Saturday was more-boring-than-usual. Buffy knew it had to be, because why else would she give up a perfectly good Saturday morning for Slayer-related activities? Nobody around, not Willow, not Xander, not even Cordelia, who she had called just out of sheer desperation. Even her mom was off supervising some big opening at her gallery. She had the house all to herself, and she was bored. Patrol the night before had been dead – oh, that’s original – and she’d actually gotten a good night’s sleep, for a change. So good a night’s sleep, in fact, that she was wide awake at 8 AM, staring morosely at the ceiling. How pathetic was it that she was so used to no sleep at all that 8 o’clock was "sleeping late"?
Ergo, the pseudo-patrolling. In theory, it was for the good - check for vamp nests, maybe stake a few while they sleep. Less danger. But more legwork, since the baddies weren’t going to come looking for her at 10 am.
She had blown off the cemeteries - didn’t want to run into any of the caretakers, especially slimy Gene over at Greenland Cemetery. She shuddered, remembering the last time she had to explain what she was doing in the graveyard with a bag full of weapons and a crowbar. Fat, sweaty, drunk, grabby, Gene had backed her against a tombstone, and – well, he hadn’t actually done anything but leer at her and lean too close, but it was still incredibly creepy. No thanks, not today. She imagined Gene would be even less pleasant if he knew she was the one who kept leaving those demon carcasses for him to clean up. She thought about his nasty, leering face. On second thought, maybe he already knew.
So, a big no to the boneyards. Instead, she headed for Sunnydale’s failed industrial park. Giant, empty warehouses, victims of the 80’s boom ("As in fall down and go boom", her dad liked to say). Giles thought these might be likely places for vamps to hole up. So this morning she decided to do a little recon? recog? reorg? Damn. She never could remember those stupid army catch-phrases. She wandered around the building, looking for – well, she wasn’t sure what. Evidence of habitation? Prickly spidey-vibes? Saw nothing, felt nothing. Except the sun, roasting her brain. Well, this was just a big old waste of time. She paused to drag her forearm across her face. God, it was brutally hot. She was sweating like a pig. It occurred to her, belatedly, that she hadn’t put on a drop of sunscreen. Crap. Slaying with a sunburn would suck. Maybe she just ought to bag the whole thing and go home before she got fried.
She was still pondering her options when she heard the TV. Probably just a security guard goofing off, she thought. But...just to be on the safe side, she pulled her stake out of her back pocket and crept closer. The building was boxy, dark. She walked around to the front, where the security booth should be, trying to come up with a lie that would explain what she was doing over the locked fence on a Saturday, carrying a sharp stick. Nothing leapt to mind. She was actually relieved when the security shack was silent and empty. Listening hard, she walked ‘round the side of the building, following the distant noise. It seemed to be coming from the...basement? The basement whose windows were painted over. Yea. How convenient.
She crept closer, letting her senses open up. Oh, yeah, there were vampires here. And at least one of them was watching television. In the middle of the day. Do vamps get insomnia?, she wondered idly. She could see the flicker of the screen through a thin spot in the paint, and she moved to take advantage of it, peering in where the paint didn’t cover. It took her a minute to focus her one eye. She had a good, clear, view of....the television. What did vamps watch in the middle of the day? Jerry Springer? Ha! Nah, didn’t look like Springer. Looked like some sort of weird kung fu movie. She was peering harder, trying to make it out, wondering, why, exactly, she cared, when she heard a familiar voice coming from the set. Her voice. Oh, shit. Not a movie. A videotape. Of her. Of her, fighting. A cold weight settled in her stomach. Vamps were stalking her with video cameras? Now she was going to officially wig. Trying to kill her was one thing, following her around making little movies was something else.
She wasn’t just freaked, she was pissed. If she could get a good look inside, see how many vamps were there....maybe she could just go in and take care of business, then stomp the tapes into oblivion. She touched a finger to the glass, and noticed that the paint was on the outside of the window. Damn, vampires were stupid. And on that simple truth, my career depends, she thought. Quietly, oh, so quietly, she picked a few flakes loose from the glass. A coin-sized hole gradually appeared in the black paint, and Buffy bent again to the window. Now she could see a single body, lounging in an armchair in front of the television.
She pivoted around, trying to see the rest of the room. Hmn. Empty furniture. Just the one guy, legs thrown out in front of him, scuffed boots and black jeans. She shifted again, and focused. Picked a few more flakes of paint. Now the image swam into focus. Black jeans. Blonde hair. Shit! That was Spike! She jerked back slightly, then pressed her eye once more to the glass. Maybe she was lucky, and he was sleeping. She could sneak in and....dammit. While she watched, he reached over and took a long pull from a bottle of beer on a nearby table, and his body fell into view. Shirtless, his legs kicked out lazily in front of him, watching her on television. A prickly feeling crawled over her skin. This was...something was weird, here.
As she watched, his right hand moved languidly up his chest, brushing his nipple, then his fingers splayed across his belly, and moved down to where he was...what the hell?....where he was popping his jeans open. While she watched, he lifted one hand to his mouth, and licked his palm, up and down, more than once. Standing for just a moment, she watched him duplicate that long, sliding movement down his belly, pushing his jeans down his hips. Buffy’s mouth was suddenly dry. Was he - was he doing what she thought he was doing? She sat back and blinked for a moment, an odd feeling in her belly. Leaning forward again, she saw that he had once again settled in the chair, legs far apart. She could see him clearly, human face slack with pleasure, his chest bare and strongly muscled, her eyes drawn inexorably to the nest of brownish curls beneath the erection that his other hand stroked smoothly. She flushed, embarrassed, but unable to look away. His head lolled back onto the chair, sleepy eyes half-closed, his arm working in a fluid motion, up and down, up and down, obscuring all but glimpses of his dick, pale as the rest of his body. Suddenly, her physical reactions seemed...loud. Her heart was roaring in her ears, her nipples, taut, rubbed slightly against her tank top. Her blood pulsed between her legs, and she pressed her thighs together, vainly, trying to staunch the moisture that was pooling there. When Spike’s tongue flicked out from between his lips, she felt such a rush of arousal that she was certain he’d be able to feel her body heat from inside. She thought faintly that she should go, that it was wrong to watch him like this, but her legs seemed frozen in place. She couldn’t, wouldn’t look away. His hand picked up tempo, his body tensing like a bow, and she knew he was close....and then he raised his head, and looked directly at her image on the screen while he arched his back and spilled out over his fingertips.
It all rushed in on Buffy at once: he was watching her while he masturbated. She gasped out loud, and threw herself back from the window, scrambling to her feet and over the fence, as she ran towards home.
Spike looked up sharply; he could have sworn he heard something. He flicked the VCR remote, and sat in the stillness, listening. Hmn. Must have been a bird. He cleaned up while he finished his beer, and headed for bed.
Buffy didn’t slow till she hit the main road outside the cluster of buildings. Wheeled around to stare back at the park, quivering, fists clenched. What the HELL was that?!? God! She felt like she’d been gut-punched. Spike was jerking off while he watched her fight! It was bad enough that she was being followed, but this, this was just....sick. And how sick is it that you got off on it?, she wondered. She flushed again, violently. Thank god there wasn’t anybody here to see her doing the cuttlefish impression. She could have had the whole Scooby gang out here with her. That sobering thought came riding a crest of relief. Thank god nobody else came out with her. How humiliating would it have been for Xander to have seen that little show? Or Giles. Oh, crap. Giles. She’d have to tell him about the videotapes. She wasn’t sure why vampires would be taping her, but she was willing to bet that its use as video porn was strictly secondary. It couldn’t be anything good.
She set off towards the house. First, she’d call Giles and tell him — she stopped in her tracks. Tell him what? That she sat for nearly half an hour, watching Spike....ugh! She was so not relating that story to Giles. To anybody. Ok, so she’d just tell him that she saw the tape through the window, and....here, her train of thought began to slow. Giles would want to know why she hadn’t fought Spike and gotten the tapes. He was alone, at a disadvantage during his rest time, she had the element of surprise, and daylight on her side. "Seems a perfect opportunity, Buffy", she could hear him say, "What prevented you from attacking?".
"Sorry, Giles, I was hypnotized by Spike’s big dick". Yeah, that would look good on his next Council report. She made a face, and sat down heavily on the curb. At least Spike didn’t see her. She must have gone insane. Anybody, anyTHING could have grabbed her while she sat there like a big pervert. She leaned forward, resting her face in her hands. A bead of sweat rolled down the length of her nose, and dropped onto the pavement between her feet. Yuck. She was wringing wet with sweat. Her hair was plastered ‘round her face, her shirt clinging where it shouldn’t ought to cling, her shorts were riding up uncomfortably, not to mention her - well, never mind. Oh, and she stunk. She stood up and brushed dirt from her rear. Well, this she could do something about. First things first: Shower. Once she was clean and cool, she’d figure out what she was going to tell Giles.
The air conditioning felt heavenly. She stood right under the kitchen vent and guzzled glass after glass of ice water. She felt crusty. Yech. But she wasn’t moving for just a few more minutes.
She was actually a bit chilled by the time she hit the shower, her arms all goose-pimply from the cold air. She turned on the water, and peeled off her clammy garments with a shiver, burying them in the hamper. She stepped into the shower with a sigh, letting the tension pour out of her body. Shampooed, rinsed, conditioned, till her hair was squeaky clean (an errant strand tested for actual squeakiness). She reached for her favorite citrus body wash, and scrubbed off the tacky residue of the heat: salt, sweat, a thin film of dirt, and little black flecks of paint. She stared blankly at the black spots on her fingertips for just a moment, then moved to rinse them from her hands. As she drew back beneath the water, her arm grazed her nipples. A delicious, tingly sensation snaked across her body. Slowly, deliberately, she brushed them lightly a second time. Mmmmm. That felt....nice. She closed her eyes, and pictured Angel. Angel’s hands, skimming across her body, light and gentle. Angel’s kisses, wet and lingering. She dropped the scrubbie, and leaned back against the cool tile. Her right hand dipped below her breasts, fingers splayed out against her skin, and suddenly she wasn’t thinking about Angel anymore. In her mind she saw Spike’s fingers spread in a lazy, erotic gesture across his chest. She felt her stomach do an excited flip and roll, and she let her hand copy his downward motion, so, so slowly....
Her mother’s voice, just on the other side of the curtain, made Buffy jump backwards, knocking the assortment of bath supplies onto the floor of the tub with a clatter. Shame-faced, she peered ‘round the curtain, and managed to stammer "M-mom?"
Her mother smiled at her from the doorway. "Sorry, honey - didn’t mean to startle you. I came home for lunch. It’s almost done, so come on down when you’re ready.".
"Ants in your pants?"
"What?" Buffy stared at her mom across the kitchen table.
"You’re all fidgety. Do you have ants in your pants?"
"Um, no." Embarrassment that her mom had noticed her squirming warred with her mind’s obsessive need to revisit the shower. Or Angel. Or Angel in the shower. Ooo, yeah. That would be good. Oh. Her mom was looking at her, oddly. She felt the heat begin to creep back into her face.
"Do you have to pee?"
"Well, honey, you’re shifting around in that chair like you have to use the bathroom. Or maybe you have someplace more important to be than with your mom." Joyce smiled. "Or maybe you’re just really itchy. Think you’re coming down with a yeast infection? I’ve still got some of that stuff I used last time I got—"
"Mom!" Buffy got up from the table. "This conversation is over. La, la, la, la, see how I’m not listening."
Joyce laughed. "All right then, squirmy. I’ve got to head back to the gallery, anyway." She stood and carried her plate to the sink. "I don’t imagine I’ll be able to get back for supper. I’m leaving some money on the table; why don’t you see if Willow can come over? You two can get a pizza." Joyce picked up her purse, and laid two twenties on the table. "Sure you’ll be ok at home tonight?", she asked. "You can always come hang out down at the gallery - we’ll have hors d’ouvres."
"Mmmm, all the icky cucumber sandwiches I can eat.", laughed Buffy. "Think I’ll pass."
As soon as her mother pulled out of the driveway, Buffy reached for the phone. She really did need to talk to Giles. Her hand hovered over the buttons. Grr. She still didn’t know what to say. She laid the receiver back in its cradle, then snatched it up again, and dialed Willow.
"Hey, my mom’s out tonight, and she left money for pizza. Are you up for that?"
"Oh! I’m in. You do mean for dinner, right? Cause we already ate.", said Willow.
"Absolutely. Dinner and whatever’s on cable."
"Does this evening’s big fun include patrolling? Should I wear sensible shoes?"
"Nope. No sensible shoes required." Buffy glanced briefly at the stack-heeled boots she’d worn on patrol last night, and wondered what Willow considered sensible.
"Giles give you the night off?"
"Well, not exactly. I kinda, sorta patrolled this morning. I figure, hunting vampires in the daytime counts for my daily dose of fighting the fight."
"Great! I’ll pick up Xander on the way over. See you about 6-ish? I’ll bring the chocolate syrup, if you’ve got the ice cream."
"Oh. Uh, yeah, I’ve got ice cream. Three cartons, last time I looked. Mom & I keep forgetting we already have it when we go to the store. But, um, don’t bring Xander. I kinda have some stuff to talk to you about."
"Really? What’s up? Is it hellmouthy stuff, or girly stuff?"
Buffy sighed. "Kind of both. It’s really - I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, k? It’s not an emergency or anything, I just need some advice."
"Should I bring my ‘we hate boys’ hat?"
Buffy laughed. "No. Well, maybe. Sort of. I’ll see you when you get here."
Buffy hung up, feeling just a little guilty. It’s not like wasn’t going to ever tell Giles. She was just....you know, being avoidy. Sigh. Maybe Willow could figure out a good way to tell him without telling him. Or without out-and-out lying to him. One could only hope.
She grabbed her iced tea, and headed for the sofa. She had a few hours before Willow came over. Maybe she’d watch a little TV and then work on her weapons, since her mom was out of the house. That one axe was starting to look a little grimy. And dull. Sharp weapons equal live Slayer, after all. Clicking the remote, she piled up on the couch, snuggling her feet under a cushion. She stifled a yawn as she channel-surfed. Oh, fine, now she was sleepy. Life just wasn’t fair. She drowsed, half-watching some insipid drama. Wonder what Angel is doing right now? Well, probably sleeping. She wondered if Angel ever got insomnia. Did he watch tv when he couldn’t sleep? Does he think about me when he can’t sleep? Oooo, naughty thoughts. She smiled to herself. What was it with her hormones today, anyway? She closed her eyes, picturing Angel’s face, dark and handsome, and slipped quietly from wakefulness.
It was dark and she was fighting. She could see nothing, the dark was absolute, but she could hear the shuffling of her opponent’s feet, feel the whistle of air as they struck at her, smell that peculiar, earthy scent that signaled: vampire. When she connected, she felt flesh give under her fists, heard the satisfying whump! of her kicks. Punch. Kick. Block. Twist. Shove. Kick. It was so natural; it was her native language, the fight coming as easily as her breath. Easier, since she could hear both of them gasping for air, the noise echoing in the stillness. It didn’t occur to her to find this odd. Buffy could feel the stake hidden in the waistband of her jeans. Its rough texture dug into her back, like an ally pressing against her. She drew it out, and added its comforting weight to her blows.
The darkness was slowly receding, and still she fought a shadow. Quick as death, matching her moves, circling her, warily. The light flared to life at her feet, showing her the ragged edges of ‘school spirit’ posters, torn and discarded in the burnt-out shell of a school. No one existed there outside her and her shadow villain, silhouetted by the rising sun. She came at him, then, arm raised to strike the death-blow, and then she paused. The light crawled up his face, casting shadows that made him look alive. Spike, standing in the sunlight. She only hesitated for a moment, a few seconds, but it was long enough, and he was on her. Stake lost as she was hit, the force of his attack bore her against the wall, pinning her with his weight. Fear made her dizzy, and she looked away, unwilling to see her death so close. And then, he changed. The hand, whose bruising grip held her shoulder, loosened and began a gentle journey towards the swell of her hip, his fingers tangling in the loops of her jeans. Where he bent his head to her neck, instead of stinging pain, she felt cool lips, wet tongue flicking between them to trace the hollow of her throat, the contact so unbearably electric that her body arched unconsciously, seeking touch. His weight, no longer crushing, but pressing, sliding, urging. He shoved a thigh between her legs, now trembling with something other than fear. His free hand traced a pathway between her breasts, turning her face to his. Her breath was ragged, her body alight with, god, she didn’t have a name for it.
Spike slithered against her, whispering near her mouth "I saw you. I know what you want." He took her hand, guiding it between his thighs, cupping his hand over hers to slowly stroke the hardness there. They both shivered. "Do you want it?", he asked.
She’d never wanted anything so much. She wasn’t even sure she knew what she was consenting to, but she didn’t care. She opened her mouth to reply, but all that came out was a low sound of pleasure.
"Slayer. Do you want it?" Stroking, firm, cool hands.
"Oh, god, yes."
At her whispered word, his mouth covered hers, the kiss fierce and wet and, fuck, his tongue was in her mouth, and his hand closed over her breast–
And she woke, gasping, her skin on fire, panties soaked again, still burning, still aching, for Spike. As her heart slowed, horror and nearly physical revulsion washed over her. Spike? How could –? Oh, god! Why would–? She shook herself as though she could throw off the hateful images. She’d only been asleep ten minutes. Well, I’m awake now, she thought, in dismay.
Continued in Chapter 2: Spike's Dream (1)