Chapter 17

He didn’t even need to say a word; she could see it in his eyes. The guilt, the shame, the dismay.

“Buffy –”

“You bastard!” she screamed, shoving him backwards with both hands on his chest. “You bastard! How could you?”

She hit him with a punch that whipped his head around, hit him again and again, unleashing all of her fury. She landed a blow that sent him crashing into the TV, knocking it to the ground. The screen shattered and sparks flew out, as Spike landed in a heap of broken glass and plastic.

“Buffy, please!” he panted. “Just – just let me explain!”

“Explain what? I trusted you!” She reached down and grabbed him by the throat, dragging him out of the rubble so that she could hit him again.

“It’s not what you think. I swear to God, Buffy, it’s not –” His head reeled back from the blow, and he spat the blood from his mouth.

Buffy stood a few feet away, eyes blazing, but she didn’t come after him again. “Talk,” she demanded.

Spike nodded, his chest heaving with frantic, instinctive breaths. “I went upstairs, trying to find out more about the Initiative…”

*****

Spike prowled the dark upstairs hallway, ready to dart into the closest hiding place at the first sign of one of the Initiative soldiers. His search had been fruitless, nothing but frat boy bedrooms, and his snooping had gotten him more than an eyeful from one lucky couple. Whatever there was to learn about the Initiative, it wasn’t up here.

He was about ready to give up and go back to the party when his senses suddenly snapped to attention. A frisson of warning went through him as he scented the distinct musk of Slayer behind the door on his right.

Slowly, quietly, he eased the door open. Another bedroom, much like the others, except this one had a familiar fan of blonde curls peeking out from under the covers. At first, he thought she was asleep, but she sat up almost instantly, as though her own senses had sounded some kind of Slayer alarm at his approach.

“Spike?” she asked, squinting at him, idly smoothing down her hair.

“Didn’t mean to disturb, Slayer,” he replied, starting to back out and close the door. The last thing he wanted was to piss her off when she’d been drinking. With his luck, she’d drunkenly decide that whole ‘can’t kill a helpless creature’ argument was just a load of bollocks.

“Spike,” she said again, more sure of herself this time. “Don’t leave.”

He glanced at her uncertainly, only to find a pout on her lips as she slid the covers down and crawled to the foot of the bed.

“Stay with me. Be my friend.”

“Must be tipsy, Slayer,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Wouldn’t be askin’ for that otherwise.”

“Giles told me what you did for him.”

He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a counter to his statement or just a complete change of subject. “Yeah? Crashed his car, ’s what I did. He tell you I made him pay for the privilege?”

“Giles thinks you have a higher purpose,” she giggled.

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

Buffy rolled her eyes and scoffed, a delicate snort escaping from her. “Please. Higher purpose? It’s not like you have a soul or anything. Just really bad luck.”

Spike started to protest that Angel wasn’t special just because he had a soul, but he gave it up with a sigh. There was no winning that argument with her. “Bad luck. Got that right,” he said instead. “You know, if it wasn’t for this chip in my head, I wouldn’t even be here.”

“Whatever, Spike. We both know why you’re still here.” She knelt at the edge of the bed and beckoned him closer. When he got within reach, she grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him to her. “You want me.”

“Oh, yeah? What makes you think that?” he asked, trying to appear disinterested. Never mind the hard-on that had his jeans nearly bursting at the seams, listening to her throaty, provocative tone.

“You’ve always wanted me. Every time we fought. You think I didn’t notice?” She leaned into him, her nails scraping lightly down his chest. “The way you look at me, with that hunger in your eyes, that desire.”

“That’s –”He gasped at her touch. “– ’cause I wanted to drain you dry.” Oh, yeah. So going to get staked for this, he thought. No way she’d let him live after witnessing this humiliation.

“Nuh-uh.” She shook her head and let out a tiny giggle. “I know you, Spike.”

“Yeah?” he replied, warming up to the game. If he was going to die, he might as well make the most of it. “Say I do want you… what would you do about it?”

Buffy bit her lip, as though she needed to think about it, or possibly to work up the nerve. Her tongue darted out quickly, running along where her teeth had been. Spike couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Her hands tightened again on his shirt, and she pulled him closer, her lips just brushing his. “I’d do that.”

Spike let out a shaky breath. “Okay, Slayer, you’ve had your fun. Now, why don’t you go sleep this off while I run far, far away?” Or limp away, he added mentally, trying inconspicuously to adjust the front of his jeans. “It’ll give me a nice head start for when you come to kill me tomorrow, yeah?”

If his reluctance registered at all with her, she didn’t let it show. In another apparent non sequitur, she sighed contentedly and said, “Remember when we were engaged?”

“That was a spell, pet.”

She looked almost hurt. “I know, but… didn’t you like it?”

“Was all right,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Remember what we did in Giles’ bathroom?” she asked, with a wicked smile.

Oh, God, did he remember. He groaned as his erection vigorously protested its confinement. “You were quite somethin’, love.”

Buffy casually began playing with the collar of his polo shirt, running her fingers underneath it, and then smoothing it down again, a startlingly domestic gesture. “Do you think we could feel like that again?” she asked him, sounding almost nostalgic. “Without the spell?”

“Is – is that what you want?” Spike was stunned at the question. Even if it was the alcohol talking, what she was suggesting… it was madness. They were mortal enemies, for fuck’s sake.

And yet, wasn’t he still standing here, cock aching for her, skin burning everywhere she touched him, even through the thickness of two shirts, listening to her prattle on about that bloody spell in her breathy, longing voice? Wouldn’t he take it if she offered? Would he pass up a chance to nail the Slayer? This Slayer?

It’s suicide, mate, he told himself.

But what if it wasn’t? What if she meant it? What if he could have her, not as a conquest, a quick fuck or a victorious kill, but as a lover?

Would she allow it, in the morning? In the harsh light of day, once she’d come to her senses, would he be reduced to ashes or would they –

Ashes. Druilla had talked of ashes, said he’d tasted of them. Because of her. Surely, she would be the death of him.

Coming out of his reverie, he found that Buffy was mewling and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Unwittingly, his arms had wrapped around her, were holding her close against him. For a moment, he soaked up her warmth, breathed in her scent.

“Buffy…” he murmured.

She raised her head, hazel eyes shining with want, and he promptly forgot whatever he was going to say. He could think of nothing except to capture her soft, rosy lips in a fervent kiss. Her hands scrabbled for purchase as he pushed her backwards, making room for him to kneel on the bed beside her. Immediately, she was tugging him down, her legs snaking through his as they landed in a tangled heap of limbs, mouths still fused together.

His thigh slid between hers, enveloped in her heat as she ground herself against him. She let out a moan and began to yank at his clothing, toeing off his shoes. He tore at her clothes in return, not stopping until he’d ripped her thong from her body, dropping the tattered remnants on the floor. Once naked, she arched upward to meet him, her hands clenched in his hair as she pulled his head down for another kiss.

She was slick and eager, and he fit snugly inside, groaning as her muscles began to flex and tighten around him. She clung to him almost desperately, letting out kittenish whimpers of need as he began to thrust.

“This what you want, pet?” he coaxed her. She nodded vigorously. “God, you’re so tight, so hot. You kill me now, pet, and I’ll die a happy man.”

“No,” she murmured. “Would never… want you so – so – unnhhh.” Her words dissolved into a throaty moan. His pelvic bone struck her clit on the downward stroke, and she arched her back, her hips chasing his, begging for more contact.

As they built up toward their release, Spike tried to fight back the feelings of longing, of affection for her. He tried to tell himself it was just for fun, that he was just taking advantage of a golden opportunity, but he knew it was a lie. This was absurdly reckless, and if he valued his hide at all, it wouldn’t be worth the risk.

No, he was here because he craved her, was consumed by her, and had been from the beginning. And not just the Slayer. Her. Drusilla had seen it, had known before he had. Maybe she’d known this would end with Spike’s broken heart, maybe she’d tried to save him from it.

As she reached her climax, Buffy let out a cry, her interior walls spasming around him. He followed right behind, her name on his lips like a prayer.

Their post-coital bliss only lasted for a moment before Spike heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. Not wanting to take any chances, he quickly dove for his clothes, scrambling into his jeans and t-shirt. Sneakers in one hand, he kissed Buffy one last time before climbing out the window barefoot. He hovered there for a second, half in and half out, torn between wanting to stay with her and needing to avoid getting caught. With a final sigh and a whispered, “Goodnight, love,” he dropped to the ground.

*****

“You’re telling me we had this amazing, wonderful… thing, and I just can’t seem to remember it?” Buffy demanded, the skepticism evident in her voice. “Why the hell should I believe you? How do I know you’re not just making this up?”

There was really no good reason she should, and he knew it. “What does your gut tell you, Buffy?” he pleaded. “You know how I feel about you – all this time, couldn’t have faked that, could I?”

She wanted to believe him, desperately. But she knew how much the rape had unconsciously affected her – her instinctive revulsion at being touched, the sense of panic she felt at the thought of Riley’s bedroom, the nightmares – and she knew it was more than just a matter of drawing the wrong conclusion.

“You really think I could’ve forced you, pet?” Spike insisted. “Even if I wanted to, the chip in my head wouldn’t let me.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked, rubbing her forehead anxiously, unwilling to leave any detail unquestioned. “If it was so consensual, why didn’t you tell the truth when I asked you the first time?”

“Would you have believed me then? If I’d tried to tell you what happened, you’d have staked me before I could get the explanation out.”

She knew he was right. Before they’d gotten close, she never would have believed that it could be consensual. She never could have imagined herself giving in to him. But now…

“I wanted to say something,” Spike said, begging her with his eyes to accept his words as true. “Buffy, that… what we did… It changed everything for me. I wanted more than anything to see if you… if you’d consider… but then you burst in here, talking about rape, and I knew I couldn’t tell you without you getting the wrong idea.”

“So you misled me?” she retorted, tears welling up in her eyes. “You acted like you were trying to help! Like I’d be able to find out who did this to me, when really it was you!”

Her words dissolved into sobs, and Spike instinctively moved to pull her into his arms, to comfort her, only to be shoved away violently.

“I’m sorry,” he tried again, catching her by the upper arms, forcing her to look at him. “Buffy, you have to believe – I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

She froze, staring at him, hearing the words without them registering. She was too focused on the position of his hands, and the memory it had just sparked… a memory of that morning, waking up to find bruises in the exact place he was holding her now.

“Did the chip fire?” she asked him abruptly.

“What? No, of course not. Why would it –”

“You said you couldn’t hurt me, because of the chip,” she explained, her voice still rough with tears as she tried to staunch the twin waves of horror and relief that were swelling at her sudden insight. “But I had bruises the next day, which means I must’ve been held down pretty hard.”

“The chip never fired,” he insisted. “And there weren’t any bruises on you when I…”

He trailed off as their eyes met, Buffy’s cold and hard with realization.

“Someone else was in the room that night.”