Buffy: I’m fine.
SPIKE: Oh, right. Stuck in a dark corner with a creature you loathe, diggin' up past uglies, 'cause you're fine.
            Fool For Love


    Buffy lay awake that first day, her neck aching, her wrist sore, feeling moderately violated, trapped, and rather scared. It wasn’t that she hadn’t volunteered for this. But Spike didn’t love her at this time, in this form, and the dynamic was unequal. She was so used to being Spike’s equal. Being his inferior – physically and in positions of power – felt very vulnerable.

    Of course, Spike used to feel vulnerable around her, she remembered. For a long time, he couldn’t fight her. She held all the power. Hell, she’d had him chained in a bathtub for a week. She had not treated him with five-star-hotel amenities. And after that, she hadn’t cared about him, while he loved her desperately, so just about every word could cut him. It was different, of course. He was a killer of innocents, while she typically slew only the monstrous. He was admittedly killing her slowly, whereas Buffy had been testing his danger level, and eventually let him go. There was also some gender thing going on, between her, and Spike, and Drusilla, and the doll, which made the whole thing feel odd, particularly in the position she was in. Really, she just wasn’t used to being an ordinary vulnerable human girl.

    She sat and stretched Sarah’s weak body and did what exercises she could all chained up, and she tried to meditate like Giles had taught her. She could make this work. She knew Spike well enough that she could probably see to it that she survived, at least for the week or so she had. She just had to walk that fine line, stand strong enough to earn his respect, but not his wrath.     

    Still... she felt cold and alone that day. She took off the army boots, but she still was not comfortable. When she wasn’t stretching she clutched the blanket – that tiny symbol of the mercy in his demon-tainted heart – very closely around her.

    Shortly before sunset, Spike woke. Buffy looked up, having spent the day mostly awake, but she didn’t quite dare speak to him without being acknowledged. She sat up and tried not to look like she’d spent the day awake on the floor in the same clothes she’d worn the night before. Spike got up and folded away the bed without looking at her, then went to the kitchenette. Buffy leaned her head out the closet and saw him with a live rat, which he set in a ceramic pot with a lid on it. He set the pot on a tray beside a coffee cup, and then opened the fridge. He pulled a flower from the box and set it in a bud vase, then headed out to the hall. A few minutes later, he came back with a newspaper, which he also set on the tray, and he carried the offering to the bedroom. He didn’t knock, or close the door behind him.

    Buffy watched silently as Spike woke his beloved. He set the tray on the bed and gently kissed her cheek. She stirred, and woke, and blinked up at Spike. She caressed him, and pulled him down onto the bed, where he rolled over her and curled up beside her. For a few moments, Dru played with the rat on her tray, and then caught it with a feral grin. Spike gently fondled her hair as she tore open the creature’s throat with her fingernail, and poured the blood fresh into her coffee cup.

    Buffy couldn’t hear what they were murmuring, but she could imagine. Spike often made Buffy breakfast, as well. Tea, and toast, and grapefruit. She leaned back against the wall of the closet, collared and chained like a dog, and watched the current love of her life fondle and snuggle the current love of his.

    Just as the night before, she expected to be jealous. The problem was the corollary – the breakfast thing was all too human. The sight of him treating Drusilla as Buffy was used to him treating herself was a bit troublesome. But then she started focusing on Drusilla. Spike was Spike – soul or not, there were some inherent behaviors that he was always going to have, and much of his tenderness and affection fell under that. Drusilla was not indifferent to him, nor was she being purposefully cruel, as she had been the morning before. But there was something off about almost everything she did. She never really quite looked at him. Even when her eyes were pointed at him, she seemed to be looking through him, to something else. He touched her lovingly, and she didn’t always seem to feel it. She leaned against him as if she belonged there, but not as if she was grateful for his company. It seemed as if she felt entitled to it.

    After a little while, after Spike had watched and cuddled with Drusilla as she read the comics and made what looked like cryptic statements about the headlines, Spike set the paper and the tray aside and very clearly tried to make love to her in earnest. Drusilla let him kiss and caress her for a while, and then stood up abruptly. “I have to change Ms. Edith,” she announced quite loudly, and crossed the room. Spike was left alone on the bed.

    A moment later, her blood doll was tossed on the covers atop Spike’s legs. He was still alive, but bound and gagged with dull pink ribbons. “Could you feed the children?” Buffy heard her ask.

    Spike closed his eyes, looking exasperated, and then rolled out of Dru’s bed, knocking the blood doll onto the floor as he did. Dru picked him up, still bound, and set him tenderly on the covers, then set about brushing the man’s Partridge Family hair. Spike himself stalked into the livingroom and made a phone call. Buffy couldn’t understand what the hell he meant, at first, just reciting numbers into the phone. “One through three, full order, delivered,” and then he gave an address. Then he paused, looked up at Buffy – still and silent in her closet – and amended, “Make that one through six. And four extra egg rolls.”

    A moment later he poked his head out the door into the hall. “Delivery down the block,” he told his minions. “Bring him back here, you can all share him. Don’t forget his bag. Give that to me.”

    He came back and looked down at Buffy. Dru had closed her door. “Want the bathroom?” he asked her.

    “Yes, please,” Buffy said.

    Spike bent and unlocked her collar. Buffy stretched. “Thank you,” she said.

    “Don’t lie,” he said. “You don’t thank me. You’re not grateful.”

    “You haven’t killed me yet,” Buffy said. “I consider that quite an honor.” She looked him right in the eyes. “And I haven’t lied to you once,” she said. Except about her name. And that was only half a lie, anyway.

    “You just know me, and you want a cup of my blood for a spell, which has nothing to do with me.”

    “Yes.”

    Spike shook his head and pushed her toward the bathroom, not ungently. “Go.”

    When Buffy came out of the bathroom, Spike was standing with Drusilla, tightening her corset. “We’re going out for a little song,” Dru said to Buffy, without actually meeting her eyes. “Did you want us to bring back the singer, so you can watch?” She shook her head ruefully. “My little dolly was naughty last night. So he has to stay in his cradle, and watch the moon. Miss Edith will sing to him. But you’ve been a good girl, haven’t you, pet?”

    Buffy stood still, and shifted her eyes to Spike.

    “She’s been getting on,” Spike said, with neither fondness nor scorn.

    “Is she well trained?”

    “Not yet,” Spike said. He looked over at Buffy, more confused then sinister. “Give her a day or two.”

    “She won’t get mud on the furniture?”

    “Not if she knows what’s good for her,” Spike said. He tied off the corset and looked her over. Drusilla had the perfect blend of Victorian punk. Safety-pins on her black-dyed corset, tied up the back with a dusty-pink ribbon, her skirt ragged, her hair partially braided. Spike leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Let me get your make up, love.”

    “Mm,” Dru said. She sat down and gazed up at him with distant devotion. “Shall I kohl your eyes?” she said with a smile.

    “Please,” he said. He bent to kiss her properly. “My reflection,” he whispered into her mouth.

    Buffy hadn’t quite realized that the two vampires would have had to use each other as mirrors in order to perfect their look – whatever look they were aiming for. This meant that Spike had likely always been doing Drusilla’s make-up, ever since she’d known them. She’d half wanted Drusilla to continue to be nothing but a dark and spiteful cat, treating Spike with indifferent cruelty, but Dru really did seem fond of him. It was simply that she was mad, distant, and somewhat selfish. Buffy watched them as they painted each other’s faces in various styles of gothic punk black.

    Someone knocked on the door. “Come!” Spike shouted.

    One of the minions shuffled in with a large paper bag, reeking of fried Chinese food. “You wanted the bag, boss?”

    “On the counter,” Spike said. A muffled scream came from the hallway, and Spike rolled his eyes. “Tell them to eat him a little more carefully?” Spike said. “Screams draw attention!” The last word was said in a ferocious roar, as Spike stood and glared. The minion scuttled out quickly with the message, slamming the door behind him.

    Buffy clenched her jaw against her nausea, but she could do nothing to save the delivery man. Spike shook his head. “Good help is impossible to find in this city.”

    “The boys are restless,” Drusilla said. “You think you’re better than they are.”

    Spike looked down at her, fond and dangerous. “Because I am,” he said, his eyes narrowed in what Buffy always thought of as his Big Bad look.

    “You should make an example, or they’ll get out of line.”

    “They know what’s best for them. If they need their screams, they can get them somewhere other than the lair.” He shook his head. “Come, my princess. I’ve got a proper hunt in mind for the evening.”

    “Should we bring some back for the children?” Dru said, looking again at Buffy.

    Buffy knew she couldn’t hide the look of disgust on her face. Spike regarded her. “No,” he said finally. “Your blood doll can suffer without his perks for the night.” He said nothing about Buffy, but he didn’t take his eyes off her as he said it. Buffy let him see her relief, and his eyes narrowed. He sent Drusilla through the door and turned back to Buffy. “Save the egg rolls,” he told her. “Eat what else you want, but save enough for that.” He gestured with his chin at the closed door of Dru’s bedroom. He paused. “I kill someone just about every night. You do know that.”

    “Yes,” Buffy said. “I do know that.”

    “You’re willingly in the thrall of a killer. All the dirty looks in the world won’t change that.”

    “I didn’t think they would,” Buffy said coldly.

    He regarded her for another long minute. “Door’s not locked, but I wouldn’t go out in the hall. Boys still seem peckish.”

    Buffy nodded. The warning was unnecessary.

    After they left, Buffy addressed the huge bag of Chinese food, sorting through the little white boxes for things she might be willing to eat. It all seemed fattening and greasy and not particularly appetizing, but she figured a lot of that was because she wasn’t hungry. Spike the murderer made her feel queasy. She finally found a box or two that didn’t make her actively retch, forced herself to add in some extra beef for iron and protein, and threw in a box of steamed rice. She set the bag of egg rolls on the counter, and put the rest of the food in the fridge.

    She ate a bit, and then set about examining the room. Spike had disconnected the phone, and taken the wire. No outside communication there. There was no way out except the door through to the hall, or at least nothing that she could manipulate with the strength of a mere human girl. Grates and boards on the paint-spacked windows were going to keep her trapped. There wasn’t much in the way of potential weaponry, either, at least not in this room. She didn’t open the door to Dru’s bedroom – she didn’t want to see where her blood doll was kept during the day.

    Eventually she turned on the TV. M*A*S*H was on. She felt she should be planning strategy or working out, but Sarah’s body was still exhausted, and Buffy felt miserable. It was hard to think while miserable. She sat and watched seventies sitcoms while occasionally shoveling rice and beef into her mouth with chopsticks. It wasn’t until the door opened that she realized she’d fallen asleep on the sofa. She sat up hurriedly, the Chinese food box falling to the floor. Spike and Drusilla came in looking happy, Drusilla actually waltzing. Spike shrugged off his motorcycle jacket and hung it on the wall. “Did you have fun, love?” he asked her.

    “Like a circus calliope,” Dru said.

    Spike slid his hands up her arms and pulled her into an embrace from behind. “I’m glad.”

    The television blared into a commercial, and Spike glanced up at it, annoyed. Buffy jumped up and turned it off – it felt weird not having a remote. Spike’s eyes followed her as she meekly bent down and picked up her fallen take-out box.

    “Want an egg-roll?” he asked Dru then.

    “Certainly,” Dru said.

    Spike looked at Buffy. “Fetch them,” he told her distinctly, as if she were a Victorian serving girl. “Nice.”

    Buffy gave a little bob, completing the illusion, but she was hard pressed not to laugh at it. The whole thing suddenly seemed ridiculous. It felt absurd, like she wasn’t supposed to be there at all. She opened the package of egg-rolls and pulled a plate – one of only three – from the cupboard. She arranged them as nicely as basic egg-rolls could be arranged, and carried them over.

    “You said she wasn’t trained.” Dru took the plate and bit into one of the eggrolls. She bit in the middle, Buffy noticed, as if it were someone’s throat.

    “She’s not,” Spike said with a slightly suspicious expression. “She’s play-acting.” He turned Dru around and kissed her gently. “Don’t worry on it. I’ll have her at my feet soon enough.” He nibbled on Dru’s neck and whispered something in her ear.

    Buffy decided to get out of the way. She headed for her closet, only to hear Drusilla hum, and then laugh. Then, to Spike’s evident surprise, she pulled away from him. “You’re a silly man,” she said. “You brought enough for the boy?”

    “Of course I did,” Spike said.

    “Feed him, would you, love?” Dru said. She pushed the plate of eggrolls into his hand. “My dollies need their eyes bled.”

    Buffy had no idea what she meant by that, and didn’t want to.

    Dru went into her room and closed the door, but Buffy could hear her singing softly to herself. Spike sighed, and glanced at Buffy. “There are leftovers?” he asked.

    She only nodded.

    Spike pulled what was clearly a dog dish from a lower cupboard and dropped it on the counter. “Put some in the bowl for her doll, and give it to Dru. I’m for a shower.” He looked her over. “Then I think it’s time we settle down to training you.”

    Buffy swallowed.

    The Chinese food looked a lot like dog food when presented in a dog dish, but Buffy didn’t think Dru’s blood doll would find himself in a position to complain. She knocked hesitantly on Dru’s door. When it didn’t open, she quietly turned the handle.

    “Khsss!”

    Drusilla hissed at her, less than six inches away from the door, and Buffy nearly dropped the bowl. The vampiress seemed to have been lying in wait for her, her black-painted talons poised to strike. “Ah... Spike sent this,” Buffy said, bending down. She set it on the floor and almost crawled away on her knees. Her heart pounded in terror – Buffy wasn’t sure why, exactly. She thought it might be the madness compounding the demon bloodlust in Dru’s eyes, contrasted with her usual childlike delirium.

    Drusilla slammed the door closed on her, and Buffy sat on the floor, gasping with relief. God damn it, Sarah! she told her body. Would you quit with the instinctual terror? You’re pretty much dead already, what’s it matter?

    Spike came out of the bathroom a minute later, wearing only his shirt and his acid-washed jeans. He laughed when he saw Buffy on the floor. “Dru hiss at you?” he asked.

    Buffy looked up.

    “She does that,” he said. “Spooky, i’nt it?”

    “I gave her the bowl, like you asked.”

    “And she’ll take it. But she doesn’t like my pets in her room, much.”

    “You should have told me that.”

    “I just did,” he said with a wicked smirk.

    Buffy climbed to her feet. “You set me up!” she accused.

    “Mm-hm,” he said. “Wondered if she’d kill you.”

    And he found that funny. She could tell he did. Buffy stared at him, more annoyed than wounded. “Charming,” she said. “If this is how you treat the willing ones, what about the girls you keep who aren’t?”

    “Chained to the wall, what did you think?” Spike asked. “Open the bed. And don’t bloody argue about it, I don’t find that funny anymore.”

    “Sure you do,” Buffy said. “Or you’d have killed me already.”

    Spike looked at her.

    “Or you will in a minute or two, when you realize I’m never going to stop arguing with you. Open the bed, you said?” She went over and did it, and then sat on the edge regarding him. He looked incredulous. “Training, huh?” she said. “All right. So what does this ‘training’ entail?” Buffy asked.

    “Why are you smirking at me as if I’m telling you some kind of joke?” Spike asked.

    “Well, okay,” Buffy said. “You’re setting me down here, deliberately, and rather awkwardly, to teach me how to obey you, and what you like. And I suspect that some of the time you do this training all fangy with a whip in your hand, am I right?”

    “And if I do?”

    “Well, you’d be wasting your time,” Buffy said. “Did you want to break out the handcuffs, or just let me go straight to the blow job?”

    Spike blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

    Buffy shook her head. “Look. I don’t even know what you think you’re doing. I’m already going to do what you tell me to, most of the time, because I’m a human being and I do have a survival instinct. I’ll be even more careful around Dru, ‘cause I know you, but I don’t know what she’d do most of the time. But honest, what training do I need? Just use words, and I’ll fetch and carry like a good housemaid. I’m not an idiot. I mean, ticking you off would be like playing Russian roulette”

    “As is annoying me,” he said with a growl.

    “I’m not annoying you right now, I’m talking with you. And if I got all cowed and terrified around you, I’d be wasting your time. You can get that from any ‘bint’ on the street, just go all bumpy on them.”

    Spike stared at her. “And you’re not scared of me?”

    “I’m terrified,” Buffy said honestly. “But get chatty when I’m terrified, not panicked.”

    Spike blinked. “Who the hell are you?”

    “Doesn’t even matter,” Buffy said. She quoted something she heard Xander say once. “I’m a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, stuffed inside a riddle.”

    “So, you’re a woman, then.”

    Buffy laughed. “Clever boy. Look, why don’t you just bring your bad self over here.” She let the humor fall out of her voice, and it became seductive, and deadly serious. She ran her hands through her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. “And you can see how much training I actually need.”

    Spike regarded her for a long moment, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. “All right,” he said. “Take your clothes off.”

    Buffy smiled. “You do it for me.”

    “You’re already showing me you need a great deal of training.”

    “Or that I’ve already graduated,” Buffy said. “How is this a bad thing?”

    “If I’m the one to take those clothes off you, you may never see them again.”

    “Like I said,” Buffy said. “How is this a bad thing?”

    Surprise touched his eyes again, as she took his threat and made it a flirt. She knew she shouldn’t be taunting him like this, but she couldn’t help it. For her the whole thing felt like some kind of elaborate master/victim role play with her long term lover. Spike was an inventive lover, and, with them both taking one role or another, he’d played similar games with her before. Usually not for very long – neither of them had the patience to keep it up for more than half an hour, and it usually made them both laugh at some point. But it wasn’t entirely foreign to her, either. The only difference was, he didn’t know it. And her life really was in danger, but that was true anyway, no matter what he did.

    Buffy climbed over the bed and slid herself over him, straddling his lap. “All right,” she said against the skin of his arm. She slid her lips down his flesh, occasionally stopping to catch his skin in her teeth, nibbling fondly down his arm. “You want... a well... trained... pet... to show off to your yellow eyed boys out there.” She slid back up and started nibbling at his throat. “Take your little kitten to the pet show,” she whispered into his ear, and then started nibbling at it. His head arched back and he gasped. “What do they need to know, anyway?” she asked him. She sat back and wrapped her legs around his hips. “That you can make me scream?” His eyes were bright with arousal, and his teeth were slightly bared with hunger. She grinned. “Well, I can do that.” She tilted her head back and screamed for him, starting softly, just a moan, then growing to a crow, sounding half in pain, half in ecstacy. She felt his cock twitch as she carried it further, louder, and she only ended it because he lost patience and kissed her, drawing her to him hard enough to bruise her shoulders.

    It was power itself, hunger in its rawest form, but there was no emotion in it. He still didn’t know, or care, who she was, but his mouth pressed against her, demanding, forceful, and she gave it back as if it were a gift. “Easy,” she whispered a moment later. “I’m breakable, you know.”

    “I know,” he breathed back, half a threat.

    Buffy slid her fingers in under his ripped and safety-pinned t-shirt, letting her warmth travel over his torso. “Would ripping this any further make any difference?” she asked conversationally.

    “Sod off. It takes hours to craft this look.” Spike slid his home-crafted shirt off over his head, and then put his hand on her shirt collar. “This, on the other hand....” He slid his hands over her breasts for a moment, then took hold of her shirt and tore. The rough sound seemed to excite him, and Buffy ran her fingers through his spiked hair, messing it up.

    “There’s my bad boy,” she teased.

    He growled, and Buffy stopped. She tilted her head, looked into his eyes, and frowned. She reached out and touched his face, very gently. “Shh,” she said. She ran her thumb over his lips. “What haven’t you had, lately?” she asked.

    “I–”

    “Wait,” she said. “What are you really hungry for?” She let her fingers climb his neck, slowly, one by one. “I’m sure you’ve had girls cowering in terror, so you don’t need that. Begging for mercy. Probably getting old hat. It’s not like you need any help in the blood play department.” Her fingers found the scratches that Dru left the day before. They weren’t deep anymore – already half healed by his demonic aura. “And I think you’ve suffered enough humiliation lately.”

    He growled again, angry this time, and Buffy surged forward, biting at his neck. His growl faded to an aroused gasp, and Buffy licked up his throat, nibbling at his jaw, and then pulled back, looking at him again. “You talk too much,” Spike panted.

    “Did you want to punish me for that?” she asked with a perky grin. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “You liked how I screamed. Didn’t you.” She trailed her tongue along the rim of his ear and added, “I’ll do it again, if you ask.”

    He took a firm hold of her hand, and then her index finger. “You’ll also do it if I break your fingers one by one.”

    Buffy sat back. “And then I’d be crying and moaning and secretly hate you,” she said. “No matter what I said to you to keep you from doing it again, you know that’s how I’d feel. It’s how they all feel. Even if they’re as broken and perverted as in their own way Drusilla’s doll, the resentment is bound to be there. Is it really worth it for perfect obedience?” She slid off his lap and went to her knees. “Yes, sir,” she said in a dull monotone with her head bowed. “No, sir. Whatever you say, sir. I’d never dare do anything to anger you, sir.” As always, it was silly. She knew it was a game. She knew it sounded like one to him, too. Kind of a stupid one, from the slightly embarrassed set to his shoulders.

    She let the obedience hang between them for a second, and then lifted her head slyly, her eyes seductive. “Hey, lover,” she said instead, soft, almost teasing, but very loving. “I’m glad you’re home.” She slid up onto the bed beside him and buried her head in his chest, as she would have with her own Spike, holding him for comfort. The deadly, murderous demon, who killed men, women, and children without mercy, and she snuggled him like a teddy bear. “I miss you...” she swallowed – oh, god, did she miss him! – and added, “when you’re gone.” She fell bonelessly to the bed, and tried to pull him with her.

    He went, but only to hold her arms down. He stared down at her, perplexed. “You seem to have the wrong idea of who and what I am,” he said, but he said it quietly, informing her rather than irritated. “I like hurting women.”

    “Then you can hurt me,” Buffy said. She shifted, and he allowed her to lift one hand to catch his. Buffy took his hand and guided it, using Spike’s black painted nails to scratch red and white lines down her shoulder to her breast. To Buffy’s annoyance, it didn’t feel as good as it usually did. Her slayer’s body took pain as something natural, a part of who she was. It fired her. In Sarah’s body, while it still felt like something Sarah was used to, she didn’t enjoy it as much. It was so much more difficult, and more vulnerable, to be only human. Still, Spike’s eyes had grown bright seeing the scratches, and that still pleased her, just as it always did.

    “And that’s what you want?” he asked.

    Buffy tried to explain it. “I actually want what you want. That’s what I’m trying for, here. I want you to want me.”

    “For my blood.”

    “For your pleasure,” Buffy said, almost exasperated. Getting through to him inside this murderer was like mining through a freaking mountain of evil and suspicion. “I admit it freely, there are things I want. But you seem to have the wrong idea of who I am, and what I’m doing. This isn’t payment. I’m not here trying ‘buy’ blood from you with my services.”

    “Aren’t you?”

    “No. I’m no whore, and I wouldn’t treat you as one either.”

    “Then what’s the point?”

    “The point is, there is something I need. You won’t just up and give it to me because you don’t trust me. Fair enough, you don’t know me.” She touched his cheek. “Come to know me,” she said. “Let me be yours. When you know I’m yours... it won’t matter what else I want.”

    “It matters.”

    “Not right now. Right now,” She touched his lips with her thumb again. “Right now what I want... is to touch you. I want to make you happy. Not to keep you from killing me. And not only for your blood. I want to see the joy in your face. The real joy, not the evil joy in death and blood.”

    “That’s real.”

    “But it’s limiting,” Buffy said. “And it’s easy. It’s everywhere, all you have to do is reach out and take it. I want to be something else for you. Something all those victims can’t give you.”

    His eyes flickered, curious. If Buffy hadn’t known him so well, she would have missed the undercurrent in his eyes. There was some kind of sadness there, something she wasn’t sure even he recognized. “You are a victim.”

    “I’m not. And what I really want is for you to see that.” An idea struck her. “You want me trained?” Buffy asked. “Ask your pet to put on a show for you. See what I can do.” She smiled at him gently. “Then you’ll see what I really want.”

    He hesitated. “All right, then,” he said.“Show me.”

    Buffy smiled and pulled away. This, she could do. This was easy. All she had to do was go home, in her mind, throw this purely demonic creature out of her thoughts and think about Spike. Her Spike. She pulled herself up the bed and lay back on the pillows. Then closed her eyes and touched herself. You want to watch, honey? The words were to herself, to the man he would become. She knew that he liked to. Hell, he’d confessed he’d gotten off on just watching her move in her sleep, let alone moving sensuously. Granted, that was when she was Buffy. But it had to be something inherent in him, didn’t it? It couldn’t be entirely dependant on her being the slayer.

    She slid her hand up her ribs and along her bra, barely sliding her thumb under the fabric when she reached the top. She slid the bra strap down her arm, caressing her shoulder with her cheek as she did so.

    The body was different, but something about that made it even more erotic. A small, aroused breath slipped between her lips. She slid her breast out of the bra and caressed it, pinching at the flesh, revealing the softness and fullness of it. She ran her finger in a circle around her nipple. It hardened under her fingertips, perking out pink and excited. “Mm...” She pinched it, and then twisted it, pulling it up from the soft skin until it seemed to glow.

    “Am I supposed to keep my hands off you?” Spike asked.

    “You’re the one giving the orders,” Buffy said, glancing at him. “But I can’t imagine you’d want to spoil the show.” She took her other hand to caress her other breast, pulling it out slowly, by degrees, leaving the nipple hidden, straining at the fabric before it finally popped loose.

    She felt Spike’s hand on her ankle. It slid up until it found a rip in the fishnets, and pulled. The nets tore further. Buffy shivered. She was thirty years in the future, showing off for her lover, and his touch actually felt good. She bit her lip in anticipation.

    That was all he did. He left his hand on her ankle as she continued to caress and gently abuse her breasts, one, then the other, leaving all her actions visible to him. Finally she sat up and lifted the bra over her head, crossing her arms and stretching her torso to accentuate the view. She passed the bra to Spike as if she were in a strip tease. He took it, and she caressed her cheek and throat when she took her hand back. She slid the hand down her torso, using her nails, scratching down her ribs and belly until she reached her black leather skirt.

    “Allow me,” Spike said quietly, and she felt his hand undoing the clasp on the side of the skirt, and then slowly lowering the zipper. Buffy looked at him. She knew it was a throw away phrase, but... he’d just sort of... asked.

    She smiled at him, and arched her back. She lay back down, wriggling her shoulders, and lifted her leg. “Could you help me with these?” she asked, indicating her fishnets.

    His eyes flickered down her form, and he lifted his hand. He pulled the nets down slowly, one leg at a time, and Buffy raised her legs one after the other, dancing them over his head as he helped. Once they were off, Buffy lifted her hips and slid her skirt and the tattered remains of her underwear down over her thighs. Spike took them without comment, pulling them down and dropping them on the floor, leaving her naked and exposed.

    Buffy caressed her thighs, then, sliding her fingers up until she reached the edge of her mons, then slowly opening her legs to slide into the crease between her thigh and her labia. She slid the hand back up and pulled at her pubic hair, her hand cording, making it look like the pulling hurt much more than it did. She moved the whole of her mons with her hand, still leaving her clit untouched. Spike’s eyes were riveted. She let herself hum gently, and then reached forward and took his hand.

    Spike evidently thought she was going to put it on her, but she surprised him by unbuckling the spiked leather bracelet he was wearing. She’d had an idea. She took the strap, buckled it again, and slid her fingers through it. She used the spikes to comb through her pubic hair, slide down her labia, and then open her labia to reveal the rest of her. The symbolism of the spikes doing this was undeniable.

    She slid the spiked bracelet further down her hand, and moistened her finger with her own juices. Then she slid up and began to circle her clit, dancing over it gently until it swelled between her folds like a ripe strawberry. With her other hand she caressed her thigh, her hip, sliding up her torso to her breasts and back down again.

    She thought about Spike. Her own Spike, her generous, affectionate, tormented Spike, and how he would love seeing this. She thought about how he would react if she told him – reminded him – of this moment when she got back. Because she was getting the hell back. She forced herself to be certain of it. Which would mean this whole dangerous journey was just a memory to her Spike. It was already a memory, it was already over, and she’d already come home.

     She pushed harder on her clit, and shifted her hips so Spike – the current Spike – could have a better view. The spikes on the bracelet around her hand dug into her labia, but they weren’t razor sharp or anything, and she was controlling how hard she pushed. It looked much more painful than it was. She let herself react, moaning and humming with the pleasure she wrought.

    It took her longer to come than she’d wanted it to, but she didn’t want to fake it. She’d never been completely sure, as she’d never asked, but she thought Spike could probably smell the difference. He’d never been uncertain, anyway, even when she’d come completely silently. She pushed herself harder, had to slow down, and then did it again. Spike just watched, his eyes entirely unreadable.

    When she finally came it was a thin and pitiful excuse for an orgasm, but she went with it anyway, crying out and letting her face show her pleasured tension. She grunted and looked up at him, her eyes still heavy. “Hey,” she said to him.

    He didn’t seem to know how to react. He stared at her, then blinked, looked away, and looked back. She sat up. He was hard a rock, and she smiled. She climbed over him again. “I see you enjoyed the show,” she said. She slid down off the bed and unbuttoned his jeans. “Now, where were we last night?” She addressed his cock, not Spike. She knew that usually amused him, when she treated it as its own entity. She slid just the tip of it into her mouth and played and nibbled, knowing it wasn’t enough, and it was likely to frustrate him.

    As she’d almost expected, his hand found her head, and was about to push her down. “Wait,” she said, pulling away completely.

    Spike only growled. She was really on the edge of what he was going to be willing to take from her. She reached for his jeans and pulled them down, making him scoot closer to the edge of the bed as she pulled. That was what she wanted. She bent down again, separating his legs, and finally able to reach his balls. He did not force himself down her throat, to her relief. It gave her the freedom to do what she’d actually been meaning, which was to slide her hand down under his scrotum, and slip one finger up his crack, just fingering his anus. She tickled the tip of his cock with her lips as she did it.

    To Spike’s surprise – but not to hers – he came almost instantly. He all but roared with the shock of it. She let his vampiric semen slide down her chin and around her throat, and then she surged up before he really had time to finish coming. She held her throat to his mouth, and he kissed it automatically, his own semen drawing him. All of a vampire’s juices tasted slightly of blood. It was almost instinctual for him to lap at it. She wasn’t really surprised when he bit her again, mixing the blood with his demonic semen. Her own Spike had never done that, but they were more careful about when and where they bit. This Spike... the biting was going to be pretty much uncontrolled. She trusted her own Spike’s statement that he hadn’t messed up in a long time. If he was going to kill her, he would mean to.

    He didn’t draw her down into euphoria, but he didn’t make it hurt too badly, either. Whether that was intentional on his part, or he was just too shocked to try and hurt her, she didn’t care. After a long moment, while Spike held her on his lap and kissed and sucked at the new wound he’d created, he grunted and pulled away. “What... the bloody... fuck.”

    Buffy laughed at him. She couldn’t help it. “Enjoy that, lover?” she asked.

    “Bloody hell. Where did you...?” He gulped, still panting.

    “I’m here to please you,” she said. “Not to buy you. Do you believe me now?”

    He stared at her, almost awestruck. She knew what she’d done to him. She’d done it to her own Spike a lot. “I think I trust you even less,” he said.

    Buffy laughed again. “But you like me more,” she said. She kissed him, and this time he let her.
 

***

    As the sun rose, Buffy curled up on her dog bed happier than she had been the day before. Spike still insisted she stay locked up while he slept, but he hadn’t threatened to kill her in hours. He’d gone in to Drusilla for a while, and when he came out he seemed resigned if not contented, with a new shirt for Buffy. She didn’t have to contend with Drusilla having been too cruel to him, whatever she’d done. She’d eaten more of the Chinese food and they’d watched television until the sun rose. He didn’t really touch her, didn’t snuggle or fondle her as her own Spike would have done, but they chatted a little about the guests on the late show. Every once in a while she’d look up to find his eyes fixed on her, more perplexed than anything else. Then he’d sent her to bed.

    She snuggled up under the blanket he’d given her, with two pillows he’d added to the nest, wearing one of his own black shirts – much less ripped and torn than his carefully handcrafted punk costume. The shirt smelled of Spike.  When she closed her eyes on her surroundings, she could almost forget that the Spike it smelled of wasn’t completely hers.