Spuffyficathon, Part 5
Sep. 4th, 2004 11:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookI keep forgetting to put in a link to the actual Spuffyficathon Master List, so... well, now I have. Also, previous chapters to this story, here.
We now return you to the adventures of the Undead and the Restless... the rating is starting to go up a bit for language...
Dirty Back Road, Part Five
----------
Spike was asleep.
Buffy let the door slip from her fingers. The room was dark--well, not totally dark, there was a flickering blue light from the TV set, tuned to some morning talk show, no sound. Which was probably why when the door swung shut behind her with the loud chunking sound of a bank vault slamming, she jumped.
Spike didn't move.
Not even a flinch. He was sprawled out--naked, of course--half turned over onto his face, a thin sheet draped over his hips. He'd kicked the ugly orange bedspread to the floor; it lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed with the untidy pile of his clothes. One arm flung behind him, palm up, one hand curled near his face. And he just lay there, still as... well, the dead. She flashed on another moment, at his crypt, when she'd been forced to throw things at him to wake him up.
He was so... vulnerable like that. She could have crept right up to him and planted a stake behind his shoulderblades.
As many enemies as he had, you'd think he'd be a little more on his toes.
Then again, his being alseep was also a relief. Buffy let out a sigh, a long bubbling laugh. She could relax now. No banter or argument or inappropriate advances would get in the way of her getting some sleep.
She switched on the bedside lamp and wandered around the room. Bad art on the walls, some lame paintings of mountains and wild animals. She fumbled with the air conditioner, turned the fan up. Ignored his still presence on the bed and sat down on the edge. Found the TV remote, flipped channels. Turned the sound up. Settled on a pointlessly cheery informerical, then tossed the remote aside, went into the bathroom and flicked on the light.
Harsh flourescents flared. It was a tiny tiled room with only a shower cabinet, no tub. Obviously he'd already showered--the place was dripping with moisture and towels were piled on the floor. Buffy smiled and stripped off her clothes.
She'd have never felt comfortable doing this while he was awake.
She stepped into the cool column of water with a song in her heart. Washed off the evening's dust with the tiny sample bottle of hotel shampoo and melting bar of teensey soap. As toilettes go, it was pretty primitive, but still felt like absolute heaven.
Toweling herself dry, Buffy noticed something odd then--a towel hanging high on the wall.
She tugged at it. It concealed a small window, a tiny square of thick glass that opened inward to let in light and air. One end of the towel had been stuffed between the open window and the wall.
She pulled the towel free. The room was suddenly very bright, and she blinked furiously, her eyes watering. East window, she realized. She looked down at the towel in her hands, streaked with burn marks, and let it fall to the floor. Forgot about it then as she spent the next several minutes mopping moisture from the tiny shaving mirror and brushing her teeth with one finger. At least she'd brought a hairbrush in her purse.
Wrapping herself in a bath sheet, another towel twisted around her hair, Buffy flung the bathroom door wide. She'd taken three or four steps into the room before noticing that she was standing in a beam of solid sunlight. Light pouring through the tiny bathroom window nearly lit up the entire room.
She froze, eyes widening. Dust motes floated in front of her, on the sunlit air.
Buffy spun on her heels, wet feet skidding, and scrambled back into the bathroom. Shoved the door shut behind her. Repositioned the towel with trembling fingers and wedged the window shut. Then sat on the toilet for a moment and shook.
She scrubbed her hands over her face. The light hadn't reached the bed, she knew that. Luckily. Spike was okay... but he might not have been. Had the angle of daylight been just a little different, he would have gone up in smoke in his sleep.
And boy, she could just imagine the kind of luck she would have had explaining that one to the cops. My friend had a case of spontaneous combustion. Right. She'd be bunking in jail that same night. They'd think it was something out of a made-for-TV movie--jealous girlfriend sets boyfriend on fire. The Burning Bed.
I so don't even know how to ride that stupid motorcycle by myself, she realized. God, I really need to take driving lessons.
Worse yet, Spike had been the one to check into this motel, not her. Which was a good thing, she supposed--no real paper trail--especially if she'd had to suddenly vanish into the sunset to avoid murder charges, but...
I feel like such a fugitive. It's like nobody even knows I exist.
Spike didn't exist. Not legally, anyway. He must have used a fake name to sign in, a stolen credit card. Why had she never thought of that before? Probably that poor schmuck, the card's owner, would be the one who got the call if Spike spontaneously combusted on the hotel's dime. Then she'd probably be up on charges for theft too, an accomplice to whatever Spike got up to in his spare time. Bonnie and Undead Clyde.
She had the near-irresistable urge to go back into the room and shake him awake. Smack him for scaring her, for getting her into this, for having the gall to even exist.
He's not a real person. Not in-the-world-real, not by a long shot. He's like... that rabbit only one person can see.
Harvey. Her mother had liked that movie.
Still shaking, Buffy fumbled for the doorknob with her fingertips, stood. Walked back into the darkened room, to the dim lampglow and the flicker of the TV.
Spike hadn't even moved.
Dead to the world.
She let out a deeply held breath, a low shaky laugh. Sat on the edge of the bed. Found her purse, thrown carelessly on the nighttable, fished out her hairbrush. Brushed her hair free of tangles, then sat, brush in her lap, and looked at him.
He could look so boyish when he was asleep. Innocent, even. That had been kind of a surprise for her. Everything about him was so wrapped up in that persona--the Big Bad. Hello, cutie. I'll kill you on Saturday. Weapons make me feel manly. I can't wait to see if I freckle. The hair and the coat and the sneer. The fists and the sexy walk. She really hadn't been prepared for what he'd be like when that was all stripped away.
Not so tall. Thin, even. Bed hair--really, really seriously. He didn't have the stoic manly manner or the linebacker's body of the sorts of men she was used to. She wasn't... even slightly intimidated by him. She felt... freer, somehow, around him, because he didn't tower over her. He didn't overwhelm.
And that had been a whole other revelation in itself, that there could be an advantage to that, him being more her size. Sex-wise. It was fair to say that they'd have never been able to pull off some of the positions he'd gotten her into had he been any taller.
That night in the abandoned house... it brought a blush to her face, always, thinking about that. But that night had been full of those sorts of revelations. She hadn't been kidding when she said she'd felt degraded--they'd done things she hadn't even known existed. And oh god, the things she'd said! Oh ohhh fuck fuck fuck me, Spike. Please. Oh yes oh yes yes oh yes right there... you're so... ohgod. Oh do it, hold me down, don't let go, oh! Yes, take me take me take me, ohgod bite me if you want to, do it, go ahead, do it! He'd explored every inch of her body that night, pawed her and mauled her and turned her upside down, quested into every single secret place she had with his fingers and tongue and cock...
And--oh god--she'd done exactly the same things to him. That had been the real scary part. How much she'd gotten off on that. Taking him however she liked. Holding him down, positioning him like a doll. Learning him from top to bottom with her hands and her tongue. Keeping him helpless, listening to him cry out, hearing him beg and plead. Oh oh Slayer do it. Oh, fuck yeah... ohgod... luv, you're incredible, you're... Buffy, my, Buffy, you kill me, ohgod oh Slayer oh kill me, I'm yours I'm yours my killer my lover oh love, oh you oh kill me, you kill me oh Buffy love love you.
Talk about a death wish.
There was nobody else who could have had that kind of power over him. Not even another vampire. Nobody but her, because she was the Slayer and that kind of power was her birthright. To be stronger than the likes of him.
How sick was it that he wanted that? Most vampires--no, scratch that, all other vampires--were either smart enough to be scared of her or dumb enough to think they could take her out. Not Spike. He got off on fighting her, on losing to her, submitting. She'd told him that in the house, while they were fighting--how sick that was, that he was in it for the humiliation. That was what was really disgusting about his obsession with her. And it was why his little joke about fucking the Slayer had hurt her so much--it had been like... listening to him say that she didn't even matter to him. Not as a person. Only as a pair of superpowered arms. And a pussy.
Mistress Buffy, Queen of the Night.
She lay down then, still wrapped in the towel, hair wet. Didn't bother to get under the covers--the temperature of the air felt just right. Turned onto her side, away from him, and stared at the bedside light. The mattress was cozy. Mmm.
There was a burst of applause from the TV. Some slicer and dicer was apparently the best thing on the planet you could get, a kitchen device that could make all of your dreams come true.
She closed her eyes.
----------
When Buffy opened her eyes again, she was staring into an expanse of chest. Pecs of Spike. She lifted her head.
He was lying on his side, facing her. The light was still on, the TV blaring. But sometime during her sleep, she seemed to have turned around to face him, planted her nose in his chest. Her hair was spread across his shoulder, between them on the pillow, and he had an arm looped around her waist. She winced. Gingerly tried to extract herself, pull herself back.
He opened his eyes.
Blinked at her, bleary and confused. He looked just like a normal person, doing that. Moving his lips and scrunching up his face. Like a commercial for mouthwash. She tried again to wriggle loose, not liking how close his face was to hers on the pillow.
"Move your arm," she said frostily.
Spike looked at her like she wasn't speaking English. Looked at his arm, like he couldn't figure out how it got there. Then lifted it away with a deliberate movement, raising it into the air like a magician, or a presenter on a game show. Ta da. And for my next trick...
"Do forgive me," he said, his voice a little hoarse from sleep. "Not so used to sleeping with women who don't want you to hold them."
"Is that so?" she said, sitting up. Too quickly--his other arm was lying across her hair on the pillow, and in hurry to get away she pulled her own hair. "Is that just counting the ones you didn't kill?"
"Yeah," Spike said. "Like that." The gentle, sleepy expression was now cold and angry. He sat up then himself, leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms behind his head. Let his knees fall loosely apart, the sheet barely covering his lap. She looked away.
"Sleep well, pet?" he asked.
"I slept fine, thank you." She stood up. Picked up the brush again and began to stroke it through her hair. Her whole head was a tangled monster--she shouldn't have fallen asleep with her hair wet.
"My, don't you look lovely," he sneered. "The hair is so..." He searched for the right word. "Untamed."
She locked eyes with him, glared. He lifted his chin, stared back. Face frozen into a hard frown, she retreated at a fast trot to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Oh god, he was right. I look like a go-go dancer in a Sixties movie. Big hair from hell. She attacked it again with the brush. Gave up and shoved her head in the sink, wet the whole thing down. Brushed it again. The new short style was cute, when she had enough time to fuss with it, tame it with a blow dryer and mousse... but air-dried like this? Total Gidget flip. She batted at it with her hands, tried to paste the stubbornly sleep-set strands flat against her head. Then leaned over the sink and tried to think what to do next.
First things first--was it time to go yet? She pulled the towel from the window, checked the light. Not even close--the sun was high overhead. It couldn't be later than two o'clock. Hours and hours to go.
I could go back to that diner. Get lunch.
And go back out into that heat to do it, at high afternoon even. Good idea. Not. Plus she'd used up all her pocket change paying for the first meal. No way was she going to go out there and ask Spike for cash.
Stolen cash.
She blew open a sigh, yanked open the door. He had retrieved the remote and was flicking channels restlessly, frown on his face. She adjusted the wrapping on her towel and marched across the room, not caring if she blocked his view of the TV.
"So, decide what you want to do with the rest of your day?" He sounded bored. "Don't mind me love, I'll just be here. Feel free to go out and frolic in the sun." He waved the remote in the general direction of the window. She paused.
"It's... actually pretty hot out there."
He snorted. "Really. Well, too bad. Would've thought that was the peak experience of your existence, the way you all can't wait to rush out into it. Who'd ever think there could be a downside?" He tossed the remote on the bed. "Well, what now, pet? Nothing worth watching on the telly. Soaps are on, but I'll wager you're not too much for those."
"No, not too much," she admitted. She avoided looking at him, sighed. "And could you please knock it off with the stupid nicknames? We went over this already."
"Right, right. Well, you don't hear me calling you Goldilocks, do you." He sighed too; she looked up. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and he was staring at her with an appraising look, one that seemed unusually far away. Not so much with that I-can-see-right-inside-you thing that made his eyes go soft. Bed hair.
"So," he said calmly then. "Wanna fuck?"
She sat silently for a minute, considering. "Yeah," she sighed. "Sure."
We now return you to the adventures of the Undead and the Restless... the rating is starting to go up a bit for language...
Dirty Back Road, Part Five
----------
Spike was asleep.
Buffy let the door slip from her fingers. The room was dark--well, not totally dark, there was a flickering blue light from the TV set, tuned to some morning talk show, no sound. Which was probably why when the door swung shut behind her with the loud chunking sound of a bank vault slamming, she jumped.
Spike didn't move.
Not even a flinch. He was sprawled out--naked, of course--half turned over onto his face, a thin sheet draped over his hips. He'd kicked the ugly orange bedspread to the floor; it lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed with the untidy pile of his clothes. One arm flung behind him, palm up, one hand curled near his face. And he just lay there, still as... well, the dead. She flashed on another moment, at his crypt, when she'd been forced to throw things at him to wake him up.
He was so... vulnerable like that. She could have crept right up to him and planted a stake behind his shoulderblades.
As many enemies as he had, you'd think he'd be a little more on his toes.
Then again, his being alseep was also a relief. Buffy let out a sigh, a long bubbling laugh. She could relax now. No banter or argument or inappropriate advances would get in the way of her getting some sleep.
She switched on the bedside lamp and wandered around the room. Bad art on the walls, some lame paintings of mountains and wild animals. She fumbled with the air conditioner, turned the fan up. Ignored his still presence on the bed and sat down on the edge. Found the TV remote, flipped channels. Turned the sound up. Settled on a pointlessly cheery informerical, then tossed the remote aside, went into the bathroom and flicked on the light.
Harsh flourescents flared. It was a tiny tiled room with only a shower cabinet, no tub. Obviously he'd already showered--the place was dripping with moisture and towels were piled on the floor. Buffy smiled and stripped off her clothes.
She'd have never felt comfortable doing this while he was awake.
She stepped into the cool column of water with a song in her heart. Washed off the evening's dust with the tiny sample bottle of hotel shampoo and melting bar of teensey soap. As toilettes go, it was pretty primitive, but still felt like absolute heaven.
Toweling herself dry, Buffy noticed something odd then--a towel hanging high on the wall.
She tugged at it. It concealed a small window, a tiny square of thick glass that opened inward to let in light and air. One end of the towel had been stuffed between the open window and the wall.
She pulled the towel free. The room was suddenly very bright, and she blinked furiously, her eyes watering. East window, she realized. She looked down at the towel in her hands, streaked with burn marks, and let it fall to the floor. Forgot about it then as she spent the next several minutes mopping moisture from the tiny shaving mirror and brushing her teeth with one finger. At least she'd brought a hairbrush in her purse.
Wrapping herself in a bath sheet, another towel twisted around her hair, Buffy flung the bathroom door wide. She'd taken three or four steps into the room before noticing that she was standing in a beam of solid sunlight. Light pouring through the tiny bathroom window nearly lit up the entire room.
She froze, eyes widening. Dust motes floated in front of her, on the sunlit air.
Buffy spun on her heels, wet feet skidding, and scrambled back into the bathroom. Shoved the door shut behind her. Repositioned the towel with trembling fingers and wedged the window shut. Then sat on the toilet for a moment and shook.
She scrubbed her hands over her face. The light hadn't reached the bed, she knew that. Luckily. Spike was okay... but he might not have been. Had the angle of daylight been just a little different, he would have gone up in smoke in his sleep.
And boy, she could just imagine the kind of luck she would have had explaining that one to the cops. My friend had a case of spontaneous combustion. Right. She'd be bunking in jail that same night. They'd think it was something out of a made-for-TV movie--jealous girlfriend sets boyfriend on fire. The Burning Bed.
I so don't even know how to ride that stupid motorcycle by myself, she realized. God, I really need to take driving lessons.
Worse yet, Spike had been the one to check into this motel, not her. Which was a good thing, she supposed--no real paper trail--especially if she'd had to suddenly vanish into the sunset to avoid murder charges, but...
I feel like such a fugitive. It's like nobody even knows I exist.
Spike didn't exist. Not legally, anyway. He must have used a fake name to sign in, a stolen credit card. Why had she never thought of that before? Probably that poor schmuck, the card's owner, would be the one who got the call if Spike spontaneously combusted on the hotel's dime. Then she'd probably be up on charges for theft too, an accomplice to whatever Spike got up to in his spare time. Bonnie and Undead Clyde.
She had the near-irresistable urge to go back into the room and shake him awake. Smack him for scaring her, for getting her into this, for having the gall to even exist.
He's not a real person. Not in-the-world-real, not by a long shot. He's like... that rabbit only one person can see.
Harvey. Her mother had liked that movie.
Still shaking, Buffy fumbled for the doorknob with her fingertips, stood. Walked back into the darkened room, to the dim lampglow and the flicker of the TV.
Spike hadn't even moved.
Dead to the world.
She let out a deeply held breath, a low shaky laugh. Sat on the edge of the bed. Found her purse, thrown carelessly on the nighttable, fished out her hairbrush. Brushed her hair free of tangles, then sat, brush in her lap, and looked at him.
He could look so boyish when he was asleep. Innocent, even. That had been kind of a surprise for her. Everything about him was so wrapped up in that persona--the Big Bad. Hello, cutie. I'll kill you on Saturday. Weapons make me feel manly. I can't wait to see if I freckle. The hair and the coat and the sneer. The fists and the sexy walk. She really hadn't been prepared for what he'd be like when that was all stripped away.
Not so tall. Thin, even. Bed hair--really, really seriously. He didn't have the stoic manly manner or the linebacker's body of the sorts of men she was used to. She wasn't... even slightly intimidated by him. She felt... freer, somehow, around him, because he didn't tower over her. He didn't overwhelm.
And that had been a whole other revelation in itself, that there could be an advantage to that, him being more her size. Sex-wise. It was fair to say that they'd have never been able to pull off some of the positions he'd gotten her into had he been any taller.
That night in the abandoned house... it brought a blush to her face, always, thinking about that. But that night had been full of those sorts of revelations. She hadn't been kidding when she said she'd felt degraded--they'd done things she hadn't even known existed. And oh god, the things she'd said! Oh ohhh fuck fuck fuck me, Spike. Please. Oh yes oh yes yes oh yes right there... you're so... ohgod. Oh do it, hold me down, don't let go, oh! Yes, take me take me take me, ohgod bite me if you want to, do it, go ahead, do it! He'd explored every inch of her body that night, pawed her and mauled her and turned her upside down, quested into every single secret place she had with his fingers and tongue and cock...
And--oh god--she'd done exactly the same things to him. That had been the real scary part. How much she'd gotten off on that. Taking him however she liked. Holding him down, positioning him like a doll. Learning him from top to bottom with her hands and her tongue. Keeping him helpless, listening to him cry out, hearing him beg and plead. Oh oh Slayer do it. Oh, fuck yeah... ohgod... luv, you're incredible, you're... Buffy, my, Buffy, you kill me, ohgod oh Slayer oh kill me, I'm yours I'm yours my killer my lover oh love, oh you oh kill me, you kill me oh Buffy love love you.
Talk about a death wish.
There was nobody else who could have had that kind of power over him. Not even another vampire. Nobody but her, because she was the Slayer and that kind of power was her birthright. To be stronger than the likes of him.
How sick was it that he wanted that? Most vampires--no, scratch that, all other vampires--were either smart enough to be scared of her or dumb enough to think they could take her out. Not Spike. He got off on fighting her, on losing to her, submitting. She'd told him that in the house, while they were fighting--how sick that was, that he was in it for the humiliation. That was what was really disgusting about his obsession with her. And it was why his little joke about fucking the Slayer had hurt her so much--it had been like... listening to him say that she didn't even matter to him. Not as a person. Only as a pair of superpowered arms. And a pussy.
Mistress Buffy, Queen of the Night.
She lay down then, still wrapped in the towel, hair wet. Didn't bother to get under the covers--the temperature of the air felt just right. Turned onto her side, away from him, and stared at the bedside light. The mattress was cozy. Mmm.
There was a burst of applause from the TV. Some slicer and dicer was apparently the best thing on the planet you could get, a kitchen device that could make all of your dreams come true.
She closed her eyes.
----------
When Buffy opened her eyes again, she was staring into an expanse of chest. Pecs of Spike. She lifted her head.
He was lying on his side, facing her. The light was still on, the TV blaring. But sometime during her sleep, she seemed to have turned around to face him, planted her nose in his chest. Her hair was spread across his shoulder, between them on the pillow, and he had an arm looped around her waist. She winced. Gingerly tried to extract herself, pull herself back.
He opened his eyes.
Blinked at her, bleary and confused. He looked just like a normal person, doing that. Moving his lips and scrunching up his face. Like a commercial for mouthwash. She tried again to wriggle loose, not liking how close his face was to hers on the pillow.
"Move your arm," she said frostily.
Spike looked at her like she wasn't speaking English. Looked at his arm, like he couldn't figure out how it got there. Then lifted it away with a deliberate movement, raising it into the air like a magician, or a presenter on a game show. Ta da. And for my next trick...
"Do forgive me," he said, his voice a little hoarse from sleep. "Not so used to sleeping with women who don't want you to hold them."
"Is that so?" she said, sitting up. Too quickly--his other arm was lying across her hair on the pillow, and in hurry to get away she pulled her own hair. "Is that just counting the ones you didn't kill?"
"Yeah," Spike said. "Like that." The gentle, sleepy expression was now cold and angry. He sat up then himself, leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms behind his head. Let his knees fall loosely apart, the sheet barely covering his lap. She looked away.
"Sleep well, pet?" he asked.
"I slept fine, thank you." She stood up. Picked up the brush again and began to stroke it through her hair. Her whole head was a tangled monster--she shouldn't have fallen asleep with her hair wet.
"My, don't you look lovely," he sneered. "The hair is so..." He searched for the right word. "Untamed."
She locked eyes with him, glared. He lifted his chin, stared back. Face frozen into a hard frown, she retreated at a fast trot to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Oh god, he was right. I look like a go-go dancer in a Sixties movie. Big hair from hell. She attacked it again with the brush. Gave up and shoved her head in the sink, wet the whole thing down. Brushed it again. The new short style was cute, when she had enough time to fuss with it, tame it with a blow dryer and mousse... but air-dried like this? Total Gidget flip. She batted at it with her hands, tried to paste the stubbornly sleep-set strands flat against her head. Then leaned over the sink and tried to think what to do next.
First things first--was it time to go yet? She pulled the towel from the window, checked the light. Not even close--the sun was high overhead. It couldn't be later than two o'clock. Hours and hours to go.
I could go back to that diner. Get lunch.
And go back out into that heat to do it, at high afternoon even. Good idea. Not. Plus she'd used up all her pocket change paying for the first meal. No way was she going to go out there and ask Spike for cash.
Stolen cash.
She blew open a sigh, yanked open the door. He had retrieved the remote and was flicking channels restlessly, frown on his face. She adjusted the wrapping on her towel and marched across the room, not caring if she blocked his view of the TV.
"So, decide what you want to do with the rest of your day?" He sounded bored. "Don't mind me love, I'll just be here. Feel free to go out and frolic in the sun." He waved the remote in the general direction of the window. She paused.
"It's... actually pretty hot out there."
He snorted. "Really. Well, too bad. Would've thought that was the peak experience of your existence, the way you all can't wait to rush out into it. Who'd ever think there could be a downside?" He tossed the remote on the bed. "Well, what now, pet? Nothing worth watching on the telly. Soaps are on, but I'll wager you're not too much for those."
"No, not too much," she admitted. She avoided looking at him, sighed. "And could you please knock it off with the stupid nicknames? We went over this already."
"Right, right. Well, you don't hear me calling you Goldilocks, do you." He sighed too; she looked up. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and he was staring at her with an appraising look, one that seemed unusually far away. Not so much with that I-can-see-right-inside-you thing that made his eyes go soft. Bed hair.
"So," he said calmly then. "Wanna fuck?"
She sat silently for a minute, considering. "Yeah," she sighed. "Sure."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-04 06:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-04 07:24 pm (UTC)I'm having extreme fun with conflicto-Buffy. I guess trying to write her fills some need of mine to understand her reactions, get inside her head.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-04 07:01 pm (UTC)Good repeat of the time she almost fried Angel, too---she doesn't want to admit that she's lain down with vampires, so she throws open drapes with wild abandon. Doesnt want to admit that this vampire is the one, the one for her, the only one who really understands her.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-04 07:29 pm (UTC)I can't believe I've written one of your favorite Buffys ever. (does Snoopy dance)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-05 02:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-18 11:40 pm (UTC)Whereas I fell in love with S7 in "Lessons", when she's close enough to self-acceptance to be able to own up and joke about being the one who sleeps with the undead: "But they were hotties." And there they are, on the same (shallow, but honest) level.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-19 01:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-04 07:07 pm (UTC)Enjoying this a lot.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-04 07:31 pm (UTC)And of course you know now you were right on the money last chapter about his already being asleep. (sheepish grin)
Glad you're liking!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-18 11:43 pm (UTC)Buffy has a confusing-but-liberating effect on Spike, too. She can pull him right out of his script into places he's never thought of. Together, they act like fallible, irritable, vulnerable people.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-19 01:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-25 11:26 pm (UTC)Well, when he wakes up, he's pretty crabby. But I kept thinking back to the likes of "All the Way" and "Life Serial" and how generally patient he was with her at times. Especially now that he's pretty sure she'll come around eventually, treat him better, if he just sticks it out, doesn't piss her off too much...
Hee. I made it so you can't stop reading. Whee!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 07:33 pm (UTC)