Chapter 4
Spike managed to pull himself over to his wheelchair some time after the Slayer became an inconsiderate bitch and shoved him onto the floor. He made no moves to be quiet as he struggled to get himself into the contraption, uncaring that Buffy was asleep. In fact, he made as much noise as possible but she never flinched, never made a sound, never gave him any hint that he’d roused her from her beauty sleep.
“You know, any number of baddies could just walk right in here and you’d be dead before your stupid girly-girl brain registered that you had an intruder.”
Buffy’s nose wrinkled, she smacked her lips and nuzzled deeper into her pillow. Spike snorted.
“Hope you’re all nice an’ cozy, Slayer. Don’ worry about me. I’ll just sit here. In this chair where I always sit, bloody…” he trailed off, mumbling incoherently and pursing his lips. “An’ you know what?” He continued when his anger got the better of him and he knew she wasn’t going to wake up, “You’re a bitch!” He pointed at her with that last word. “I didn’ even want to come on this Griswald family vacation an’ you have the nerve to…” He stopped again as Buffy fidgeted in her sleep. A hard line formed between her eyebrows and he heard a tiny noise escape from her throat.
He wheeled his chair next to her and leaned forward. “Slayer? You awake?”
She whimpered slightly, the line between her eyes deepening and her chin quivered. Spike tilted his head slightly as he studied her. Her tiny fists curled around the sheets and pulled them up tightly beneath her chin and her body coiled into the fetal position. She was in a state of distress about something, probably a bad dream he wagered, but there was something about her mouth that captivated him. It twitched and trembled, turned a deeper shade of red and then opened slightly as she let out a quiet plea.
“Please…no,” she said, curling into herself, squeezing her already closed eyes even tighter and Spike watched as the Slayer started to cry in her sleep. He ran his hands through his hair in irritation. He hated to see a woman cry, hated it. He hated it because William, the stupid ponce who continued to haunt his demon, wanted to comfort them, wanted to bring them solace, wanted to make the tears go away. But this was Buffy, no…the Slayer, and who gave a toss if she was crying? He should be laughing his ass off at her pain, not curious as to what got her so upset. It became increasingly difficult to ignore when her soft sniffling and cries turned into all-out body shaking sobs. He knew that sound, knew it well. Spike was well versed in the ways of loss. Then the anger bubbled up within him, that disgusting sticky black feeling of hatred that was all too familiar.
Angelus.
Granted, he had more years of experience with the wanker than she did, but it didn’t take away what she was feeling, didn’t make her pain any less real. What her gut-wrenching sobs did achieve, however, was a feeling within Spike that he desperately tried to ignore. Understanding. He didn’t want to understand the bloody Slayer, unless it was fighting techniques or mental patterns when it came to sussing out a sticky situation. Those things were helpful to him because he could use them later to tear her to shreds with his fangs when he finally had himself one good day. Compassion, empathy and the need to connect were not things Spike was willing to deal with and really, she was just an immature seventeen year old and why did he care at all? He didn’t, he decided. He was just irritated that she was crying and wrecking his day to rest. He should be sleeping right now, but he wanted to have some words with her before he did and then the bitch had to go and make him feel something.
But he couldn’t take it, couldn’t take the noise. He was afraid to wake her, knowing that any comfort he lent her would result in a back-hand to his face but at the same time, he just wanted her to stop. His left hand came up then, shaking as it hovered over her face. Only managing to touch her with the tip of his middle finger, he brushed away the hair that clung to her wet cheeks back behind her ear and then retreated, dropping his hand in his lap with a sigh. What could he possibly do and why on earth would she even want his comfort? He turned his head away and placed his hands on the wheels, ready to wheel away when he heard her strained, crackling voice call out to him between her sobs.
“Spike?” She blinked and furrowed her brow, wiping at her eyes and looked at her hands and then back at him.
He clenched his jaw and turned to face her, groaning inwardly at her expression. She looked miserable, and embarrassed when she realized she’d been weeping. “Yeah?” he said in a curt tone.
“W-what are you doing?” she sniffled.
“I…heard you,” he sighed and shook his head in frustration. “Look, you were cryin’ in your sleep an’ it woke me up.”
“Oh,” she said sadly and laid her head down again. “I’m sorry.” Buffy hoped this wouldn’t happen, prayed even, that she could just have one night where she didn’t wake up crying, especially when she was sharing a room with a vampire and not just any vampire, but Spike. She wasn’t so lucky and by the look on his face, he didn’t give a damn. It was probably for the best that he seemed so cold, she thought, because she didn’t know how to deal with anything else from him. Things were weird enough as it was between them after the bath incident. But she couldn’t stop.
Spike was kicking himself inwardly for his tone, because as she tried to pretend nothing was wrong, her tears started again and she buried her face in her pillow to hide it from him. Fuck. “Don’ cry…please don’ cry, I’m sorry.” His hand came up again and he awkwardly pat her on the back and rubbed her a little too hard and when he saw her body jerking from his manhandling, his touch softened. She didn’t seem to notice, though, as her head continued to burrow deeper into the mattress and pillow, wailing. He closed his eyes and made a brave decision. “Scoot over.”
“Ok,” she said, her voice tiny and small, muffled from her pillow. She shifted slightly, still unable to look at him and Spike turned his chair to the side and hoisted himself up on the bed, grabbing one thigh and swinging it over, then the other, until he was situated on the bed. He rolled onto his side, facing her back and he delicately stroked her arm. She hiccupped between a sob and he reached over to pull her hair out of her face. “Shh, s’ok, Slayer.”
Buffy didn’t know why she let him do it, but she was so tired of feeling this way. It had been three weeks since Angel lost his soul. Three long, miserable, horrifying weeks and it hadn’t been any easier over time as everyone swore it would. Her thoughts were muddled and confused most of the time when it came to thinking about the brunette vampire. Most of her hurt came from the morning after he’d made love to her, the things he’d said, the way he made her feel like she was worthless. And while she knew it was just a demon, not Angel, it still stung. She convinced herself that it held an iota of truth or else he wouldn’t have said it, wouldn’t have mocked her inexperience in such a cold manner. She missed Angel, missed the idea of him, really. But she was struggling to face the fact that Angel was gone and Angelus was here to stay, unless they figured a way to curse him again. But even still, would she want him after that? Could they really have a relationship after all the damage he’d done?
She didn’t think so, nor was she able to think about the blond vampire who was snuggled against her back and successfully calming her down with the low tremor of his voice and soothing words, his hands gently rubbing her arm in a way that belied his strength. She felt his cool breath tickling the back of her neck and his hard chest pressed against her back and for a moment, for now, she allowed herself the comfort she needed. Because he knew, too. Finally waking up in a few hours might change this level of companionship, might revert back to their childish barbs and hateful stares but for now, she would accept whatever he was offering because for the first time in a long while, she felt peace.
Spike felt a burning in his chest, a strange sort of feeling as he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. The ease with which she allowed this and the way she fit against him so perfectly was confusing the hell out of him. He just wanted her to stop crying! And now, here he was, limp and lame from the waist down, cuddling with the sodding Slayer and cooing in her ear like a lover. And she was letting him! What the bloody hell was going on? What he should be doing, he said to himself, was taking advantage of her situation and drinking from her throat, stealing the money out of her bag and…and what? Wheel his way out of Dodge? Her blood would probably heal him faster than the pig swill she’d packed for him, but there was no guarantee of that and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was too easy. It lacked the punch of his previous Slayer killings. And he knew that when push came to shove, and oh it would, fighting Buffy, no…the Slayer, would be a delicious event. So really, if he killed her now, wouldn’t he be doing himself a disservice? Decidedly, yes.
So, he’d stick with his original plan. Get healed, kick her ass, cop a feel or six and then drain her dry. So maybe, this whole comforting of the Slayer bit was a subconscious effort to get on her good side, right? But he didn’t really believe that, and his demon was rolling its eyes at his foolishness, as if it knew something he didn’t. And she smelled so wonderful…what was that, cinnamon? Ginger? It was some sort of food-smell but sweet and pure. A mixture of a few things, he gathered, that made up the Slayer package. A scent so decidedly Buffy that he could find her in a crowd of hundreds from its unique aroma. And her skin…god, it was soft. He was a tactile sort of vamp. He liked soft things, warm things…things that reminded him of being cozy and secure. His duster was a perfect example. Hard look, soft leather. Perfectly worn and distressed in all the right places, fit him like a bloody glove, it did. It’s partly why he made Drusilla wear so much velvet all the time. He couldn’t stop touching it. The Slayer’s hair was just as soft and he wondered what she’d look like if she let it grow out a bit longer. It was adorable as hell now, all platinum and just below the shoulders and…sodding hell. Spike must really be tired if he was rambling about the Slayer’s tresses in his mind, not to mention the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own and were currently petting said-hair in a loving way, twirling it between his fingers and letting it slide between them. He hastily pulled his hand away and Buffy nuzzled into her pillow a bit with a soft sigh.
Good. She was asleep now. Problem solved!
Spike rolled over onto his back, ignoring the whimper that escaped from the Slayer and he quickly got back in his chair, rolling as far away from her as possible. He grabbed the blanket that she’d tossed to him earlier that morning and covered himself, tried his best to get comfortable and willed himself to sleep.
Across the room, the Slayer lay soundly with a small smile on her lips, dreaming about a chiseled alabaster chest and piercing blue eyes, long fingers massaging her scalp and a soft English voice whispering in her ear.
~*~*~*~
Buffy woke feeling more rested than she had in weeks. She yawned loudly and stretched her arms high above her head, wincing when her fists hit the head board. She rolled on her side, fully anticipating seeing Spike still lying there, only he wasn’t. She frowned and looked across the room and giggled. Spike was in his chair, his head craned back uncomfortably, exposing his Adam’s apple, mouth hanging open, his arms haphazardly strewn about his sides and the scratchy hotel blanket bunched in his lap. If he didn’t look dead before, he looked it then. Her giggling woke Spike up with a start and his head jerked forward. “Don’ touch it!” he yelled and then frowned slightly as he took in his surroundings.
“Don’t touch what?” she said with a smile.
“Huh?” he said sleepily and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, must’ve been dreamin’.”
“Uh-huh,” she giggled and flung the sheets off of her body and got out of bed. She stretched again with a strangled moan and Spike pretended not to look, though his eyes were immediately drawn to her bare stomach as her shirt lifted, her ass stuck out in a perfect tease and her breasts strained against the fabric of her thin camisole. Enemy or not, she had a body that could kill. It wasn’t his fault she was too innocent to know what she was doing.
Buffy smacked her lips and grimaced. “Oh god, I need to brush my teeth.”
“Lovely,” Spike said, lighting up a cigarette that he fished out of his duster that lay on the back of his chair.
“You can’t smoke in here! This is a non-smoking room.”
Spike merely looked at her as he took a deep drag.
“Fine, see if I care. Not like you can get cancer anyway, right?” She went to the bathroom.
Spike’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the door. That was almost too easy, for both of them. In fact, she was using a down-right playful tone with him, unlike the vehement hatred she usually displayed in her barbs. He didn’t know if he was offended or grateful. Before he could ponder that for too long, she was back in the bedroom and pulled out a mug. “Hungry?”
“Um…sure,” he said cautiously. He reached for the mug but she walked past him, opened up the mini fridge and pulled out a bag of blood. She poured it into the mug and set it in the provided microwave. Once she’d punched in the numbers, she walked over to her bags and picked out an outfit for the day. She laid it on the bed at the same time the microwave dinged and she ran over, retrieved the mug and happily handed it to Spike.
Spike blinked hard and stared at the mug, then at her.
“Thanks.”
She smiled and turned back to her clothes, gathering them in her arms and walked back to the bathroom.
“Hm…” Spike took a slow sip from his mug and tapped the ash off of his cigarette with his free hand onto the floor. There was something going on in that blond head of hers, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. So he decided the best bet was to be a silent observer, only speaking if required, until he figured out her motives. She was being awfully nice, too nice. He was suspicious.
“So I was thinking,” she shouted from inside the bathroom, her voice muffled as she pulled a t-shirt over her head, “that I might check out that diner down the street and get some food before we head out. You want to come with me or do you want to just stay here? The sun should be down in a few.”
“Probably best if I come with. Don’ wan’ to lose time, right?”
“Cool! I mean,” she opened the door, fully dressed, “you know, that would be best.”
“Uh-huh,” he said skeptically, cocking a brow and taking another slow sip of blood. He watched her packing up their things, took note of her trembling hands, the way she avoided his eyes, the subtle intakes of breath should she accidentally run into him in her frantic movements to get things organized, and the slight blush in her cheeks. He drained his mug and set it down on the dresser, and then he clasped his hands together at his stomach and tilted his head. “Slayer?”
“Yeah?” She stood straight and looked at him with wide eyes.
“You all right?”
“Of course I am!” She answered with a brilliant smile.
Spike’s eyes narrowed and he took a final drag of his cigarette. “You aren’ bein’ nice to me because you feel guilty about somethin’, are you?”
“What? I-I mean, why would I feel guilty?”
“Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe guilt isn’ the right word. Embarrassed, maybe?”
“Why are you asking me this?” She turned back to her bag that was already packed and unzipped it. He knew she was avoiding it.
Spike smirked and grabbed a t-shirt and put it on. “Look, ‘bout what happened las’ night…”
“I don’t want to talk about it, ok?” She zipped the bag closed again and dropped it on the floor.
Spike felt a sudden burst of anger well up inside him and he spat, “I didn’ do it for your gratitude! So jus’ stop pretendin’ you give a toss, ok?” He grabbed his duster and his bag, placing them in his lap and wheeled towards the door.
“I’m not…Spike, where are you going?”
“Outside! Jus’ leave me the bloody hell alone until it’s time to leave. I don’ need your pity, don’ need your sweet lil’ fake smiles an’ I don’ need to eat sodding dinner with you, ok? So jus’ stop this…weird whatever it is you’re doin’ because it’s messin’ with my head!” He swung the door open and wheeled outside, slamming the door behind him.
Buffy sank onto the bed and stared at the floor. She was terribly confused and had no idea how to react after the night before. How could she tell him how grateful she was for his presence? She didn’t pity him, not at all. She felt bad for his situation and wanted to help him as much as she could, but was that pity? Maybe it was…maybe it wasn’t. She’d obviously upset him somehow…upset him by being nice. Of course he was freaking out. When had she ever been openly nice to him before? Well, never. Not that she felt guilty about that because hey, Slayer. And yet…
With a long sigh, she stood up from the bed and double checked the room to make sure they’d grabbed everything before checking out. She smiled inwardly when she noticed the shampoos and soaps were gone, as well as the hand towels. What a vampire needed those things for was beyond her, but that was Spike for you. She turned off the lights and walked out of the room, reluctantly preparing herself for one very uncomfortable car ride.