Sequel to His voice is like a Mars-bar
Author's note: Sequel to His voice is like a Mars-bar
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please, to email@example.com
Faith always rattles the door first. Anything for a chance not to have to take off her gloves and fish for the icy cold key with her bare hands. But her luck's out, and maybe so is Spike if the door's locked. Her fingers are clumsy and stiff, and the itchy bored feeling doesn't help. She really needs Spike to scratch the itch for her, but she already sort of knows he wonít be home. The empty rooms confirm this.
Okay. Faith peels off gloves, hat and scarf, and unzips her jacket, basking in the warmth of the little house. She isn't taking the jacket off yet for some reason, and if she just waits it out the hunch'll become clearer. She pauses in front the fridge, thinks of fixing herself a snack, flips on the TV, flips it off again. The restlessness is because of not getting in a good slay, and she should just plunk down on the couch and get some rest, but a deep uneasiness about Spike wonít let her.
Oh. The hunch is about Spike. She zones off, thinking about him, what she wants him to do to her right now, like give it to her straight with her legs in the air. With a shock she realizes she's been standing stock still in the middle of the kitchen for at least five minutes, gnawing her knuckles all the while.
That settles it. She suits up again against the fiercely chilly Cleveland night air and heads off to his favorite sleazy dive. It's not like with her mom, who had to be hauled home blind drunk nearly every evening, nothing like, Spike's just hurting. He needs time to get over losing Buffy, and she's damn well gonna give him that time. She'd better get his drunken grieving ass home. He can miss B. just as well in their nice bed together, with his sweet dick up her pussy, as he can on a barstool in some provincial wannabe biker bar.
It's a hefty slog towards the bar, as their home is located for convenient closeness to cemeteries and local Hellmouths and not for nightlife accessibility. Faith is cold and her boots are wet and she's so tired that she almost turns around. But she doesnít, because taking care of Spike is still numero uno on her private list, and has been since the Sunnydale cave-in, or the "Sunny Dale of DeathĒ as some newspaper coyly called it. He's her lodestone, her thermometer, the light that went on when he opened the door of her freezer. As far as she's concerned, defrosting is a permanent state now in Faith country. She wishes she were surer of what Spike was getting out of their being together. He fucks her long and hard and often, which she was kind of counting on, he holds her tightly in bed, which she's getting used to, but for the rest, he doesnít seem to be there so much anymore. He's lost his taste for violence, and just slouches in front of the TV all day, drinking and smoking. He's not a lush like her ma, of course, but it still worries her.
She hears the bar before she sees it, tinny disjointed strands of music flying on that fucking chill wind they've got going here. When she's about a hundred yards from the sagging shed the locals call Stinky Ned's, a macking couple lurches out of the door. The girl, a tiny brassy blonde, leans the guy against the dumpster and unbuttons his jeans, stripping him with practiced hands. The guy's head is in shadow but Faith would know the big hands that come to rest unsteadily on the girl's shoulders anywhere. She turns as cold inside as the Cleveland night. So that's what he's been up to.
She approaches softly, slowly, reluctant to witness this but unable not to.
Spike pushes the girl down in the snow, obviously expecting a blowjob. Faith suppresses a hysterical giggle when the girl slaps his hands away indignantly.
"Are you crazy? I'm not getting down in the slush with these pants! Your dick's not worth a pair of pants! Come on, gimme a leg up!"
There's a lot of stumbling and near falling, and Faith could almost find it funny, this little woman holding up her super strong helplessly drunk vampire, but it's very unfunny because he's hers. Or she thought he was. She inches closer, sick to her stomach but needing to see and hear it all.
The girl is standing on a pair of flimsy crates now, and pushing and pulling at Spike's ass. Spike is shaking his head, mumbling something Faith canít catch.
"That's right, you big old stud," the girl pants. "All the way in. They all said you were the best, and you sure have something big going for ya."
Faith can't believe she hasnít bashed the damn woman to the other side of the parking lot yet. She must be insane, standing here listening to her guy fuck another woman. What's he saying?
"It doesnít burn. You're not her. Are you the right woman for me?" Spike is saying.
Oh, is that so? His hips are moving all by themselves, then, huh? Faith's had enough. She's going to walk away and when Spike comes home, she'll be gone. Cut her losses. He never loved her, obviously. People who love you donít fuck other people.
The girl moans. Spike moans. He pushes himself away from the girl and fall ass-backwards in the not quite solid slush. The girl tumbles down from her crates as well. Still Faith's boots seem frozen to the lot.
"Who are you?" Spike says dazedly. "Go away. You're not her."
Faith is walking towards him before she realizes she's going to. Good thing too, because the angry slut is starting to kick her Spike, and Faith really hates that. If someone gonna be whaling on Spike it's her, not five foot tall fake blondes in pink stretch polyester.
God. Spike looks beautiful, even lying in the snow on his bare ass with his jeans to his knees and his shirt around his ears. His hair looks very yellow against the snow's dirty grey. She can feel something inside her twitch at the sight of his cock, which is stupid enough to keep standing straight up in the freezing air.
She hauls the chick up† by the scruff of her neck and tells her to get the hell way from her man.
"What you want that jerk for, honey?" the bitch yells back, trying to get her ugly pink pants over her puckered blue butt. "He's been doing half the town!"
Faith wouldn't really care, normally. People get itchy sometimes, no harm in scratching it. He can have his fun if he needs to, as long as she knows he's hers. Which she doesn't, so yeah, this does hurt.
Spike looks at her as if he's gonna puke. Faith doesnít think vampires do that. She gets him to his feet, stuffs his dick back into his pants, which isnít easy, as the damn thing wonít go down. It makes Spike giggle. She doesn't slap him, which should get her major Brownie points. Vampires donít feel the cold, but she puts his clothes back to rights anyway. She's the one that's gonna suffer from a block of vampire ice in her bed, and she wants to minimize the warming up time.
She spots his stupid bike, and finds the key in his pocket. The way back seems to take even longer than when she was walking up here, which can't be true, but then she's being very careful not to slip. Don't wanna break the precious vampire.
She pushes Spike in the direction of the front door. She puts on the lock, gets out the bike's cover from the shed and yanks it over it. When she's done she stomps to the front door, pissing mad all over again because of all these little responsible tasks, which aren't like her, but which she does for him. Spike's still standing outside.
Stubborn drunk idiot. Faith pushes him inside, straight toward the bedroom, strips him off and tumbles him in bed, not saying a word. All she wants is to sleep, she thinks, while struggling out of her own cold stiff jeans and boots, but the block of ice lying next to her will make that impossible. She needs to get an electric blanket or something.
She crawls in, in no mood to make nice. Spike's apparently oblivious to all this because he snuggles up to her with a satisfied grunt, all five foot ten of him stone cold and reeking of beer. Faith holds herself stiffly, not pushing her ass in his groin the way he likes. She's so not getting any sleep tonight.
When Faith wakes the whole bedroom is lit with an eerie soft grey light, and she can hardly hear the highway traffic zooming past. In bed all is warm and comfy and silky skin against hers, and she feels pure bliss for about a whole second before memory kicks in. She peels off the vampire limpet roughly and sits up with a jerk.
Spike half wakes up, fuzzily grabbing after his living hot water bottle, and then slowly becomes fully awake, no doubt sped up by her furious glare.
"Oh," he says guiltily.
"Yeah, oh!" Faith snarls back. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"
Spike looks very remorseful. "I was drunk?"
"I donít mean that. Why d'you get drunk alone?"
As soon as she's asked that Faith realizes the answer. She draws her knees to her chest and clasps them tightly. "You think I don't know youíre still thinking of Buffy?"
"Faith, I'mÖYouíre the sweetest thing ever happened to me. But I'm no shining hero. I'm evil. I'm a bad boyfriend."
Faith knows her eyes are filling up and she turns her head away to stare at the windows. She'd forgotten to pull the drapes last night and she has a full view of the white flakes that are twirling down. Great. Snow. The California bunnies would love it, but she much prefers to be warm. Damn Cleveland. Why didnít she leave last night? She could have been on a bus heading south right now, instead of letting her guy break her like glass with his sad blue eyes. She's been broken before, but always out of sight of people she cares about. And she was right; this hurts more than being alone.
Besides, Spike's lying. He's not good at that, so he shouldn't even try. He thinks she wants him to be over Buffy and forget about damn B. already.
"I think youíre the perfect boyfriend," she says, her voice muffled in her arms. "I just donít know why you want to hide from me. I know you still love Buffy, that you donít love me. It's okay."
Spike doesnít speak, just slides up to her from behind and puts his arms around her. He kisses her neck softly, just at the nape, one of her favorite spots to be kissed on. That's sweet, and when he gently uncoils her from her tight huddle, and makes love to her, itís very nice. Or even fucking brilliant, actually, because they are amazing together, always. But she just wishes he'd say he loved her sometimes. She wishes he didnít lie so badly, so she could pretend it was true.
He nips at the place where neck and shoulder join and Faith canít help arching her back. He makes a small growly sound and, okay, she's made from KY jelly and just slides around him. She can't help it, he's so fuckable. Theyíre like these little obscene magnet figures; if the distance is small enough they will just click together and fuse. Faith rolls onto her back and makes Spike do most of the work, her new secret joy. He's the only guy she's ever met she can count on to look after her pleasure. There's just this edge of scariness and bad memories about it to make it zing for her. She hoists up her knees as far as she can and grabs his velvet ass. Harder. He's being mean about it and taking his time, which she know will make it better in the end, but right now she's short attention span girl and wants it pronto. Not as if he can't do seconds, or gazillions even. She squeezes her Slayer muscles and sees him close his eyes and his stomach muscles quiver for a moment. When his eyes are open again they're a darker blue that burn holes in her soul just by looking.
After, Faith is sprawled out on her back, still faintly tingling, while Spike traces poems on her breasts, murmuring them into her neck. The words sound so pretty but she can never remember them. If she could she'd speak poetry back to him, but she doesn't have the words to capture his prettiness and the feel of his skin or the way he smells of himself and strip caps and hot metal.
Cleveland weather is like Spike's mood, wet snow and wintry cold one day, back to fall the next. He's not exactly stopped moping and drinking, but at least he does it in her company, and has even† been known to come with on patrol. Right now, Faith's lower half is enjoying the brief return of good weather on the porch of their house. Faith sits on the ancient swing seat, her bare legs nicely warmed by the slanty rays of the late fall sun, with Spike behind her, playing with the parts of her body the sun can't reach. He's mostly an ass kind of guy, but as the sun is claiming it for now, he satisfies himself with her breasts.
"Woohoo!" the train yells as it screeches past on its way to Chicago. "Woohoo!"
"This is a good place, you know," Faith remarks. "If you need to leave in a hurry, you could hop on a train to anywhere."
"Not leaving," Spike says.
"Yeah, well, but if you wanted to you could. No need to feel cooped up."
"Why are we talking about leaving? Our work is here. We guard the Hellmouth." Spike is getting irritated.
"I want you to feel free-"
Spike jumps up, depositing her upside down on the swing seat. "I donít want to feel free! Why the hell d'you think I would I leave you? I was with Drusilla for a hundred years!"
"You left Buffy!"
Spike shrivels like a punctured balloon and collapses on the seat. "Yeah. Well."
Faith needs to make him feel better. "Hey, my bad. You didn't really, Buffy gave you to me. She wanted me to take care of you."
Spike explodes off the seat again and is standing over her in game face before she can even blink. Good guess would be she just made it worse.
"What the fuck? She fucking gave me away like a sodding present? What is it with you bitches? Can't you leave me alone to decide my own fate?"
The door slams. A flake of paint drifts slowly down from the porch ceiling, landing at Faith's feet. Oops.
Faith knows she should leave Spike alone, but it's getting colder so she goes in anyway. The moment she enters the kitchen, Spike leaves it. She can hear him stomp up and down the wooden boards outside. What can she say to him to make things better? If she goes back on the porch, heíll just go back inside again. She compromises by opening a window and staying silent. She smokes a cigarette, belly firmly wedged against the radiator, upper half hanging out of the porch window. This way she can keep an eye on her angry vampire, who's pacing up and down the length of their porch as if he wants to make a groove in it. If he were Bugs Bunny, the planks would be on fire by now. He's smoking moodily and flicking the ashes in the direction of the sun, which is taking its fucking time about setting out here. Unlike in California, where night slams down like a blackout shade, the sun is doing very much a fade-out thing, like an aging jazz-singer who doesnít know when to stop. He's on his third cigarette by now, and when Spike has decided he needs to go out and can't, it makes him cranky.
Faith loves watching the slideshow of emotions on Spike's face. They should use him for those Special Ed classes for difficult kids, where the teachers think that kids donít know about emotions and need help to identify them. Faith remembers them with active hatred. She and her peers Ė because they sure weren't friends- really didnít need help to identify anger or disgust. Please. That's the only emotion they saw around them most of the time. They should have shown love, approval, and amusement, maybe, so they'd recognize them when they saw them. Faith could use some help in identifying some of the things she sees on Spike's face. Is it love when he looks at her with a half smile and a tilt of his head? Or is it indulgence, like you'd show a bouncy but clueless kid?
The sun reluctantly pulls in her fat ass behind the horizon and it's as if the temperature drops fifteen degrees. Faith has to admit that fall here is pretty, but she could do without the cold. If she manages to hang onto a job for more than one day, she's going to buy some clothes, because her Sunnydale tops arenít pulling their weight around here.
Spike, predictable for once, flicks his cigarette butt away, jumps over the porch railing and heads towards his bike. He's back within the hour. Faith, whoís been not watching the busy TV, a blanket tightly wound around her body, lets out a breath and loosens her cocoon. Thank God there isnít going to be a repeat of the dragging Spike out of bars thing, because that was really getting to her. Spike comes in. He closes the drapes and lights the dozens of candles, something Faith always forgets, without saying a word. He plops down next to her and roughly pushes her face into his neck. Faith hugs back hard. Spike looks at her, breathes out with a puff and puts his forehead against hers.
"Mine," he says against her lips.
"Yours," Faith agrees.
Normal TV-watching and making out activities resume. Faith tries to gauge why she feels better than before. Because he returned? Maybe, but more likely because he got mad and blew up, like he used to. Yeah. Pissed off is alive, withdrawn is dead inside. He's dead enough already.
The moment Faith steps outside she knows this evening will be different. The chill November air is awash with strange wispy scents that spell magic to her. Demons. She tries to walk fast through the thick layer of snow, but although her new fur boots keep her feet warm and dry, they donít give her speed. Spike says they make her look like the Sasquatch, which Faith cheerfully ignores.
"Ever fucked one?" she asks.
Spike has to admit he hasn't.
"I rest my case," Faith says.
The boots make big round tracks. The fresh air, on the edge of sunset, is making her giddy, and she has some fun writing "Faith loves Spike" in the snow, jumping like a maniac to keep the words clear of her tracks. When she's done, the last rays of a garish purple twilight make the snow gleam lilac, and the holes she made in it seem black. It probably looks really nice from the top of a tree. Sasquatches have bad handwriting, which is way too huge for ordinary human beings to read. Maybe Spike could fly over it in his bat-shape and be struck by a sudden bolt of love. But no, Star Trek reruns were more appealing than patrol with Faith. No progress on the love front. Maybe Quark will teach Spike about true love. Probably not.
Faith sighs and moves on to Restfield Cemetery. Jeez, is there a Restfield in every fucking town in the U.S.? No need to win over the customers with inventive names, she guesses. The scent of demons is stronger here. It is nice that the cemeteries here are well lit; she spots them from afar, three greeny blue shapes huddling over a grave. This is going to be fun. Cleveland Hellmouth, located in one of the less wealthy suburbs, has shown a disappointing lack of activity so far. Maybe this is it. Faith is very much in the mood to kick some demon ass, because her demon asshole at home is still trying out the stiff upper lip thingy, which anyone could tell you is a bad trait in boyfriends.
Faith hurls herself at the first demon, who's been dumb enough to take point. As the fluffy boots hit him smack in the middle she hears a satisfying crunch of bone. One down. She rolls on her back, flips up and is ready for the next one. This is really hitting the sweet spot. How nice of these demons to be here just when she really needs to vent some frustrations. She hollers out a premature victory yell when she mashes her hands through an eye and straight into mushy demon brain. Three down. It's premature, because there is suddenly another blue green brother connecting his giant fist with her nose. She flies over the tomb and lands badly.
Fuck, she thinks. There were four. My bad. She doesnít think she can flip up, so she crawls up and just manages to be standing when the two demons storm her. Two? What the fuck? She hears a rustling from behind and there're three more. This is not good. Faith whirls around and discovers she's miscounted again. Seven. A sneaky feeling crawls up from her stomach to her throat. This must be what fear feels like, she thinks distantly, before concentrating hard on staying on her feet and staying alive. But really, the odds are so much against her that there's no point in even fighting. A kick lands in her back, shooting fire straight up into her skull and she smashes hard with her face in the snow. Snow, for all its fluffy whiteness, is nasty and gritty when you fall in it. She thinks of getting up and killing another couple of demons, but thatís as far as she gets. Her body is not cooperating with these plucky scrappy thoughts and goes on strike.
The demons are talking amongst themselves while they turn her over and start opening her up. It seems they all want the privilege of killing her. One of them is even from England. Who knew there could be British demons? She can tease Spike with it when she gets back. Oh. She wonít, she realizes. Well, Spike wonít miss her too much. Now he can grieve over Buffy and drink himself to death in peace. And fuck the rest of the female population of Cleveland.
Tears pool from her eyes and freeze her lashes to the snow, so she must be lying on her belly again. She's feeling very sorry for that girl lying brokenly in the snow. All alone. Unloved. In a circle around her are the green motionless bodies of giant dead demons. A black shape is picking his way around them. Ah, that must be the boyfriend, who came galloping in to kill the demons and rescue the heroine. She hopes he'll feel sad over the girl, but you never know. She doesnít look like a girl who deserves to be loved. She is small and unworthy, lying face down in the snow, wearing these really ugly hairy snow boots.
"Faith! My Faith...please wake up. Please donít be dead."
Saying please is enough to make people return from the dead? Not likely. Faith scoffs at please. He's really gonna need some bigger guns to do that. Magic maybe.
"Please, Faith. I know I shouldnít have loved you so soon, but I just can't hold on to her memory. And she didnít love me anyway."
"Yes, she did," Faith says, but she doesn't want to open her eyes yet.
There's a very unmanly gasp from the demon asshole right above her. There's a warm feeling spreading in her middle. Happiness, Faith thinks, but checks anyway with her hands, because of the eyes not opening thing. Shit. It's warm and wet. No happiness for Faith of course. She remembers this from movies. The hero confesses his love too late, or when the heroine's just been killed trying to fend off the wolves who wanted to eat the baby. No, that's not right. That was a dog, and the prince accidentally killed it. Spike would never kill her. He might see her die though if he doesn't get her to a hospital soon.
Her eyes still wonít open. She can feel he's carrying her, which is mucho nice. It makes her feel like a princess. Itís a bit like cheating, though. Deathbed confessions and such. She has to tell him that she loves him, just before she dies, in case she hasnít. That way he would hold on to her memory and grieve over her forever.
"I love you, Spike."
"I know, sweetheart. And the Sasquatch lady does too. She wrote it in the snow for me with her sodding big feet. A Bigfoot poem."
Faith tries to laugh. It gurgles weirdly in the wrong place.
His voice sounds off. Very hoarse. She shouldn't have made him go out in this weather, he's gonna catch a cold. She's a bad girlfriend. If she could open her eyes Spike would probably look really beautiful right now.
He reads her mind. A soft warm cloth trails gently over her lashes, unfreezing them. Faith opens one eye. Spike licks off her frozen tears with his lips, which are bright pink with cold, and looks at her with an emotion that makes her so gooey inside that she shuts her eyes again hastily. She doesnít want to cry. She doesnít think heaving sobs are going to do any good to those bits of her she saw hanging out just now.
From between her lashes she can see the moon shine on Spike's face and she's very glad to have something so beautiful to look at in her last moments. Maybe she'll see Buffy in heaven and they can compare notes. I had him last, she thinks.
She's warmer now. She hears murmurs and she wishes Spike wouldnít jostle and prick her so hard. She feels two Spike hands on hers, and the pricking and hurting still goes on. The snow comes up to meet her, marshmallow soft this time, like snow should be, and that's it then.
When Faith wakes up she feels really crappy. Itís too hard to even open her eyes. Frozen shut again, she guesses. Maybe Spike would lick them open again if she asked, but it's still systems down. It feels as if someone is holding her hand. Perhaps she could wiggle her pinkie a little? She's rewarded with what distinctly feels like a kiss on that same hand, and a voice murmuring something soft in her ear. She can't make out the words, but it definitely has a British accent. Faith decides that this is enough exercise for the day and drifts off again, feeling very satisfied.
When she wakes up again she's in a hospital and Spike's sleeping in a chair next to her bed. His face is all lopsided from leaning on his hand, and he has terrible hair. Popcorn hair is what Faith calls it, all pale yellow exploded curl-shapes on his head.
She moves her head, and it works, even if the room goes all smeary like an overexposed action photo. Maybe she should try sitting up. She can't, but it does wake Spike. He looks all rumpled and dazed, and he tilts his head at her so sweetly.
"Popcorn head," Faith says in a scratchy voice.
"Butter me, salt me, eat me," Spike says.
His voice is not up to its usual grade of chocolate either. Maybe a muesli bar, with lots of hard bits and gritty grains. She would eat him. Later, when she can move more than just her head.
"I fucked up," Spike mutters against her hand.
"Which fuck-up do you mean exactly?" Faith asks unthinkingly and it hurts to see him flinch and bow his head. "I didnít mean you fuck up a lot! I mean, the fight or the Buffy-shaped bitch in the bar?"
He opens his mouth and closes it again, looks down at his hands. Clears his throat. "Well. Both. And everything. I should have been there for you. I should bloody well remember, you know, as I called it originally. A Slayer needs a family and friends to beat the odds."
Faith is ashamed. "I donít have a family," she whispers.
Spike shakes his head. "Rupert sent you here on your own. Shouldnít have taken it. Should've held out for a witch and some extra muscle."
Faith's chin wobbles. "I thought you were going to be my muscle," she says. She can barely squeeze out the sound past the lump in her throat.
Spike wriggles his body as close as he can through the tangle of red and white tubes and puts his cheek next to hers. "I'm not leaving you, my sweetÖ Gonna stick to you like a burr."
"What's a burr?"
"City girl! It's a seed, like living Velcro."
"Yeah," Faith agrees sleepily. "We're gonna stick together like Velcro. Are you the soft or the prickly side?"
"We'll take turns, my little thorny one."
Spike's love is a little like a radiator. White and hard and ridged to the touch, but it keeps her warm like nothing else does.
Continued in Friends