Chapter 15
Spike was sick. He’d never felt this kind of sickness before, had never felt so empty. His guts twisted, his heart wheezed, his lungs refused to offer any breath to scream his unhappiness to the heavens. Food tasted awful. Music annoyed him. He was pathetic.
“No really, you are,” he said as he picked himself up from the cold porcelain of his bathtub. He had seen people in movies sink to their knees in the shower before, curl up in the fetal position and sob about how they’d been wronged as the water metaphorically baptized them anew. He tried it, thought it might give him some release, but all it managed to do was make him feel worse and put him at eye-level with all the mildew he neglected to bleach away the last time he cleaned the bathroom.
He cut off the shower and dried off, finally coming to stand in front of the mirror that hid his reflection behind the steam. He stuck a toothbrush in his mouth and wiped a clean circle into the mirror with his forearm.
“Hello,” he said sadly. Then he brushed his teeth, staring at himself. He spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth out, plugged the drain, and filled up the sink with warm water.
“I hope we can stay friends.” Suddenly pissed, he opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out the shaving cream and slammed the door shut. “Pfft, friends, she says.” He sprayed a large, whipped mound of cream into his hand and carelessly tossed the canister aside.
“Show her friends,” he muttered, rubbing white fluff all over his chin, cheeks and neck. He grabbed his razor and lifted his chin until the skin on his neck was nice and taut, and started to shave. “Fucking women.”
He couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, and that was the worst part. She’d kissed him! She was the one who started it, not him. Now that he had a taste of her, as innocent as it might have been, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting more. Buffy was perfect, bitchy and self-righteous one minute, and warm and sweet in the next. She made him hard just by opening her mouth to speak, made him feel special and important when he finally opened up to her, and thinking about that started the vicious cycle of being angry instead of miserable. Miserable was lurking around the corner though, so he tried to hang onto angry for as long as he could.
He wiggled the blades of his razor in the murky water to clean them off, feeling his muscles constrict as he grew even angrier. Why did she want to know so badly if…
It just didn’t make any sense.
She feels sorry for you.
He didn’t want to believe that Angel had been right. She had kissed him after he confessed something awful. She begged him to tell her, soothing him, calming him, until he purged it all.
She has this…maternal thing about her. It’s one of the reasons I love her.
He started to think of all the times she gave him an opening, of the many lines she’d cast out for him to grab onto. She wanted to get to know him, had even chased after him when he stormed out those first days, and perhaps the most important thing of all was that she had wanted him to care about her. He was too defensive, though, suspicious of her motives, suspicious about everything, to catch on that it had been sincere.
The tattoo she tried to impress him with, the line about her mother’s marriage being nothing more than a sham, how she’d tried at normal conversation, and even once flat out told him to ask her a question about her own life only to be dismissed with his insults. Even her dancing had been some form of communication that he hadn’t really understood until now, staring at his reflection in the mirror and wiping away the remnants of shaving cream with a fluffy, white towel.
She had shown him the most important thing to her, and it was dancing that finally got through his thick skull. Her mother and her boyfriend hadn’t seen the meaning in it, the passion she had, the determination, but Spike, as dumb as he felt at times, had been smart enough to know what dancing meant to her.
I’m better than that. You’re better than that.
“Well, fuck that!” Spike tossed the towel into the draining sink, combed his hair, pulled on his jeans and a tee, threw his boots on, ran down the stairs, stole Rupert’s car keys and walked to the front door.
“Sorry, Rupes!” he shouted into the house before he slammed the door shut and hauled ass to the Volkswagen.
* * *
“Arson, two counts of assault, public intoxication, vandalism, barely graduated with a passing grade… All before your nineteenth birthday in the next couple of weeks. Good job!”
“Mitchell, let me in.” Spike stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel, as Mitchell read his flaws from a printout he had on his clipboard.
Mitchell exhaled an impressed whistle. “Quite a rap sheet, son.”
“Happy to know you did your homework. Now please, do the thing with the buttons and let me in.”
“No one is expecting you today.”
He clenched his jaw, ran his hands through his damp hair. “It’s a surprise visit!”
“I’ll just phone the house and see if it’s all right,” he said, leaning back into his tiny cement house and reaching for the phone inside.
“No! Don’t!” When Mitchell sighed and tilted his head, bored with this exchange, Spike grew desperate. “Don’t make me give you some stupid fucking speech about love and all that crap to get you on my good side. Be a friend. Just let me in.”
“There’s a speech?” Mitchell smiled and folded his arms around his clipboard.
Spike was about to throttle this bastard. “Please? I am begging you. I just need to talk to Buffy and then I’m off.”
“You better hurry,” he said, reaching towards the number pad, “her boyfriend usually drops by at night.”
He straightened up in his seat, feeling his heart slamming against his chest. “How long have I got?”
“An hour tops.”
“Can you stall if I haven’t come out yet?”
Mitchell shook his head in disbelief, punched in the numbers, and said, “Good luck.”
* * *
He was standing in front of two white double doors, next to the brass slippers and the photograph of a young ballerina Buffy, his hands curling and unfurling from nerves. Henry escorted him here a few moments ago, and he’d taken just those few moments to gather his wits. He heard music, soft violins coming from inside. Without knocking, without making a sound, he turned the knob and entered Buffy’s dance room.
She didn’t notice him right away, too caught up in her routine. He’d seen this one already, the twirly ballet number. It looked as if she’d been going at it for a while because her face was red from exertion, shiny with perspiration that covered her from head to toe, hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail stuck to her neck and forehead, and wore a practical black leotard and pink pointe shoes. The tightness in his chest and the twisting in his stomach intensified with every step he took towards her.
She whirled in a series of pirouettes, using one leg and both arms to pull her into every turn, and finally, she noticed him, gasping in fright and stumbling as she came to a halt.
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes were wide, her hands on her chest, and he took another step forward.
“I came to see you,” he said tenderly, another step. The violins swelled in time with his heart, catching the flicker of relief in her eyes that said more than he needed to know.
“But I told you. I can’t do th—” He really hated when she lied to him, so he pulled her moist and trembling body against him and pressed his lips to hers. She hummed as if she’d taken a bite of cheesecake, as if she’d never had something so delicious before, as if she’d surrendered to the taste of him. It was enough to make him give her another bite, slide his tongue over hers, and wrap her up in his arms. Just as it had before, the kiss immediately turned passionate, each movement of their mouths battling with their heavy breaths. Only seconds had passed with Buffy in his arms before the sickness inside him had vanished completely. He didn’t have time to be afraid of that concept, not when his cock was taking over for his brain.
“I’m sweaty,” she said softly, moaning when he kissed her neck, sliding her hands around his shoulders.
“Don’t care.” He lifted her up, gripping her backside, and walked them to the barre mounted against the mirrored wall. She let out a tiny oomph of complaint when her back hit the wall, but was soon moaning in pleasure when he had both of her breasts in his hands.
“Buffy,” he said, panting, teeth grazing her neck, fingers tracing the swell of each mound, “I want to know everything about you.” He kissed her sweetly, sliding the straps of her leotard down her arms until her breasts spilled out over the neckline.
“What?” she said dazedly, her eyelids heavy, lips red and wet. “Oh, God…”
He kept her positioned on the barre, holding one of her thighs in a vice-like grip around his waist, kissing his way down her chest. “Everything.” Looking up at her, he gently sucked one tiny, pink nipple with his lips until it was hard and excited, moaning when she let her head drop against the mirror, let her fingers rake into his hair to keep him where she wanted.
“I’m sorry I never asked before.” He sucked the other nipple hard and her back arched towards him, her mouth dropping open to let out a womanly, throaty moan. He made her do it again when his hand slid over her belly and down, his fingers sweeping between her legs and over the crotch of her leotard.
He increased the pressure, stroking her fervently, his nostrils flaring at the sight of her glossy-eyed stare. “Can you forgive me?”
She didn’t answer, and he didn’t force her to, not when his eyes zeroed in on her shining, undulating tits as she began to whimper in need. He went in for another round of sucking, too addicted to the taste of her skin, and he’d already forgotten what he asked her anyway. She dug her hands into his wet hair, aggressively squeezing his locks between her fingers when he bit her nipples, and she almost fell off the barre when he jerked the crotch of her leotard to the side.
He held her fast, and his fingers slid over her wet, glistening lips. “Ohh, Buffy,” he said low and breathy, smiling proudly, gliding his fingers slowly over her pussy. “Feel good?”
She nodded tranquilly, teeth gnawing at her lower lip.
“Look at me.” When she opened her eyes, he imbedded one insatiable middle finger inside of her, centimeter by centimeter, kissing the corner of her quivering mouth. She was drenching his hand, tight and hot and slippery wet. He licked his lips at the very thought of tasting her, and she caught it, her eyelids lowering as she smiled at him.
Pumping his finger inside her, steadily, seeking out every curve, every nuance of her pussy, listening to her whimper and moan, watching her unravel before him, he felt that wonderful, powerful pang in his chest that seemed to occur whenever she was near.
He couldn’t tell her that, though. Not now, anyway. When he kissed her this time, he did it so softly, so tenderly, his tongue tracing the contours of her mouth, swallowing her cry of pleasure when his fingers twisted and curled inside her with firm, goading thrusts.
Then he suddenly backed away from her, catching his breath, having done a fine job of working himself up as much as he had her. She held her weight up on the barre, tits hanging out, leotard askew, legs trembling, eyes pleading. Fucking gorgeous. He spun her around to face the mirror, letting one hand slide down her torso to the front of her left thigh, then towards the center, and he lifted her leg out to the side and placed her foot on the barre.
She leered at his reflection and positioned herself a bit better, having used his body for this stretch not two weeks ago, wiggling her hips and nudging his erection when he came to stand directly behind her.
Fingers dancing along her shin, up her thigh, over her ass, lips teasing her neck, he said, “You’re beautiful like this.”
That wasn’t what she’d expected to hear, and her eyelashes fluttered, her weight leaning into his chest as his hand came between her legs and continued its assault on her pussy.
“Not just here, though…But I’ll get to that in a minute.” He nipped her neck, held her body against him with his free hand, squeezing one breast, as his fingers slipped inside her once more.
“Hoh…” she whispered, her torso slowly moving up and down against his chest.
“When you’re dancing,” he spoke delicately, keeping her eyes trained to his in the mirror, “when you’re in your element, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re you. You’re free.”
She smiled sweetly, her eyes glistening just a bit.
“You can feel that all the time, Buffy. Not just when you dance.”
Her head dropped onto his shoulder and she swooned a little, so he figured he’d said enough. He sank to his knees, tugging her leotard hard to the side, and buried his face between her legs from behind. A hoarse cry tore from her throat, his fingers dug into her buttocks as his tongue plunged inside of her sweet, glistening puss, and he knew that sickness would return as soon as he left here. He would never, ever have enough of Buffy Summers.
“Fuck, Buffy,” he said, voice strained, slipping two fingers inside of her, twisting his body around to lean his back against the mirror and suck her clit into his mouth, teeth gently grazing it. She looked down at him, and the leg propped up on the barre started to shake.
“Ohmigod, ohmigod,” she said madly, her hips moving fluidly in time with his mouth and hand. Her forehead landed against the mirror, but her eyes never left his. Large ovals of steam formed on the mirror with every breath she exhaled, hiding a portion of her reflection.
The minute he added a third finger and suckled her clit between his lips, her hand shot out and clutched the top of his head, she pressed her cheek to the glass and wailed. Every noise she made skittered and swirled across the shiny, wooden floors and flew towards the white vaulted ceilings in praise. He could feel how hard she was coming, fuck, he could taste it, and he moaned right along with her, about to burst in his jeans, his lips opening against her pussy to groan and beg her to come again and again.
“Spike! Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit-fuck! Yeah-yeah! Spike! Oh, Spike!”
It was a bit tricky to sneer with a pussy in your mouth, but motherfucker, Spike could do anything when she was shouting his name as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She trembled and quaked above him, her face sliding down the mirror as she tried to catch her breath, and he took one last taste, a honey slow slide up her slit with the tip of his tongue. She twitched above him as he flicked his tongue over her clit in a parting kiss and he smiled. Once he was sure she was good and spent, he gently removed his fingers, stood up, and snapped the crotch of her leotard back in place.
She was winded, slack jawed, and her body was too limp to adjust the top part on her own, so he helped her with the straps. Just after he took another sample of her perky nipples with two noisy kisses. She draped her arms around his neck drunkenly, smiling at him with contentment.
“You have successfully rendered me useless for the rest of the day.”
He smiled as he kissed her, wrapping his arms around her waist, savoring the feel of her against him. He didn’t know why, what had sparked the need, or what about this particular moment seemed to be so perfect. But he tore his mouth away from hers, looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m in love with you.”
He wanted to stuff the words back in his mouth the second he’d uttered them, because he could immediately see that she did not return the sentiment, and she retreated.
“I’m…fuck, I shouldn’t have said—”
“You…you love me?”
“Forget it. It was stupid.” He reached for her again, but she was dead set on remembering it, turning away from his hand and panicking. He was feeling a panic coming on as well, the floor crumbling beneath him, and he could kick himself for being an idiot.
“Spike, I-I don’t know what to say.” She brushed the sticky strands of hair off her forehead with two hands, walking in frantic circles.
He sighed. “Don’t say anything. I’ll…I’ll just go.” He turned to walk away, Buffy called his name to keep him there, but then the double doors swung open and Angel entered as if he had some sixth sense to ruin everything all the time.
“What are you doing here?”
Spike all but growled in frustration as he brushed past the competition, ignoring Buffy when she continued to call after him. He walked down the hallway, down the steps to the first floor, made it through the front door, and he was halfway down the entry stairs when he heard someone bounding behind him.
When he turned around, only a fraction of an instant passed before a fist swung and connected with his jaw with a crunch, sending him backwards and stumbling down the rest of the stairs. He quickly stood up, confused, chin throbbing, pulling away blood on his fingers when he touched his lip and it was then he finally realized what just happened.
Angel was glaring at him, his eyes wild and furious, and he reared back a fist to swing at him again.
“Angel!” Buffy shouted from behind them. “Stop it!”
Spike ducked right before he was able to make contact, using the opportunity to push Angel to the side.
“What did I tell you, punk? The fuck did I tell you about touching my girlfriend?” he said, his shoulders rising and falling as he stalked towards Spike once more with heavy, dangerous strides.
“I deserved the first one,” Spike said, straightening his shirt, glancing over at Buffy guiltily. “But you come near me again, you won’t like what happens.”
“I think you won’t like what happens,” Angel said, licking his lower lip, standing an inch away, challenging him. “Bet you’ll get shipped off to London if you take a swing at me, right? Got you on a short leash, right? Go ahead. Hit me. Let’s see what happens. Let’s just fucking see!”
“Angel, back off!” Buffy’s useless pleading hissed in his ears like white noise. Neither men flinched or turned to face her. “Please, please, please…”
“Come on, pussy. What you got?” Angel pushed Spike a little, laughing when he made no move to resist. “All talk, aren’t you? You think you can just swoop in while I’m gone, take what doesn’t belong to you, and bail? That the kind of man you are? You fucking weasel.”
Spike could feel his nails digging into his palms, the muscles in his jaw whining in pain, his need to beat the fuck out of Angel almost outweighing his good sense. But he could hear Buffy crying, the sound of which started to pull him out of his boiling rage, and everything shifted. This wasn’t going to do him any fucking good. Getting a cheap shot in wouldn’t prove a bloody thing and he’d be sent to jail, no question about that. Angel would leap at the opportunity like Dudley Do-Right. Spike figured that he had already thrown his punches in a way when he was nose deep in his girlfriend’s pussy.
“You’re not worth it.” He said, shoving Angel backwards. Before Angel could retaliate, he walked around the Volkswagen and opened the driver’s side door.
Fuck this. Fuck all of it.
“You coward,” Angel said.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a big fucking coward.” He looked right at Buffy when he said those words, his heart clenching to see her so distressed. “I meant what I said earlier, Buffy. Every word.”
She hugged herself, ignoring Angel when he came to stand beside her, her eyes swimming with tears. There was nothing else he could say, and if he had to look at her boyfriend any longer, he’d either do something stupid or cry with guilt for making things worse. So he got in the car and drove away, slamming his fist into the dashboard over and over and over, stopping just short of demolishing the thing.
He could still taste her.
“You’ve really done it now, you idiot.”
Rupert said something very similar to him when he returned home.