Crypts did not make for good sleeping. It was almost enough to make you feel bad for the vamps, Buffy thought, as she squirmed, trying once and for all to find a comfortable way to lay on the hard stone slab that Spike had thrown a blanket over and called a bed. Condemned to centuries of sleeping on hunks of rock and getting grave dirt in their crevasses. No wonder they aren’t morning people.
It didn’t help that the vamp himself had spread out with a post-coital sigh across both halves of the slab, leaving her perched precariously on the edge with only a sliver of blanket to cover her nakedness. Not that there was anyone to cover up for here, but, lying in the silence and the half-dark of the crypt, Buffy had become aware that there were dead people under her. The thought made the air on her bare skin feel clammy. And okay, she was getting the irony of having sex with Spike and then coming over all creeped out about dead people, but at least Spike wasn’t rotting. Personal hygiene was a must in a boyfriend. A pulse, on the other hand, was optional.
She suspected Spike’s sprawl was all part of his evil plan. Even if his career as professional Big Bad had ended with his chipping, he was still an enthusiastic amateur, and right now his evil plan was to get her into a position where the only way she could possibly be comfortable was to snuggle up to him. Not quite a Spike-induced apocalypse, perhaps but fiendish none the less. Buffy guessed she could always just bang him on the shoulder and make him roll over, but the action felt too familiar and coupley. Spike, who missed nothing, would count it as a victory.
Buffy propped herself up on her elbow to examine him for signs of artifice. Spread out on the slab, he looked dead. Well, he looked deader; like a real live corpse instead of a vampire, with his chest still, and his skin pale and taut across his cheekbones. Candle light flickered grey and yellow across his face. He looked peaceful. He looked young. All he needed was a shroud and a weeping mother and choirs of angels singing him to his rest. She liked him best like this. Or hated him least. Whichever. He looked about as properly asleep as a vamp could be. Yeah. Sometimes, Spike has an evil plan. And other times, he’s just a cover-hog.
But he’d still notice if she snuggled. He’d still make snide remark; he couldn’t not. The chip hadn’t taken the bite off his tongue, and nor had his professed love for her. She scowled at him and held her ground, one buttock spilling coldly off the edge of the slab. Way to make a stand, she told herself. Go me.
Every now and then, he broke the illusion of a perfect death with something between a hiccup and a snore. It was news to Buffy that vampires could snore. Nothing about that in all the Watcher diaries. Giles would be fascinated, in theory, at least, but Buffy somehow didn’t think she could get away with a casual phone call about it. So, when I was sleeping with Spike last night, I noticed he snores. How ‘bout that?
A fun factlet for the Watcher’s council. Not that Giles had been doing much in the way of Watching lately. If he had been, there was no way his Slayer would be lying here with the evil undead. Not that she blamed him exactly, but it was an inescapable fact. He’d gone, and Spike had stuck around, and she needed a British accent in her life.
She scowled again as Spike grunted and shifted, choosing to ignore the fact that it was an effort to do so. Who are you frowning for, anyway? It’s not like the dead people judge you. And Spike’s just asleep.
Because, because, because. Her inner voice was missing the point. The very fact that it was Spike made it scowl-worthy, conscious or not. Spike. Rhymes with skank. Hence scowl.
I asked who, not why. Admit it, Buffy. This is how you want it. It’s easier to hate him, to think he’s up to something. To try and outwit him. Easier than to just know that he loves you, and that this makes him fall asleep happy.
Bullshit. He doesn’t know what love is. It’s not like he’s Angel. He’s getting everything he wants from me. Everything he knows how to want.
And you? What are you getting? A boy-shaped toy with functioning parts?
Very functioning parts. And anyway, since when did Spike have any right to have a problem about having sex with her? She’d never heard him complain, so why her inner Giles thought it was his business was beyond her. It wasn’t about Spike at all, it was about her, and if he was there, and pretty, and willing, well, then. Boy-shaped was all he was. Just because he looks all human laid out on the slab. No reason to get sentimental. The angelic dead boy who’s face Spike wore was just that: dead. Spike had no business with that face, walking among real people as though he belonged there.
Then you should kill him. If you believed that, you’d kill him. You should have killed him years ago, the moment he stopped being useful to you. Or is this just a new way for him to be useful?
He helped Dawn. I won’t forget that.
And? It makes no difference to what he is. One day he’ll turn on you, and you’ll regret you ever invited him in, in any sense of the word. You should kill him now. Before he wakes up. Not like you’ve never done it before. You Slayer. He Vampire. It’s the natural order of things.
And yet.
And yet, Buffy made no move, and Spike kept on snoring, his dark eyebrows twitching as his face resettled into stillness. Inner Giles did have a point. Spike had no business sleeping the sleep of the peaceful dead beside a Slayer. Maybe he’d worn that human mask so long, he’d forgotten what he was as well. He never went game face, not even when they made love (or had sex, or fucked, or whatever you were supposed to call it when there was no love there), although she half expected him to. Sometimes, there was a dull, yellow light in his eyes as he came. He knew she’d hate it if he turned. It was almost considerate of him, if only his motive hadn’t been entirely selfish. He knew she’d kick him out of bed if he did, and then, no more sex for Spike.
So, he wore his real live boy mask as he moved inside her with his blunt teeth scraping at her neck and his rough tongue probing at her jugular. Sometimes, she thought about letting him bite to see what it felt like. She’d let him do it with a stake to his heart, and if he got carried away, then poof! No more Spike at all. Just so much dust, settling in the wetness between her legs.
Or not. She could just let him bite, and see if it changed anything. Let him bite, and see if she’d fight for her life, if it came to that.
One time, when she’d been flat on her belly, her back wet with sweat, and prickling at Spike’s cold touch, he’d whispered in her ear, “Your boyfriend used to fuck me like this.”
She’d chosen to disbelieve him. He always talked dirty. She gave it right back to him. Once, she’d slapped him round the face, and his pupils had pooled black like spilling ink, and he’d bitten on his lip so hard that blood came. He liked that. Years lurking dog-like by Drusilla’s side had taught him his place. She could make him do anything, but the speed at which he’d comply and the playful poison in his eyes made it feel like his victory. Even when he was being good, he was being bad.
But no wonder, really, that he liked this rough parody of real love when his whole un-life had been a rough parody; of family, at the feet of Angelus, of marriage with Drusilla, and then, insult of insults, the chip had made him a parody of a vampire. No wonder he was confused, or that he’d hung around the Scoobies like a lost dog for years.
And yet. She watched him sleep. A house spider fell from the tangles in the roof and walked across the bedspread, making him twitch. She wanted to wake him up, so he’d be mean to her, and then maybe she could get back to hating him properly.
“Spike!” she said, her voice sounding hollow. He didn’t respond. She said it again, louder this time, but he never stirred, except to give another grunting snore. She leaned in closer to his ear.
"William," she whispered. No response to that, either. A part of her was not surprised; it wasn’t his name after all, but she felt an urge to talk to the dead boy. She moved so her lips were just inches from his ear.
“William.” she hissed. He shifted. Made a noise like “urmph.” Swallowed a few times.
“William,” she said, out loud. He answered without opening his eyes, his dry mouth working without saliva.
“Put a sock in it, Dru,” he muttered. Buffy drew away, not sure for a moment whether to laugh, or beat him silly. Could’ve been worse. She told herself. He could have called me Harmony.
“You’re a pig.” Buffy told him. At least she was hating him again. She jabbed him in the shoulder, hard, and he sat up with a jerk. The dead boy illusion was shattered. His eyes looked too old to be anything human.
“What?” he said.
“I’m going,” she told him. She rolled off the slab, and went fumbling for her clothes on the floor.
“Now?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow to watch her. She didn’t answer, and she didn’t look at him while she dressed, though she could feel his eyes on her back. She found her shirt and bra all tangled where they’d been tossed last night, and covered in grave dust. She’d make him tidy if this went on much longer. Being dead was no excuse to be slovenly. Her panties were no where to be seen.
“Why not stay till morning?” He asked her. She shot him a look. He had scratch marks on his pale chest.
"I'm going now." Damn the panties. He could keep them. She tugged on her jeans.
"Fine."
"It is fine."
"Fine. I think it's fine too." he sounded put out, but his eyes were laughing. “Did I steal all the covers? Because I could always move over…”
“I said, I’m going. I don’t want to talk to you.” She slipped on a shoe, and hopped to the crypt door, feeling naked with his eyes on her back. He let her get halfway out before he called after her.
“So, why did you wake me up, then?”
She slammed the door at him, hard, and stood fuming in the grave yard. Corpses lay tucked up in the ground, sleeping decently like corpses should.
~fin~
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