William Fic, Part 11
Feb. 12th, 2005 11:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookOkay, I give up predicting which will be the last chapter. There may be a couple more before I get to the real epilogue, depending. I'll just do it in short parts until it's done. I do know how it ends, just working my way there. Previous parts here.
The Center, Part 11
This time he doesn't ask for her approval, just takes her straight to the Ritz. Because he has some cash to flash, and why the hell not. Plenty of old fashioned elegance there if she's interested in history, although the building that stands there is newer than he is--he remembers the old Walsingham House that used to occupy the spot, but close enough. He hires the poshest suite available because she deserves some bloody pampering, even all he wants to do at this point is push the damn room key at her and give Angel a call so he can come and take over. Buffy's been silent for quite some time now and it's making him nervous. But more's the pity, his cell phone's gone lost to that Good Samaritan Goth girl at King's Cross, and that's another thing he needs to talk to Angel about. Getting a new phone, all warded up with the proper spells so as to be untraceable. Essential for their line of work, communication no one else can tap. Bloody crucial.
They ride the elevator to the top. Buffy speaks up once, asks him to spend the night, because she doesn't want to be alone. What else can he do, right? He gives her a nod, and then gets them to their suite, keys them inside, and picks out a bloody bedroom for himself, never mind what she's doing, and turns on the TV. He doesn't really want to think too hard on why he's gotten so touchy around her, why he'd almost rather not look at her right now, other than he's just plain tired of having their same conversations and feels he's opened himself more than enough for her amusement lately. Especially lately.
He hears the sound of the shower somewhere in the background. Seems she's made herself at home elsewhere, which is fine with him. He settles onto the bed comfortably, coat and shoes off, and is fully engrossed in the satellite feed of a nicely satisfying footy match by the time she reappears.
Toweling her hair. Otherwise naked.
And for a moment, it seems like a hallucination, not real. Buffy had never been all that comfortable being starkers in front of him before. Always found some excuse to hide herself underneath blankets or rugs, when she wasn't otherwise occupied, and he's fairly certain that had more than a little to do with her not wanting to seem like she had any interest in pleasing him, the way she refused to show herself off. Not even on his last night, the night before he burned, had she done that--they'd lain together then, body to body and skin to skin, and still it was just something she'd needed to say, a show of forgiveness. Not something for the pleasure of it, not for the joy.
He watches her cross the room then, wary. Half-expecting her to shut off the TV and launch into some weird diatribe, like her being naked will somehow help him listen to her talk, but she just gets into bed with him without another word and... falls asleep.
Bemused, he turns the sound on the TV down to a whisper and just sits there. Propped up and watching, fully dressed and above the covers while she snuggles into him with a blanket half over her, naked skin glowing in the flickering blue light.
He's not sure how long he sits there, eyes on the screen and unseeing, before the rhythm of her breathing catches up with him, and he drifts off himself. Oddly content.
__________
When he wakes, it's after midnight. Vampire Happy Hour by his internal clock, and his every nerve is vibrating with the need for some kind of action. He gingerly extracts himself from Buffy's loose embrace--she has an arm looped around his waist and her face smooshed into his shoulder--and slides out of bed.
He's got his boots on and is pulling on his coat when Buffy yawns and stirs.
"Are you going out?" she says sleepily.
"Just going to nip out for some cigarettes, maybe a pint, no worries, be back soon," he says hurriedly, and shrugs the coat on, looks around for where he left the key.
She sits up, blanket falling loose around her waist. Pink-tipped breasts looking very pert and pretty in the flickering half-light, and she shivers a little from the touch of the air, slightly cold. "Wait a minute," she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "I'll come with you." Then she's out of bed and scampering into the other room for her clothes.
And then he's just standing there, hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what to make of her and what's going on, and wishing desperately again for a phone to call Angel when she re-emerges covered in clothes, shaking out her hair and generally looking ready for action, if a bit sleepy.
He shrugs, and pulls open the door. "After you," he says.
__________
The pubs are all closed, of course, at this hour, so he takes them to a bar. Gets a table and drinks three pints down while she nurses her one, and chainsmokes the entire time, and she doesn't complain about the smoke once. Odd.
Eventually, she speaks up. "You kinda drink a lot, you know that?" This delivered with a funny little smile. She might be teasing him; he's not sure.
"What, this? You know how much it takes to get a vampire drunk?"
"I think so," she answers, and this time he can tell she's being teasing, or at least flirty, from the way she tosses her hair a bit. Or maybe she's tipsy herself, which seems likely, given what a lightweight she is. Half a pint of beer was probably her useful limit. "It's less than one of your big bottles of booze, anyway. You were drunk that one night I came to your crypt and we did all that drinking, and then with the kitten poker, remember?"
Tipsy Buffy. That was an alright memory. Hella cute. He flashes her a smile. "You think that's all I had that night? Newsflash, Slayer--probably had at least that much before you ever got there."
She frowns. "Oh. Huh." And then winces, like something just occurred to her. "Guess you did a lot of drinking that year, huh?"
"Nothing much else to do. Fellow's got to have a hobby," he mumbles, and then tips back his current pint, calls for another. Gets a shot too, while he's at it.
He doesn't like thinking about that year too much. Not just because of the guilt issues, the ones that press on his chest all the time now, but just because it was a miserable year. He'd felt so aimless, useless, and he hated to think about that, the way he'd had more purpose in his life before Buffy had come back, when she had been dead.
At least he'd had things to keep him busy back then. Demons to kill, a place in her gang like he was worth something... and he'd have kept up that routine as long as he'd been able, had not that damn dancing demon come along--thank you very much, Xander Harris. Sure, it had hurt being Buffy's "friend," keeping his mouth shut about his feelings, but that had been nothing compared to what was to come, when she'd let it be known she didn't want his company around on patrol anymore, didn't want him at her house, in fact didn't even want to run into him while she was out walking around...
...and then just like that, he'd been stuck puttering around his crypt like a housewife, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but drink and wait for her to want him and show up.
Boredom. It was one of his biggest weaknesses, probably--that job with the demon eggs that had ruined things for him and Buffy, that had been boredom, sheer boredom, right there. Never mind the money, a demon at his door like a traveling salesman, looking for a safe place for storage, and he'd been so lonely he'd practically invited the guy in for tea.
It makes him think of Joyce again, and his own mother. Joyce, who'd asked him in for hot chocolate, although he certainly couldn't have been great company at the time. And his own mother, how confined she must have felt, although it wouldn't have crossed her mind to say so until she became a demon. But that was a mother's love for you, putting her own freedom aside to take care of someone else. He gets that, now.
Buffy's silent some more, sips at her beer, and then she pipes up out of nowhere that she wants to spend the day in London tomorrow, have him show her around like a tour guide. He nearly does a spit-take.
"What?" he blurts, and she flinches.
"I want to see your city, Spike," she says stubbornly. "I mean, you spent all those years with me in Sunnydale with me, and--"
"Not like I was there just to learn about California culture," he cuts in. Best to remind her. Wondering now if she needs reminding how much of this city has less than good memories for him, places where all his best recollections are really grand kills, the sort of thing that now fairly puts him off looking at anything.
She just picks up where she left off. "I know that. I'm just saying, I want to know about you. And I want to see your city. With you."
He sighs, and calls for another pint. Nods, because what else can he do? She's spent time taking care of him, plenty of it. He can do this for her.
And then she smiles--and oh yes, she's drunk--and starts to lay out her plans for the day, sights she wants to see.
Bugger.
__________
They head back to their room after bar closing time. Once inside, she sheds her clothes again, dropping them on the floor as she walks and cat-crawls her way back into his bed, her bare little ass shining like the moon, and dammit, he's not made of stone. But she's out and snoring by the time he throws off his own clothes and climbs in next to her. Still, she snuggles right up against him once he's in, although he can't quite figure out why she would want to--thanks to the lovely English winter weather, his body's all but ice cold. He warms up, though, once she's wrapped around him, and this time he falls asleep almost immediately, her heat seeping into him until he feels... almost human.
TBC
The Center, Part 11
This time he doesn't ask for her approval, just takes her straight to the Ritz. Because he has some cash to flash, and why the hell not. Plenty of old fashioned elegance there if she's interested in history, although the building that stands there is newer than he is--he remembers the old Walsingham House that used to occupy the spot, but close enough. He hires the poshest suite available because she deserves some bloody pampering, even all he wants to do at this point is push the damn room key at her and give Angel a call so he can come and take over. Buffy's been silent for quite some time now and it's making him nervous. But more's the pity, his cell phone's gone lost to that Good Samaritan Goth girl at King's Cross, and that's another thing he needs to talk to Angel about. Getting a new phone, all warded up with the proper spells so as to be untraceable. Essential for their line of work, communication no one else can tap. Bloody crucial.
They ride the elevator to the top. Buffy speaks up once, asks him to spend the night, because she doesn't want to be alone. What else can he do, right? He gives her a nod, and then gets them to their suite, keys them inside, and picks out a bloody bedroom for himself, never mind what she's doing, and turns on the TV. He doesn't really want to think too hard on why he's gotten so touchy around her, why he'd almost rather not look at her right now, other than he's just plain tired of having their same conversations and feels he's opened himself more than enough for her amusement lately. Especially lately.
He hears the sound of the shower somewhere in the background. Seems she's made herself at home elsewhere, which is fine with him. He settles onto the bed comfortably, coat and shoes off, and is fully engrossed in the satellite feed of a nicely satisfying footy match by the time she reappears.
Toweling her hair. Otherwise naked.
And for a moment, it seems like a hallucination, not real. Buffy had never been all that comfortable being starkers in front of him before. Always found some excuse to hide herself underneath blankets or rugs, when she wasn't otherwise occupied, and he's fairly certain that had more than a little to do with her not wanting to seem like she had any interest in pleasing him, the way she refused to show herself off. Not even on his last night, the night before he burned, had she done that--they'd lain together then, body to body and skin to skin, and still it was just something she'd needed to say, a show of forgiveness. Not something for the pleasure of it, not for the joy.
He watches her cross the room then, wary. Half-expecting her to shut off the TV and launch into some weird diatribe, like her being naked will somehow help him listen to her talk, but she just gets into bed with him without another word and... falls asleep.
Bemused, he turns the sound on the TV down to a whisper and just sits there. Propped up and watching, fully dressed and above the covers while she snuggles into him with a blanket half over her, naked skin glowing in the flickering blue light.
He's not sure how long he sits there, eyes on the screen and unseeing, before the rhythm of her breathing catches up with him, and he drifts off himself. Oddly content.
__________
When he wakes, it's after midnight. Vampire Happy Hour by his internal clock, and his every nerve is vibrating with the need for some kind of action. He gingerly extracts himself from Buffy's loose embrace--she has an arm looped around his waist and her face smooshed into his shoulder--and slides out of bed.
He's got his boots on and is pulling on his coat when Buffy yawns and stirs.
"Are you going out?" she says sleepily.
"Just going to nip out for some cigarettes, maybe a pint, no worries, be back soon," he says hurriedly, and shrugs the coat on, looks around for where he left the key.
She sits up, blanket falling loose around her waist. Pink-tipped breasts looking very pert and pretty in the flickering half-light, and she shivers a little from the touch of the air, slightly cold. "Wait a minute," she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "I'll come with you." Then she's out of bed and scampering into the other room for her clothes.
And then he's just standing there, hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what to make of her and what's going on, and wishing desperately again for a phone to call Angel when she re-emerges covered in clothes, shaking out her hair and generally looking ready for action, if a bit sleepy.
He shrugs, and pulls open the door. "After you," he says.
__________
The pubs are all closed, of course, at this hour, so he takes them to a bar. Gets a table and drinks three pints down while she nurses her one, and chainsmokes the entire time, and she doesn't complain about the smoke once. Odd.
Eventually, she speaks up. "You kinda drink a lot, you know that?" This delivered with a funny little smile. She might be teasing him; he's not sure.
"What, this? You know how much it takes to get a vampire drunk?"
"I think so," she answers, and this time he can tell she's being teasing, or at least flirty, from the way she tosses her hair a bit. Or maybe she's tipsy herself, which seems likely, given what a lightweight she is. Half a pint of beer was probably her useful limit. "It's less than one of your big bottles of booze, anyway. You were drunk that one night I came to your crypt and we did all that drinking, and then with the kitten poker, remember?"
Tipsy Buffy. That was an alright memory. Hella cute. He flashes her a smile. "You think that's all I had that night? Newsflash, Slayer--probably had at least that much before you ever got there."
She frowns. "Oh. Huh." And then winces, like something just occurred to her. "Guess you did a lot of drinking that year, huh?"
"Nothing much else to do. Fellow's got to have a hobby," he mumbles, and then tips back his current pint, calls for another. Gets a shot too, while he's at it.
He doesn't like thinking about that year too much. Not just because of the guilt issues, the ones that press on his chest all the time now, but just because it was a miserable year. He'd felt so aimless, useless, and he hated to think about that, the way he'd had more purpose in his life before Buffy had come back, when she had been dead.
At least he'd had things to keep him busy back then. Demons to kill, a place in her gang like he was worth something... and he'd have kept up that routine as long as he'd been able, had not that damn dancing demon come along--thank you very much, Xander Harris. Sure, it had hurt being Buffy's "friend," keeping his mouth shut about his feelings, but that had been nothing compared to what was to come, when she'd let it be known she didn't want his company around on patrol anymore, didn't want him at her house, in fact didn't even want to run into him while she was out walking around...
...and then just like that, he'd been stuck puttering around his crypt like a housewife, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but drink and wait for her to want him and show up.
Boredom. It was one of his biggest weaknesses, probably--that job with the demon eggs that had ruined things for him and Buffy, that had been boredom, sheer boredom, right there. Never mind the money, a demon at his door like a traveling salesman, looking for a safe place for storage, and he'd been so lonely he'd practically invited the guy in for tea.
It makes him think of Joyce again, and his own mother. Joyce, who'd asked him in for hot chocolate, although he certainly couldn't have been great company at the time. And his own mother, how confined she must have felt, although it wouldn't have crossed her mind to say so until she became a demon. But that was a mother's love for you, putting her own freedom aside to take care of someone else. He gets that, now.
Buffy's silent some more, sips at her beer, and then she pipes up out of nowhere that she wants to spend the day in London tomorrow, have him show her around like a tour guide. He nearly does a spit-take.
"What?" he blurts, and she flinches.
"I want to see your city, Spike," she says stubbornly. "I mean, you spent all those years with me in Sunnydale with me, and--"
"Not like I was there just to learn about California culture," he cuts in. Best to remind her. Wondering now if she needs reminding how much of this city has less than good memories for him, places where all his best recollections are really grand kills, the sort of thing that now fairly puts him off looking at anything.
She just picks up where she left off. "I know that. I'm just saying, I want to know about you. And I want to see your city. With you."
He sighs, and calls for another pint. Nods, because what else can he do? She's spent time taking care of him, plenty of it. He can do this for her.
And then she smiles--and oh yes, she's drunk--and starts to lay out her plans for the day, sights she wants to see.
Bugger.
__________
They head back to their room after bar closing time. Once inside, she sheds her clothes again, dropping them on the floor as she walks and cat-crawls her way back into his bed, her bare little ass shining like the moon, and dammit, he's not made of stone. But she's out and snoring by the time he throws off his own clothes and climbs in next to her. Still, she snuggles right up against him once he's in, although he can't quite figure out why she would want to--thanks to the lovely English winter weather, his body's all but ice cold. He warms up, though, once she's wrapped around him, and this time he falls asleep almost immediately, her heat seeping into him until he feels... almost human.
TBC