Chapter 4 - Wifey
The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.
Skelton on Ure, August 29, 1900 – Earl M, the Slayer’s father, and I continued to exchange opinions and objections (on his Lordship’s part in a frank and somewhat blunt manner) but, after the consumption of three whiskey and sodas, I convinced him that since Lady Chesler had already been called, the Vampire Community (a notorious pack of gossips) might already be searching for the new Slayer. If she failed to receive the proper training, she might be in … Grave Danger.
“Blast it, man,” he said, “Vicky’s a damn fool girl, like all her set, but she’s got a good heart and she’s yours, if you want her.”
(Note - His lordship stocks a very fine brand of whiskey.)
My charge was summoned from her tennis game and bounded into the Earl’s study, flushed from her exercise, dragging her companion (a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education).
Lady Victorine is the very picture of well-bred English womanhood. She was outfitted in a crisp, white linen tennis skirt, pintucked shirtwaist and jacket and white kid leather button shoes. Her blonde curls escaped from her elaborate pompadour and trailed down her back. She has blue eyes and lightly tanned skin with a rather tomboyish freckle or two on her thin, straight nose. A tint of pink touches her cheeks. She possesses a trim, regular figure. A lavish wide-brimmed white hat with ivory ribbons curled up into roses and sporting a cloud of white dotted veiling, completed her outfit. I suppose this sort of outlandish headgear is considered fashionable by persons of her age.
Once Lady Chesler and I were introduced by his Lordship and the appropriate fuss made over the consumption of tea, muffins and cucumber sandwiches, I prepared to get down to business.
(I am informed that cake is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays.)
Lady Chesler shares a certain refreshing, succinct manner of stating her opinions, with her father. A manner not entirely appropriate for a seventeen-year old girl.
Two in the afternoon. Spike had exhausted her with his tongue.
She must stop having sex with Spike and go home. First, she had to clear up this claim business. She pulled herself loose from the all too comfortable tangle of Spike’s arms and legs and struggled up to her elbows.
“Spike, let me up.”
He yawned and stretched before catching her in his arms and pulling her close again. “Like me to roger you again, baby?”
“I would … not. I’m leaving.” If I can stand up. “Before I go, I want to know about this matey claimy thing.”
Spike slipped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her head down for another kiss. “Let’s enjoy the honeymoon and talk about the wedding ceremony later, Wifey.”
She shoved him away. “What have you done to me?”
Spike sighed. Might was well get it over with, although it was clearly her Watcher’s duty to explain the facts of unlife to her. “A mating claim is the vampire version of being married. The bond can’t be broken. You’re mine.”
He plopped back on the bed and smiled broadly while Buffy spluttered.
“I am so not yours. And, and, we are so not married. And, as soon as I find my clothes, you are ashes to ashes and majorly dust.”
Buffy jumped up and searched for her clothes. She found them in the living room scattered on the floor in front of the fireplace. Spike hadn’t hidden them at all. A chilling memory of ripping off her clothes and pitching them on the floor in her obvious haste to have sex with Mr. Bloodsucker surfaced.
She woke up on the sofa. Spike was kneeling in front of the fireplace, throwing a log on the fire and poking up the flames with a brass poker.
William Boy make Good Fire. Warm.
She rolled off the sofa and grabbed William Boy by the hair and pressed her lips to his. Good. William Boy kiss Buffeee. Good kisses. Want Boy.
Buffy ripped off her shirt and tossed it on the floor. She tried to pull her pants off, but couldn’t figure out how to operate the zipper. Spike unbuttoned her pants, and unzipped them, then stepped back to see what the crazy, drunk Slayer would do next.
She dropped her pants and tried to jerk them off over her shoes, and ended up tangling up her legs, tripping herself and falling to the floor.
“Owww! Buffeeee owww!”
Spike sat down next to her and kissed her neck and helped her take off her shoes and clothes. Then, he took off his own.
She held out her tongue and touched William Boy’s part and licked him. Mmmm. Boy taste good.
There was only one thing to do. She’d stake Spike, then no one would ever know.
She might never find another male companion with a thing as big and hard and cum-making as Spike’s. It didn’t matter. Cumming would have to be a fond memory. She needed to dust Spike now, before he had a chance to show up at Willy’s Place or any of his other skeevy hangouts and brag about his conquest of the Slayer to all his demon buds.
She found a stake in the pocket of her wrinkled pants, grabbed it and ran back in the bedroom, still naked. She jumped on the bed and raised the stake over Spike’s chest.
He didn’t seem the least bit concerned that she was going to kill him.
“I’m sorry, Spike. It was nice, but I have to dust you now.”
“Half a mo’ Mrs. Bloody, before you dust your loving spouse.”
“What’s there to wait for? I hate you.” Well, she didn’t hate all of him. She liked certain parts of him quite a bit. She was still going to kill him.
“Yes, you’ve proved how much you hate me over the past fifteen hours. Before you kill me, I wanted to mention that if you stake me, you’ll be dead before my dust settles.”
Buffy lowered her stake. “What are you talking about, Fang Face?”
“The claim. I die – you die. I’ve declared a permanent truce.”
She sank to the bed. Could what Spike was saying possibly be true? She couldn’t kill him without killing herself?
Spike put his hands behind his head, stretched out on the bed and smiled. He didn’t bother to answer her.
“You are lying?”
“Mrs. Bloody, there’s a couple of packets of human I pinched from the blood bank in the fridge. Run in the kitchen and heat up a spot of liquid refreshment for your loving husband. Give you a chance to recover before we have sex again. Unless you’d care to make another donation yourself?” He licked his fangs.
“Why did you do it, you creep? You hate me. And, I hate you. You’ve bound us together forever.”
“I love you deeply, ma petite crumpet, and I couldn’t wait to make you mine. Forever.” Spike laughed and rolled back and forth on the bed.
She might not be able to kill him, but she could still beat the crap out of him. Buffy slammed her fist into his nose to get him to stop laughing. To her astonishment, intense pain bloomed on her own nose.
“Owwww, Spike! What did you do to me?” How could he hurt her without touching her? She wiggled her nose to see if it was broken.
“Owwww, Slayer! Is that any way to treat your beloved?” Spike pinched his nose and wiped the blood away with his fingers. “Since you can’t seem to control yourself, you might care to know that you also feel what I’m feeling, if I let you, so you might want to stop popping me in the bloody nose.”
This news was too much to bear. She was married to Spike and she not only couldn’t kill him, but she couldn’t even bust him in the nose when he deserved it.
She got out of bed and marched back to the main room with as much dignity as she could scrape up considering she was stark naked. She pulled on her clothes, except for her underwear which were missing. As she left the house, she banged the door so hard the hinges broke.
Once the intense pain in his nose died down, Spike jerked the bones back in place, licked the blood off his fingers and returned to savoring the fine trick he’d pulled on the Slayer.
Buffy ran as fast as she could, considering she was suffering from a hangover and her romantic marathon with Spike. It was easier to avoid thinking while she was running.
Her path took her by the Scene of the Crime – Frostle’s Pub where she’d gotten drunk two nights in a row. Police cars and other emergency vehicles jammed the street in front of the pub. A police officer strung up Do Not Cross tape over the entrance to the bar.
Buffy joined the crowd of reporters, cops and onlookers. She spotted her TA, Riley Finn, in the crowd.
“Hey, Riley. What happened?”
“Oh, hey Buffy. The pub owner got killed.” He looked at her with barely disguised disgust. Her knotted, tangled hair hung like a rumpled mane down her back, her clothes were wrinkled and her mouth looked bruised. She was doing the Walk of Shame from another one night stand. He’d heard that moron Parker Abrams banged her. What kind of girl would hang around that scum? Buffy was definitely peculiar. Not to mention, a slut.
Buffy frowned. Jack, the owner, had been okay when she’d passed out while drinking with Spike. Who knew what Spike had done after she conked out?
She was about to question Riley further about Jack’s death when the police brought out his body. She saw a splash of blood on Jack’s neck as the paramedic zipped up the black body bag.
Damn it. While she was in an unconscious, drunken stupor, Spike sucked down a late night snack, right before he hauled her back to the mansion and spent the whole night – and morning – and afternoon - boinking her.
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