were."
Taking a breath at last, Tara stepped back to survey her petite friend's somewhat tattered condition. She reached up to tenderly brush a stray strand of hair from Buffy's brow.
"I can't believe Spike would abandon you like this…in the middle of nowhere."
Buffy didn't even try to pretend the vampire wasn't involved. She had called Tara precisely because she knew all about Spike. The Slayer had the feeling, in the weeks to come, she would desperately need an ally.
"He didn't actually abandon…" Buffy began. Then she paused, huffed out a sigh and admitted, "Well…yeah, he did. But I was in a really nice room."
As she made the excuse, the Slayer moved away from her friend and gestured vaguely down the dirt road. "But then they evicted me. And I just didn't want to wait in the office for you. Plus, I didn't know how to give you directions for the turn and everything was…"
She stopped speaking abruptly and pinched the bridge of her nose as tears threatened to fall.
“Buffy?” Tara inquired, stepping close again, “Can you tell me what happened?” She didn’t know how to ask the question, “Did S-sp-Spike…d-did he hurt you?”
“No,” Buffy said, quickly. She blushed to the soles of her feet, as she said, “It was…me! I did something…said something…terrible. God, I can't believe how I treat him. Why am I doing this? I use him and then, when he needs me, I just…”
Her eyes flickered up to take in Tara’s kind and forbearing expression. She remembered resting her head in the other woman’s lap a few weeks earlier and crying like she hadn’t cried in years. She remembered Tara’s soothing hands and encouraging words. The witch had nurtured her like a mother. She had offered Buffy forgiveness and even a sense of acceptance.
The Slayer decided to tell the whole skanky truth.
“I got him pregnant,” she confessed, rushing out the words. “Spike, I mean. He’s pregnant. And kind of also…that is, of course, he would be…a…"
Tara waited, patient, if puzzled.
Buffy closed her eyes and blurted it out. "He's a woman!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clem glanced up as the softer side of Spike clambered out of the underground level. His oversized boots clomped as he walked. The vampire was still wearing Buffy's jeans and had added a paisley silk, button-up shirt. It had long sleeves; rolled to the elbow. He was carrying a bulging canvas bag.
"Going somewhere?"
"Bloody right, I am!" Spike rumbled, marching toward the crypt door. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Fish face is coming to fetch the cat and her kits in a week or two. Just seal up the door again and stay out of the lower level."
"Okay-doke," Clem acquiesced.
"And if you see the Slayer you can tell her for me…I hope the next vamp she shags is…Bugger it…no, tell her I hope she never gets laid again…no…wait…you can say I hope her cunt shrivels up like a prune and…"
"Uh…"
"No, better yet, don't tell her anything."
Clem nodded vigorously. "And when should I say you'll be back?"
One foot on the threshold, Spike paused, affronted by the question. He turned to sweep his gaze around the structure that had been his home for the last three years. Memories of her etched the stone walls. His Slayer. His Buffy.
His bright-eyed, shiny-haired, sweet-jizzed ball and chain.
He was ready to admit it, now. It wasn't the chip. It had never been the chip holding him here and keeping him on the straight and narrow. It was her. She was in his brain, applying the electro-shock. She was in his gut, his throat, his mind…he had to get rid of her…somehow, while there was still a demon in there, too.
Finally, he leveled a steely look on his floppy-earred friend.
"I'm not coming back," he said.
The other demon twitched as the resolve registered. "But…but…" he panted.
Spike stalked out the door, Clem scooting along in his wake.
"Not coming…? But…Spike. What will I tell Buffy? I mean, really…she's going to come and ask and well…I have to say something, you know? She's the....Slayer." Clem whispered Buffy's title like tolerant man mouthing a bigoted slur.
Spike rolled his eyes. He hated that attitude. Hated being the parriah of the demon world when he should be the hero. He'd never understood the revulsion. Slayers were hot, fighting, punching, bucking under you, buck naked, bent over the arm of your red leather chair…or Hell…just standing about… Spike wondered why nobody else seemed to notice.
"Maybe it's because you really are one sick Fucker!" His demon conscience jabbed.
"Maybe," he muttered.
He lashed the bag to the back of his bike, straddled the seat and turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the engine.
"Spike?" Clem squeaked in desperation.
The vampire wheeled the motorcycle, backing and filing until it was pointed toward the road. He geared up without turning to look at his friend.
"Tell her she can drop dead!" Spike's demon snarled, with overweening satisfaction. When he didn't speak up, it prodded him, "Well, go on…say it!"
"Tell her…I love her," he said, softly.
And then he released the clutch and roared off into the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Spike's a woman?" Tara repeated for the eighteenth time.
"So? You've got it now?"
"No, not yet."
"It's not hard to get. It was magic," Buffy said, wafting a hand as if sprinkling pixie-dust. "You know bibbity-bobbity…pumpkins into carriages, mice into coachman…"
"Baby into Spike?"
"See? You do have it."
"No," Tara corrected. "It's not that simple. There's a balance. In life. In magic. There aren't any fairy godmothers and you can't just switch genders. Or you can…could…but you didn't switch. You became a man…in the real, procreating sense of the word…and Spike became a viable woman…and that's just not possible."
"All things are possible in this our magical world," Buffy said, unconsciously quoting her lover. "Willow brought me back from the dead, remember? And you're arguing the sex change issue? What kind of witch are you?"
"The kind that has trouble envisioning the moment. You impregnating Spike."
"Okay, first…stop with the envisioning. Because I don't want to think about what you are thinking about me. And anyway, it wasn't so much me. Like you said, I was mannish. Second, there were boll weevils. Only not boll-y. Weevil-y! Oreos or Oboes…or Orbeos, maybe. And they changed us into our alternative selves."
"So you were the man you would have been?"
"If I was a man," Buffy nodded. "As long as I had the weevil on my ankle. Mine popped off though and I popped back into original me. Spike still has his, because I got him pregnant…thus fulfilling the weevil mission statement…so he's all Fem, all the time."
"Okay, I've got it," Tara sighed. "I only wish we had your weevil. It might help us figure out what's happening."
"We could go back," Buffy suggested, without enthusiasm. She didn't really want to tangle with the Management, again. "But I don't know if we'd be able to get it. They have these protective spells. I can't hurt anyone. And they're not exactly Slayer-friendly."
Tara pursed her lips. They were only a few miles from Sunnydale. It was four hours back to the brothel with no idea about the nature of the wards.
"I might be able to counter their protective spell," she deliberated, before sighing in resignation. "No! Let's just go with the one on Spike. It's the problem weevil anyway."
"The problem," Buffy thought. "Spike and his baby…our baby…my baby, the one I can never have…because I'm the Slayer…and doomed…and the man I love is a demon…and a woman…one big ol' mosh pit of a problem."
They drove past one of Sunnydale’s outlying cemeteries. Buffy studied the mausoleums, out of habit. They were set well back from the road, at the edge of the tree line. The one to the far left was oversized, a turn of the century construction with a columned marble portico. Big enough for a growing family.
"Homey," she thought and leaned her head against the glass of the passenger window.
The last moments with Spike, haunted the Slayer. She kept hearing his altered voice in her head.
"You want to kill it? Don't touch me…stay away from me…callous and cold-hearted, just like you…you want to kill it."
It was the right thing to do. Wipe out the demon spawn, just like Spike said. It was her sacred duty.
"But…no," Buffy, silently, disputed.
"I don't want to…kill our baby. I can't…I won't…there has to be another
way."
Buffy sighed and Tara reached out a hand to pat her knee.
"I'm sure Spike is okay," the blond witch whispered.
The Slayer looked at her with dewy, moss-colored eyes. "Thank you," she said, her voice ropey with emotion, "for coming…for listening…for just…being…Tara."
"You're welcome," Tara twinkled. She stopped at a red light. "So, Spike's a woman." Buffy made a small exasperated noise and the witch hastily added. "I've still got it. Now, I'm just trying to picture it. What does he look like?"
"Spike? About the same," Buffy shrugged, thinking that wasn't true but knowing she wasn't gay enough to do Fem-Spike justice. She shot a sidelong glance at Tara and, seeing nothing but open-hearted acceptance, tried. "There's less of him, in key places, and a lot more of him in others. But he's still Spike. Blue-eyes, pale curly hair and that drop dead smile. If you knew it was him you would know it was him but I'm not sure you would know if you didn't."
While the Slayer frowned her way back over her convoluted sentence structure, looking for where she went wrong, Tara conjured up a mental image of Spike with breasts.
"Uck!" The witch thought. She glanced over at Buffy, again. "So he's Butch, huh?"
"No," Buffy laughed. "I'm the butch one."
Tara's mouth tipped up at the corners but she didn't comment. Girls like Buffy always thought Butch was a look. To them, it was some flat-chested girl with short hair and biker boots. But really, Butch was an attitude. One Spike almost personified. His casual, slinky sexuality had, on more than one occasion, sent a shadow signal to Tara's Gay-dar. She remembered with stark clarity the first time she'd noticed his ass. It was high and rounded like a woman's, and his waist was trim, too.
"So your hands would just naturally slide
down," Tara thought. "And those pouty lips, the lower one just
a touch too full for a man…imminently kissable."
As usual, her mind sheered away from the penis. She just couldn't go there, even for a fantasy. But Spike was very much like the best kind of Butch woman.
Buffy was a Betty. Anti-Butch. The sort of girl who let the apocalyptic clock run down while she bitched about breaking a nail. Buffy cared about what other people thought and took pains to please. Even after a night run in the desert, she looked only slightly ruffled. Some of that was supernatural stamina, but a big part of it was prioritizing.
Somehow, between changing genders to knock up her boyfriend and having him abandon her in the middle of nowhere, Buffy Summers still found time to fix her foundation and slather on a layer of Raspberry lip-gloss.
Tara shot another quick look at her companion, reappraising her. It was drizzling and the streetlights were reflecting off puddles. As they drove, the Slayer flickered through aspects, dark, light, shadowed…dark, again.
"Would a Betty have been in the desert at all?" Tara wondered. It didn't seem likely. Maybe there was something about Spike. Something only Buffy appreciated.
Tara's mind went back to the day Dawn had pulled her out of bed, an hour before sunrise, and hustled her to the cemetery. Spike had passed out on Buffy's grave. It took both of them and a spell or two to wrestle the vampire indoors before he burst into flames. His death-like pallor had shocked Tara. She hadn't seen him for over a month, not since the funeral. Dawn went to him after school. Xander picked her up. The man never mentioned the change in Spike, though several times Dawn had expressed concern. Tara hadn’t listened.
She remembered tending him for two more weeks, forcing him to take blood. She remembered his gaunt body, his hair, curly and unkempt, going honey brown at the roots. Most of all she remembered his eyes…full of pain, loss…grief. Focused on some inner landscape, he had muttered madly about baby fishes and sat for hours rhyming words with gleaming. Tara thought love like that might move a Betty.
But would it make one cast off her designer leather and ride
an evil, undead thing to climax, a few feet above somebody else's moldering
corpse?
"Sure, Buffy might notice Spike…Hell, I might notice
Spike…might even like him as a person…but SEX? How hot would a lady vamp have
to be before I would…? Willow? Maybe? I wonder if Buffy likes him? Loves him?
Is that what it takes to cross the line?
To go from looking to straddling…?"
Buffy interrupted the witch's troubling thoughts. "You missed the turn," she said, rotating in the seat to point back over her shoulder. "Elm to Revello."
"We're going to Spike's place."
"Oh, no, NO! We are not."
Tara was gentle but firm. "You have to talk to him."
"Remember? I told you he doesn't want to talk to me?"
"Okay, then…I'll do all the talking. I'll tell him you overreacted and you're sorry." She took her eyes off the road for a second to check the Slayer's demeanor. "You are sorry, right?"
Buffy looked unsure and rebellious, for a moment, but finally gave a terse nod.
"So? That means you have to try," Tara reasoned. "People in relationships don't just throw in the towel after a fight. You have to deal with the issues."
"Relationship?" Buffy's voice cracked on the high note. "We aren't shippy. We don't relate. What we have is…recreational."
"You just use him for sex?"
"Phenomenal sex," Buffy corrected. "I use…h…" She couldn't make herself say it. The words caught in her throat. She sighed and left the sentence unfinished. It was sounding less and less probable, anyway…even to her.
Two miles from Spike's crypt, Tara made the turn at Holly Park road. Cemetery row as the locals called it. Buffy braced one hand on the dashboard as the sedan bucked through potholes. Sunlight started streaking the deep blue sky. Dark shapes loomed up ahead of the car, crosses and angels.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As Tara stopped the car outside his crypt, Spike coasted his motorcycle into a parking space, a long way from anywhere. A huge mall with covered entryways dominated the several acres of real estate to his left. After locking down the bike, he sauntered over to wait under the shelter of an awning on the northwest side of the monstrous building.
He checked the mall's opening and closing times. Then, he checked for the morning star. He calculated. Three hours to go before he could get under solid cover. Positioning himself well into shadow, Spike settled in with his back to a pillar. He pillowed his head with the canvas bag and nodded off.
He woke up when the first worker arrived, a heavy, sallow-skinned woman wearing a blue janitorial uniform. Spike watched her lumbering approach and, when she came in range, favored her with a dazzling smile. Her quick scowl, reminded him of his gender handicap.
"You can't sleep here," she sneered. "This ain't a flop house."
"I'm just waiting on my brother," Spike countered. "He moved and rather than go looking he said to meet him here at noon." He shrugged. "I guess I made pretty good time from Reno."
The woman grunted and walked on while he was still talking. She let herself into the building through an unobtrusive steel door in the middle of the wall. Just for a second, Spike considered, snapping her neck and taking her keys. It wasn't worth the pain. He waited. When the mall opened at nine, he slipped in with the crowd.
Spike spent the day prowling department stores. Balancing his time between all six of the big chains, he avoided alarming security. He ate dinner at a good restaurant, insisting on rare steak, had his ears pierced at a kiosk and avoided mirrors. Except for the ones in dressing rooms. Dressing rooms were his private paradise. Taking in armloads of clothing, he locked the door and put his feet up.
While he was resting, a peasant-style blouse, sheer with silver and blue leaves embroidered on it, caught his eye. It was a loose fit but comfortable. Planning to steal it, Spike stepped out of the dressing room and ran straight into the sales clerk.
"Oh, you startled me," she squeaked. "I thought you'd fallen asleep or something." She ran an appraising glance over the vampire and added, "That really looks grand. The color brings out your eyes. But," she whispered, leaning in confidentially, "you need to wear a camisole under it. If you're going to go bra-less."
Glancing down, Spike noticed the clear pink halos around each nipple. "Uh, yeah, so…where would I find—?"
"Oh, I'll get you something," the woman offered. "Thursdays are dead around here. What are you 30, 32, B-cup?"
Having no earthly idea what he was, Spike said, "Thirty-two."
"Yep, just a little over a B, I bet," she agreed. "Okay, you wait right here."
While he waited, Spike used trial and error to figure his dress size as a two. He found a few more things to try on. A floral print dress, size two, was too snug in the chest. He pulled on a blouse. It didn't fit right, either. The black jeans were too baggy in the waist and thighs and too tight in the crotch. After rechecking the label, he growled in frustration. The sales lady tapped on the door and he confronted her with the offending garment.
"What the bloody hell is up with the cut of these jeans?" he snarled. "If this is a two, I'm a soddin' vegetarian."
"Oh, I know. It's frightful. Carl Norman Misses always run large. Like our hips and waist are the same size. You can tell he's gay, by the design. Bet he's never even seen a woman's body. Have you ever tried CityGrrl? They're not as well known but the petite line is cut for curves. Narrow waist and a deeper rise in the hip area. I think you might like it."
The day wore on. By the time the sun sank into the ocean, Spike had three changes of clothing, two pairs of shoes, French-tipped nails, a pink-tinted, honey-flavored lip-gloss and six pair of earrings. He paid cash for everything, peeling off hundred dollar bills from one of the stacks in his canvas bag.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The front desk bell at the Hyperion jangled in quick successive bursts. Wes started and glanced at his watch. It was nearly 11:00 p.m.
"Rather late for a client," he thought, but called out. "Yes, hello?"
“Hello? Looking for Angel, mate,” a melodious alto voice answered. "This still the spot?"
Wes couldn't help smiling. Coarse wording aside, whoever she was, the woman had beautiful pitch. Upper crust born, he'd wager, under the street bronze. The faux accent, thick as London fog, had him scrambling around his desk in a heartbeat. He popped out the office door and froze.
A woman, no, a goddess stared back at him.
"Dear god, it's Titania!" Wes thought. "Surely, it's the fairy queen."
Feathery lashes framed her luminous blue-grey eyes. She was pale and petite, a delicate milk glass rendition of perfect beauty. Her skin was flawless and her champagne curls looked as soft as eiderdown. The sheer embroidered blouse she wore accentuated her porcelain complexion and led the former Watcher's eye to naturally admire the rest of the outfit. He took in the hip-hugging jeans, with a mental sigh of appreciation, feeling they added an earthy touch.
"Could I…can I…might I," Wes stammered, before taking a firm grip on his hormones. "May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?"
"Hello!" Spike thought. "A
Brit. Must be the Watcher." He looked the man up and down. "And my aren't we just Angelus'
type. If he weren't a soul-whipped wanker these days, bet he'd have your knees
up in no time. No Giles are you, Pet? Trim and boyish and bookish, I'd wager, with a touch of asthma. Right Nancy too but not about to swing if
there' the slightest chance Daddy might hear of it."
"Or coffee or perhaps a glass of water…or a chair," Wes was saying.
Spike tried his dazzling smile. It worked like a charm. "Tea would be fine," he murmured in a seductive tone.
"I'll start a pot but first…let's find out what you need…want…how we can help."
Laughing nervously, the Watcher waved his guest into the office. He held a chair out in gentlemanly fashion and as the vampire sank into it, he rambled on, "I don't know what's come over me. Where are my manners? I’m Angel’s associate, Wesley Wyndam-Price. Please tell me what I…or rather…what Angel Investigations can do for you."
Wesley percolated around to the official side of the desk and Spike leaned back in the chair. He crossed right ankle over left knee in a casually masculine way. The former Watcher flipped open a new file and began shuffling forms into position. After a moment he looked up expectantly, pen poised for notations. Spike took out a cigarette, toyed with it briefly and then tossed it into the ashtray without lighting up.
"I want to know about vampires having babies," he said, at last.
All of Wesley's exuberance vanished. He put down his pen and narrowed his eyes to glare at the strangely beautiful woman on the opposite side of the desk.
"I beg your pardon? Miss—what did you say your name was, again?"
“I didn’t,” Spike replied. “It’s Spi…vey. Wil…I mean…Frances Spivey.”
Wes casually let one hand drop to his lap. He slid his fingers forward until he could curl them around the handle of the knife Cordy kept strapped to the bottom of the middle desk drawer.
“Well, Miss Spivey,” he remarked, his tone more cutting now than silken. “That is a most unusual line of inquiry. May I ask why you are interested in that particular topic? And why you came to Angel Investigations for answers?”
Spike's gaze darted nervously toward the open door. Every instinct he had said run but he held his ground and tried to ignore the fact that Wesley was quite obviously reaching for a weapon. Surely, the Watcher hadn’t recognized him. He wondered silently what had sounded the pulse-hammering alarm in the man.
Shifting into a more readily mobile position, he replied, carefully. “I heard you lot were in the know on the supernatural events. I thought you might know how a vampire could get one in the oven.”
"True, our business does take unusual turns,” Wesley said, as casually as he could manage, “but that doesn’t explain your interest in vampires fathering children.”
"I didn't say FATHERING," Spike thought and wondered again what the hell was up in Angel-ville. Still, it was the opening he needed.
"Oh…well…see,” he mumbled, "I'm pregnant."
Wesley blinked, "I'm afraid I still don't follow.” He considered the lovely woman for a moment and then took a guess. “Do you think the father of your child was a vampire?"
"Uhm…yeah…I know he was," Spike said, earnestly.
Wesley relaxed again. Releasing the knife handle, he brought his hand back into view and steepled his fingers into boring lecture position number three.
"I see," he said, giving an indulgent little chuckle. "Well, first let me assure you, vampires cannot, as a rule, father children. Nor is it likely they would try to do so. Romantic Anne Rice notions aside, vampires are little more than animals really. Much more interested in feeding on attractive young ladies like yourself than breeding with them."
"Really?" Spike breathed, giving a fair impersonation of doe-eyed innocence even as he mental grumbled, "Oh, yeah, you're a Watcher alright. You think we never get off first?"
"Indeed," Wes reassured. "So, what made you even consider the notion that your baby's father might be a vampire?"
“Well,” Spike confided, “it's because it was this Angel fellow. And he told me he was one. Does he do this sort of thing a lot?”
END THIS PART