CHAPTER 2 –
“Giles, we’re fine,” Buffy assured her Watcher and boss for the umpteenth time. “Nothing happened.”
Giles paced back and forth in the dilapidated police station – the building they had taken over as their headquarters after it was abandoned. “Even so, Buffy, I would prefer if you and Xander did not attempt any more heroics with this Spike character until we know more about him.”
“You would have sent us out there eventually to try to make a deal with him anyway. We chose sooner rather than later.”
Giles walked away from her, supposedly back towards the room that held what was left of his journals, “But Buffy, we don’t know where this Spike has come from . . .”
“Does it matter!?” Buffy interrupted, following him. “It’s the same thing that’s been going on for years, Giles: Some new bad guy overthrows the old bad guy, we go and make some sort of deal with him; pretend we have a leg to stand on. Spike has managed to defeat the old leader, something we’ve never managed to come close to.”
Giles cleaned his glasses, “You should have gone earlier in the day and with more backup if you were going at all.”
“Backup from whom exactly? The few innocent people that we have left here?” She threw an arm out, gesturing to the two dozen or so ragged people shuffling dazedly around them. “Half of them sneak out at night to hit vampire hangouts to barter their own blood for food and clothing!” Giles didn’t meet her eyes and when he turned to walk away from her again, Buffy jumped in front of him. “And where exactly did you plan on getting more information about him? The school library burned down years ago with all your precious books in it! We don’t have any friends here, no support! The rest of the world pretends we don’t exist!” Buffy inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself after her outburst, diverting her eyes from her Watcher, “And sometimes I wish we didn’t either,” she stated softly.
Giles’ eyes instantly widened in concern; he had seen her stressed before, but never so vacant of hope, “Buffy . . .”
She held her hand up to stop him, “Aren’t you tired of always being on the defense, waiting for them to make the next move?” Giles rolled his head, looking around helplessly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Buffy shook him off. Nothing he could say to her right now would make any of this okay. She stalked towards the door, grabbing her tattered leather coat along the way. “Don’t worry, Giles. I’ll get you your deal.”
__________________________________
She must have been threatened, propositioned, and cursed hundreds of times on her walk outside, well past dark. But Buffy didn’t hear any of them. Something in her stride must have told the demons surrounding her to leave her alone. Besides, they weren’t starving; they had plenty of other victims at their disposal.
The only thing lighting her path on the streets were fires, either coming from the flames of burning buildings or metal drums in alleyways. Burning. Always burning. How was anything in this town still standing? If she stayed alive long enough, would the town just burn itself to the ground around her? Probably not. Every few years another evil leader thought he’d build himself a metropolis and forced hundreds of slaves, human or otherwise, to erect structures in his honor. Just when Buffy thought it would all come crumbling down, something would build it back up again.
Once again crossing the same parking lot she and Xander had traversed hours earlier, not a single crony, even as she let herself into the building of their all-powerful leader, attempted to harass her, probably dumbfounded with the gall of this girl.
In the warehouse, Buffy did not meet the emptiness of earlier. Instead, it looked like Spike was having a moving-in party. Hundreds of bodies filled the main room, very few of them taking any notice of her. Buffy stood in the entranceway, taking in her surroundings. Despite the chill she got from the room, most were scantily clad, black being the color palate. There was a loud buzz of conversation in the air over the throbbing of the music being piped in from somewhere near the ceiling. Some were grinding on each other, others milled around with champagne glasses filled to the brim with various shades of red, wine or blood (or both), Buffy wasn’t sure. And if she would have looked harder, various sex acts were being performed around the room. From this throng he emerged.
Gone were the black jeans, t-shirt, and leather trench coat from earlier. Now he wore black leather pants and a midnight blue sleeved shirt with a sort of celtic-looking design traced on it in black that clung to his lean form.
Spike, taking her in, shook his head, “Isn’t safe for you to be out after dark little girl.”
“I can take care of myself,” she assured him, ignoring the dangerous group that now watched them with interest.
“A little chattier on this trip, I see. Barely said two words to me last we met, let wonder-boy play bad cop.” He circled her.
“It’s not that,” she answered coolly, “I just don’t justify stupidity with a response.”
He sucked in a false breath, “And the lady gets defensive,” he noticed, “Must have spoken some truths earlier tonight.”
He turned and the crowd parted, revealing a sort of throne in the middle of the room. Around him were a bevy of women – some human, some vampire, Buffy’s senses couldn’t distinguish which was which. The crowd that had been watching them, probably realizing their boss wasn’t going to give them the go-ahead to attack, quickly lost interest and resumed talking in low murmurs and rubbing against each other. Buffy smelt the thick stench of drugs all around her.
“So where is your little boyfriend?” he asked, looking behind her for Xander. When she didn’t respond he studied her, tilting his head to the side, “You know I won’t make deals with him,” he observed.
“But you’ll make a deal with me,” she replied confidently.
His brow arched, “Will I now? Don’t you know that the word ‘Slayer’ doesn’t strike fear into the undead hearts like it did years ago?”
Spike slowly slid a hand from his belt buckle up his torso, smiling in satisfaction as Buffy watched, riveted yet again. Bringing his hand up next to his chiseled cheekbone, he snapped his fingers. Instantly, a woman rose from the group behind him. Pushing her long black hair behind her shoulders, Buffy saw that she was naked from the waist up. Silently, she placed herself in front of Spike and quickly fell to her knees, pulling down the zipper of his jeans expertly, her mouth swiftly latching on to his cock.
He closed his eyes in pleasure. A minute passed, seemingly forgetting Buffy was there, rotating his hips into the woman’s eager mouth. When he opened his eyes again, Buffy could see they had darkened four shades.
“What do you want?” Buffy breathed, determined to keep her eyes on his face and ignore the woman’s actions before him.
“What I want,” he stated, voice dropping a register, “You’re not ready to give me . . . yet.”
“I think I’ll decide what I am and am not willing to do.”
He shook his head as if he were tsking a small child, “Little girl, you don’t know what you’re playing at.” He pushed the woman off him and stood, fixing his pants.
“I’ll learn the rules as I go,” she assured him, keeping her eyes up.
“That’s just it,” he clapped his hands in front of her, making her jump; “there are no rules. That’s the thing you white hats don’t understand. You can fight and fight and fight and it doesn’t change a thing.” His eyes shifted focus. He reached up and twirled a strand of Buffy’s hair in his fingertips distractedly. She stiffened, but didn’t move away. “I could show you so many things,” he whispered and Buffy fought the urge to lean into his hand. Suddenly, he snapped out of his trace, “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting. The girls would love to have you,” he added, smiling.
The prostitutes behind him murmured their approval.
“Sorry, I don’t swing that way,” she ground out.
“Oh, but you would. For me. I’d get you so worked up you’d take anything I give you up that wet pussy of yours.” His hands didn’t touch her, but Buffy distinctly felt of wave of something wash over her extremities. Trying to shake the unnerving feeling, she broke their eye contact, looking over his shoulder. She blinked.
Behind him, mixing in with his masses, she saw a group of men. Men she knew. They were some of the “good guys” – those people she had fought side by side with when they had last attempted to revolt. They were some of the most dedicated to the cause of good she knew, besides Xander and Giles. One of them had lost two of his brothers in those battles, the other a wife and sister. Now, here they were. Still human, from what Buffy could tell, but playing on the dark side. With those that had killed their loved ones.
Spike saw the recognition in her eyes.
“Your legal system isn’t as innocent as you thought, sweetheart.”
Buffy didn’t look at him. “The girls – the human ones – why not turn them?” she asked distractedly.
“The warm bodies and blood,” he answered plainly. “When you pierce their skin at just the right moment, they’re so beautiful when they cum. I could make you cum like that.”
He raked his fingers through her hair, tilting her head, placing his lips next to her exposed ear, “You’d be my favorite,” he whispered hotly, nipping at her earlobe.
“You’d kill me?” she accused, but still caught up in the trance somehow.
“Turn you? Christ, no. That way every month, when that warm blood of yours seeps from between your thighs I can be there to catch it. Imagine it, Buffy. You’d spend all week in bed, covered in silk sheets. I’d bring you anything you wanted, chocolate, sweet treats you haven’t tasted since you were a little girl. You’d be my Princess.”
His words were full of promise and he didn’t look disappointed, even as she backed away. Her entire head felt jumbled and she tripped rushing out the door, not turning her back to him until the last possible moment. She wasn’t concerned about the vampires around her. He’d give her safe passage back to headquarters.
As she made her way back to the old police station, Buffy couldn’t even recall what she had come there for, not like it mattered anymore.
TBC
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Spuffy: Dark City
TITLE: Dark City
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: The future of Sunnydale is dark and Buffy Summers is one of the last left to fight the good fight. But when she has to make a deal with the devil himself, will she be able to keep to the calling she was assigned so long ago, or will she submerge herself in his Dark City? *RE-EDITED*
A/N: First, some context: Spike never showed up in S2, and Sunnydale continued to spiral out of control. Most of the Scoobies have died in the years-long battle. There has been a series of Big Bads running the place, but one keeps overthrowing the next.
A/N: The trend seems to be – Spike is dark, Buffy is light. Buffy reforms Spike. Well, what if Buffy liked the dark? There are so many stories about Buffy going to the dark side, only to make Spike see the light, and he sees the error of his ways and goes good. *P.S. I thank you for not plagiarizing*
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy’s eyes strained to scan past the grim and out the window of the passenger side of the car as it rambled down a seemingly empty street – a street that had been abandoned to the lowliest of demon drug dealers and vampire whores. Buffy vaguely remembered that it used to be called Ravello all those years ago -- when boys, having a social life, and passing biology were all-encompassing to her.
Xander steered the car down the road, wary of their surroundings. Sure, there was a little bit of light left, taking the threat of vampires out of the equation, but humans hopped up on whatever the demon drug ring was cooking up this week was a constant concern. Half the time they were more vicious and carnal than actual demons.
Then they past it. 1630. Xander was making mindless small-talk, the way he did when he felt she needed distracted, but Buffy heard nothing but meaningless murmuring as she continued to zone out the window – the only window still fully intact that hadn’t been hap hazardously fixed by Xander or Giles. Home. It used to be home. Her mom. Her sister. Home.
Looking out, Buffy stared at the shell of a house. Since evil had risen up and overtaken the town and they’d been driven from 1630 Ravello Drive, half of her childhood home had been burned to the ground. Willow was buried somewhere in that rubble, her friends having to make a makeshift grave for their fallen friend like they had the others. Buffy was thankful her mother had died before the demon rebellion had occurred and had gotten a proper burial in a cemetery although it was hard to find the headstone anymore the ground was so tore up from rising vamps. She was doubly thankful that she and Giles had had the foresight to send Dawn far, far away early on. Buffy racked her fuddled brain; Dawnie had just turned nineteen sometime in the last few months. What month was it anyway? Communication was nonexistent. The phone lines and cell phone towers were gone and God knows what happened to the mail system. Buffy hoped her sister was doing well, but rarely ever allowed herself to dwell on it. No matter where Dawn was, it was better than here.
Buffy spared a glance at Xander’s hands sliding over the dented wheel. Even now Buffy still didn’t formally know how to drive, though she’d driven plenty of times during emergency getaways. Not like it mattered much anymore. The local DMV was now a demon bar anyway so you couldn’t get a license even if you wanted one. And it was pointless to own a vehicle because it was either stolen from you or vandalized to the point that it didn’t even look like a car anymore. One of the few left in running order belonged to Giles, which Xander was currently turning into a littered parking lot.
As she slid out of the car, Buffy instinctively looked to the sky. Sundown would be in about an hour. That gave them a small window in which their operations would be relatively safe. There were barely any electric poles still standing so you had to learn to judge time by the sun, if there was one at all, just like the monsters they fought.
Early on the government had tried to step in and help – a group called the Initiative had been sent in to set up underground headquarters when the demon rebellion had really gotten underway. But even the depths of Sunnydale proved too corrupt, and the government operation was destroyed within a year. Buffy painfully recalled a certain agent leaving on a helicopter – he and his remaining agents fleeing, leaving her and the few friends that were still alive stranded.
That was when Giles took over as the head of what was left of the legal system and he, along with Buffy and Xander, the only ones remaining of their group, created a small section of the city that housed those that hadn’t fled or been killed in vampire and demon attacks. But even their attempted safe-haven had been plagued with corruption.
Those that were left in the city were trapped in at all sides. Even if a remaining human tried to make a run for it, they’d never get a few blocks in any direction without being slaughtered. Many had gone crazy and tried. All had failed. They knew of the failures because only minutes after someone fled they would hear the screaming. It was never quick either, but torture that lasted days, making an example out of them. With no sound to drown it out, Buffy and her friends were left to do nothing but lay at night, listening to it. They used that pain to fuel the little fight that was left in them.
But they tried. Time and time again they tried. Every time a new Big Bad would rise up the ranks of Sunnyhell, they would come out to meet with it. Usually they secured an agreement allowing their small operation to continue to run. That’s what they were there for now.
Xander parked the car and they got out. “Think he’ll cooperate?” Xander asked, his voice breaking through the gusts of wind that threw paper and dragged debris around them.
“They never do,” Buffy answered, quickly approaching the warehouse. She halted at the door, turning to her partner, “Ready?” Xander drew his crossbow and secured the ax attached to his back and nodded. Buffy pulled her stake and threw open the heavy steel door.
Suspecting to surprise at least a few vamps and take a couple out early, they were slightly unnerved by the emptiness that met them. Cautiously moving further into the room, Buffy and Xander kept on the defensive.
“Sure this was the right place?” he kept his voice hushed.
Buffy nodded, “If you were the new baddie in town wouldn’t you want to reside in the center of the chaos?”
“I know I would,” a voice came from the room off to their right.
Xander instinctively pivoted and shot an arrow in the direction of the voice, not heeding Buffy’s objection.
A swift, clean movement from the stranger had him further in the open, the arrow caught in his hands, inches from his chest. Nothing in his face gave hint to the fact that there had been an attempt on his life seconds earlier.
Instead, he sauntered over to them, “Don’t waste your arrows, boy,” he sneered, handing the weapon back to Xander who, dumbfounded, reloaded it back into his crossbow.
“We’re here to see Spike,” Buffy’s voice came out strong.
The man turned to Buffy, as if just noticing her for the first time, revealing his pronounced cheekbones, penetrating gaze, and a well-placed smirk. This must be Spike, she surmised. “Well, Slayer, was wondering when you’d be coming around. Supposed it was just a matter of time before you had to check out the goods for yourself.” He ran his hand from his chest down to his belt buckle, smiling in satisfaction when Buffy’s eyes followed his movements.
“Cut the theatrics, we’re here to make a deal,” Xander demanded.
Spike shook his head, keeping his tone casual, and shifting his weight to his back foot. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a drag, he held in the smoke a few seconds before exhaling, “I know all about you white hats. Every time a new Big Bad rises to power you come breaking in wanting to make a deal. It used to work for you way back when. Problem is . . . you don’t have a thing to barter with. Face it; your city’s different now. There’s a new Big Bad -- best if you recognized it and fall in line before you find yourselves catching a nasty case of death.”
“You think you’re the first vampire to threaten us?” Xander asked.
“I think I’m the first vampire to not lie to you.” He took a step closer, “I think I’m the first vampire to know where the cards truly lie.”
“This town doesn’t belong to the sick and demented,” Xander affirmed.
The vampire almost chuckled, “You’re delusional. This town has always belonged to us, Goldilocks here knows it,” Spike gestured to Buffy, “You can see it in her eyes.” He approached Buffy, whose grip tightened on her stake but made no movement to use it, “She knows that if you don’t make a deal with me, you’re going to lose what small grip you have left on this city and the only reason it’s going to stay the way it is now is if I allow it.” His eyes never left hers during his speech and Buffy stood, transfixed, never blinking. Spike backed away, “Now you go scurry home to your little Watcher and tell him there’s no deal.”
Buffy knew she should be more concerned then she was that this Spike knew so much about them, knew that Giles used to be called a Watcher, and knew who she was and when they would be coming. Silence hung in the air until Buffy finally spoke, “Let’s go Xander.” She tuned her back on them, barely hearing the slap on the concrete as Xander ran to keep up.
As the outside air hit their faces Xander looked worriedly at Buffy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking over at his stern partner who was storming back to the car.
“My shoe’s wet,” she complained.
“What? How?” Xander asked, looking towards the cloudless sky as he stumbled along.
“From the pissing contest you two just had,” she spat. “And just for the record, Xander, you lost.”
TBC – Buffy returns to Spike’s lair to make a deal of her own
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: The future of Sunnydale is dark and Buffy Summers is one of the last left to fight the good fight. But when she has to make a deal with the devil himself, will she be able to keep to the calling she was assigned so long ago, or will she submerge herself in his Dark City? *RE-EDITED*
A/N: First, some context: Spike never showed up in S2, and Sunnydale continued to spiral out of control. Most of the Scoobies have died in the years-long battle. There has been a series of Big Bads running the place, but one keeps overthrowing the next.
A/N: The trend seems to be – Spike is dark, Buffy is light. Buffy reforms Spike. Well, what if Buffy liked the dark? There are so many stories about Buffy going to the dark side, only to make Spike see the light, and he sees the error of his ways and goes good. *P.S. I thank you for not plagiarizing*
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy’s eyes strained to scan past the grim and out the window of the passenger side of the car as it rambled down a seemingly empty street – a street that had been abandoned to the lowliest of demon drug dealers and vampire whores. Buffy vaguely remembered that it used to be called Ravello all those years ago -- when boys, having a social life, and passing biology were all-encompassing to her.
Xander steered the car down the road, wary of their surroundings. Sure, there was a little bit of light left, taking the threat of vampires out of the equation, but humans hopped up on whatever the demon drug ring was cooking up this week was a constant concern. Half the time they were more vicious and carnal than actual demons.
Then they past it. 1630. Xander was making mindless small-talk, the way he did when he felt she needed distracted, but Buffy heard nothing but meaningless murmuring as she continued to zone out the window – the only window still fully intact that hadn’t been hap hazardously fixed by Xander or Giles. Home. It used to be home. Her mom. Her sister. Home.
Looking out, Buffy stared at the shell of a house. Since evil had risen up and overtaken the town and they’d been driven from 1630 Ravello Drive, half of her childhood home had been burned to the ground. Willow was buried somewhere in that rubble, her friends having to make a makeshift grave for their fallen friend like they had the others. Buffy was thankful her mother had died before the demon rebellion had occurred and had gotten a proper burial in a cemetery although it was hard to find the headstone anymore the ground was so tore up from rising vamps. She was doubly thankful that she and Giles had had the foresight to send Dawn far, far away early on. Buffy racked her fuddled brain; Dawnie had just turned nineteen sometime in the last few months. What month was it anyway? Communication was nonexistent. The phone lines and cell phone towers were gone and God knows what happened to the mail system. Buffy hoped her sister was doing well, but rarely ever allowed herself to dwell on it. No matter where Dawn was, it was better than here.
Buffy spared a glance at Xander’s hands sliding over the dented wheel. Even now Buffy still didn’t formally know how to drive, though she’d driven plenty of times during emergency getaways. Not like it mattered much anymore. The local DMV was now a demon bar anyway so you couldn’t get a license even if you wanted one. And it was pointless to own a vehicle because it was either stolen from you or vandalized to the point that it didn’t even look like a car anymore. One of the few left in running order belonged to Giles, which Xander was currently turning into a littered parking lot.
As she slid out of the car, Buffy instinctively looked to the sky. Sundown would be in about an hour. That gave them a small window in which their operations would be relatively safe. There were barely any electric poles still standing so you had to learn to judge time by the sun, if there was one at all, just like the monsters they fought.
Early on the government had tried to step in and help – a group called the Initiative had been sent in to set up underground headquarters when the demon rebellion had really gotten underway. But even the depths of Sunnydale proved too corrupt, and the government operation was destroyed within a year. Buffy painfully recalled a certain agent leaving on a helicopter – he and his remaining agents fleeing, leaving her and the few friends that were still alive stranded.
That was when Giles took over as the head of what was left of the legal system and he, along with Buffy and Xander, the only ones remaining of their group, created a small section of the city that housed those that hadn’t fled or been killed in vampire and demon attacks. But even their attempted safe-haven had been plagued with corruption.
Those that were left in the city were trapped in at all sides. Even if a remaining human tried to make a run for it, they’d never get a few blocks in any direction without being slaughtered. Many had gone crazy and tried. All had failed. They knew of the failures because only minutes after someone fled they would hear the screaming. It was never quick either, but torture that lasted days, making an example out of them. With no sound to drown it out, Buffy and her friends were left to do nothing but lay at night, listening to it. They used that pain to fuel the little fight that was left in them.
But they tried. Time and time again they tried. Every time a new Big Bad would rise up the ranks of Sunnyhell, they would come out to meet with it. Usually they secured an agreement allowing their small operation to continue to run. That’s what they were there for now.
Xander parked the car and they got out. “Think he’ll cooperate?” Xander asked, his voice breaking through the gusts of wind that threw paper and dragged debris around them.
“They never do,” Buffy answered, quickly approaching the warehouse. She halted at the door, turning to her partner, “Ready?” Xander drew his crossbow and secured the ax attached to his back and nodded. Buffy pulled her stake and threw open the heavy steel door.
Suspecting to surprise at least a few vamps and take a couple out early, they were slightly unnerved by the emptiness that met them. Cautiously moving further into the room, Buffy and Xander kept on the defensive.
“Sure this was the right place?” he kept his voice hushed.
Buffy nodded, “If you were the new baddie in town wouldn’t you want to reside in the center of the chaos?”
“I know I would,” a voice came from the room off to their right.
Xander instinctively pivoted and shot an arrow in the direction of the voice, not heeding Buffy’s objection.
A swift, clean movement from the stranger had him further in the open, the arrow caught in his hands, inches from his chest. Nothing in his face gave hint to the fact that there had been an attempt on his life seconds earlier.
Instead, he sauntered over to them, “Don’t waste your arrows, boy,” he sneered, handing the weapon back to Xander who, dumbfounded, reloaded it back into his crossbow.
“We’re here to see Spike,” Buffy’s voice came out strong.
The man turned to Buffy, as if just noticing her for the first time, revealing his pronounced cheekbones, penetrating gaze, and a well-placed smirk. This must be Spike, she surmised. “Well, Slayer, was wondering when you’d be coming around. Supposed it was just a matter of time before you had to check out the goods for yourself.” He ran his hand from his chest down to his belt buckle, smiling in satisfaction when Buffy’s eyes followed his movements.
“Cut the theatrics, we’re here to make a deal,” Xander demanded.
Spike shook his head, keeping his tone casual, and shifting his weight to his back foot. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a drag, he held in the smoke a few seconds before exhaling, “I know all about you white hats. Every time a new Big Bad rises to power you come breaking in wanting to make a deal. It used to work for you way back when. Problem is . . . you don’t have a thing to barter with. Face it; your city’s different now. There’s a new Big Bad -- best if you recognized it and fall in line before you find yourselves catching a nasty case of death.”
“You think you’re the first vampire to threaten us?” Xander asked.
“I think I’m the first vampire to not lie to you.” He took a step closer, “I think I’m the first vampire to know where the cards truly lie.”
“This town doesn’t belong to the sick and demented,” Xander affirmed.
The vampire almost chuckled, “You’re delusional. This town has always belonged to us, Goldilocks here knows it,” Spike gestured to Buffy, “You can see it in her eyes.” He approached Buffy, whose grip tightened on her stake but made no movement to use it, “She knows that if you don’t make a deal with me, you’re going to lose what small grip you have left on this city and the only reason it’s going to stay the way it is now is if I allow it.” His eyes never left hers during his speech and Buffy stood, transfixed, never blinking. Spike backed away, “Now you go scurry home to your little Watcher and tell him there’s no deal.”
Buffy knew she should be more concerned then she was that this Spike knew so much about them, knew that Giles used to be called a Watcher, and knew who she was and when they would be coming. Silence hung in the air until Buffy finally spoke, “Let’s go Xander.” She tuned her back on them, barely hearing the slap on the concrete as Xander ran to keep up.
As the outside air hit their faces Xander looked worriedly at Buffy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking over at his stern partner who was storming back to the car.
“My shoe’s wet,” she complained.
“What? How?” Xander asked, looking towards the cloudless sky as he stumbled along.
“From the pissing contest you two just had,” she spat. “And just for the record, Xander, you lost.”
TBC – Buffy returns to Spike’s lair to make a deal of her own
Friday, October 31, 2008
A Day Without Emma
A/N: Just to be on the safe side, THIS FIC IS RATED R/NC-17 (it gets a bit racy in parts).
His keys jingled in the lock as he opened the door, careful not to make too much noise in case his daughter was napping. He had to be completely silent when Emma slept because of her constant fear that he was having fun without her, always slipping out of her crib to peek around the corner to see what he was up to. It drove his wife (who had a bit more freedom to move when it came to their daughter) nuts that she had to repeatedly usher Emma back to bed and begin the whole bedtime ritual from the top. Usually it worked out alright – he would use Emma’s naptimes as a chance to catch up on some homework for a case they were working on. A quiet hobby, research didn’t hold Emma’s short attention span, and dissertations on the inner-workings of a psychopathic mind were not something you could share with a one year-old.
Upon entering he heard an insistent hum coming from another part of the house – the washer and dryer running, he surmised. He had spent the day in court testifying against a man in an art theft/murder case. Eames hadn’t been there when the confession occurred (she had been in the opposite interrogation room getting the conflicting story from the wife), and what she did know could be found in her report, so she didn’t have to be called to the stand. Normally she would have gone anyway as his partner, but since having Emma the busyness of their daily lives had increased exponentially. Now, when one of them had the opportunity to shake off a responsibility to spend time with Emma or shorten their to-do list, they took it. The result was an almost perfectly run egalitarian household.
Placing his keys and folder onto the top of the high bookshelf just inside the doorway (so Emma couldn’t hide the former and color on the later, both of which she was prone to do) he followed the drone of the machines through the twists and turns of the small but comfortable home. The washer and dryer were located in the hallway behind folding wood doors between their bedroom and Emma’s. He bypassed the household item and moved toward the bedroom to hang up his suit jacket in the closet (so Emma couldn’t get finger paint on it . . . if having a kid did nothing else, it made you diligent on where you put your belongings).
“Hey,” a voice called out, “tall, dark, and handsome.”
Bobby jerked to a stop, turned, and saw his wife standing in front of the dryer looking in his direction. He pointed at himself questioningly as he spun around, looking for someone behind him.
She humored him with a smile, “Yeah you,” she crooked a finger at him, “come help me with this.” She threw a pile of clean laundry at him which he caught and brought over to set on the dryer next to her, picking up each item individually and folding it. In the meantime he had hung his jacket on the knob of the nearest door.
“How was court?” she asked as she folded closely next to him, her hip bumping and rubbing against his thigh -- whether she was doing it on purpose or not, he wasn’t completely sure. Either way, it (along with the hypnotic drone of the machines) was enough to distract him because he didn’t know how much time had passed before she spoke again.
They hadn’t seen each other all day or, it seemed, a long time before that. They had just finished a long, harrowing case the previous day when meanwhile, they had yet to catch their breaths from the one before that. During all of this was, of course, their precocious daughter who was exhausting enough on her own.
“Earth to Goren,” his wife’s voice echoed off the steel machines, nudging her hip into him a little harder. The smirk he caught out of the corner of his eye quitted any guilty feelings he may have had at zoning out. So it had been on purpose. “Court?” she prompted.
He dropped the shirt he was folding and turned to his wife, his hands drifting to her waist. He shrugged, “Guilty, twenty to twenty-five, just like we thought.” She seemed satisfied with the conclusion.
“Been thinking about you all day,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her on the neck.
“Uh-huh,” she commented doubtfully. Despite her tone and air of indifference, she fisted his tie in her hand and tugged hard toward her, though she continued to fold with her other hand.
He tilted his head, coming at her from another angle. In an exaggerated huff, she threw the pants she was folding and turned to face him head on, eyes narrowed. He met her glare, flashing a little boy grin, continuing to get fresh with his hands. “You forget,” she chastised, “I know all your little tricks. First you get into my personal space to throw me off and get me all flustered,” he inched even closer, “then you pounce. Those Jedi mind tricks of yours don’t work on me, ya know.” He may seem socially inept at times but he knew the effect he can have on people and he knew how to flirt and what to say to a girl to get what he wanted, whether it be chicken parmesan, a confession, or a kiss.
And Alex was all too aware. “I’m immune,” she declared, even as her fingernails scraped his scalp and her hand wound into his hair, leaning harder into him and forcing his mouth harder onto her neck.
Bobby pulled back a little and spoke into the delicate skin of her neck, causing goosebumps to rise there, “Are you suggesting I stop?”
He felt her lips curl into a smile against his ear. “Now don’t go putting words in my mouth,” she reprimanded.
She backed off and he reeled a little bit in confusion. “Make yourself useful, detective.” She handed him wet clothes, he threw them in the dryer and turned the dial to thirty minutes. Just enough time to do what he wanted to do, he surmised.
Completing his assigned task, he circled behind her. She meant to keep him distracted, get him a little annoyed – it was more fun that way. “For someone who doesn’t follow the rules, you take instruction very well,” she commented, as she again folded clothes, pretending the whole while that nothing had been started.
He moved against her until her back was molded to his front. His palm slid under her shirt, fingers skimming then diving under the waistband of her jeans. Her head thudded back against his chest, her eyes closed. “Turn around,” he murmured into her ear. She was facing him before she even noticed what she was doing. Damn. He smirked in triumph, “For someone who says she only pretends to listen to me, you’re very receptive.”
“I said I only pretend I don’t listen to you. I listen if you’re gonna make it worth my while.”
He ignored her sassy mouth and backed her up against the dryer until she was leaning backwards at the waist. He knew he had her when she threw her arms around his neck in complete submission.
His hands slid to her waist and he lifted her up onto the dryer, kicking her legs on either side of the corner. He kissed her, making up for all the late nights at crime scenes and days surrounded by an impressionable youth. He purposefully took a step back so she’d have to lean forward to keep the kiss. When she did, she immediately stiffened as the vibration of the appliance hit her clit. Her hands went up to squeeze his biceps hard and she threw her head back. Her eyes never opened. He watched her face for a while, letting her lean into the vibration, rocking her hips back and forth. He tilted into her, using that quiet, commanding, dangerous voice he kept for the interrogation room, “See how good it can be when you listen to me?” A small noise in the back of her throat was all the response she could muster.
“Emma?” he mumbled between nibbles on her neck, quickly traveling southward.
“Um,” Alex shook her head trying to clear it – Emma? Emma? Who was Emma? “My mother’s,” Alex answered finally, pushing him away from her hard. Confusion was breaking through the haze of lust he was in. She whipped her shirt over her head, and any confusion of her motives instantly vanished as he launched back at her. Literally grabbing her, her thighs pressed tight to his, he lifted her off the machine, spun them around and landed with and “oomph” against the opposite wall. The breath was knocked out of her, which was fine with her because it just made the slamming of their pelvises all the more intense to her already hyper nerve endings. Her right hand traveled up the wall, her nails scratching into the surface, searching for purchase, leverage to get closer, push deeper.
Whatever master plan he may have had was gone now, but that was fine enough with him. He got the ball rolling and that’s as far as he normally ever got with Alex. Not far into their seducing of each other, he always reached a point when “all that damn thinking” as she put it, was forced out the window – some move she made, thing she said, article of clothing she took off.
They slid along the wall until they entered the bedroom. She considered the layers of denim and cotton barriers between them. “If you want this to get fun, you’re going to have to put me down.” “Down” wasn’t even out of her mouth when he unceremoniously dropped her on her feet.
She stood on tiptoes to kiss him as she worked at the buttons of his white button-down. He ran his hands from around her back to the front clasp of her bra. She let her arms drop and the straps slid smoothly down her arms and off, landing on the floor somewhere behind her.
He moved toward her again, but she shoved him against the wall yet again. Considering the rare opportunity of being alone, one would think they would revel in it and take their time. But they couldn’t wait. They needed each other and they needed each other now. Slow and languid could be later. Now they needed rough and loud and hard. She reached her hand into his boxers and when she found what she was searching for, she wrapped her fingers around him and his eyes slammed shut and his head thumped back against the wall. His face didn’t even register the pain in his skull. In fact, she had managed to wipe his face of all expression except complete and utter submission with a strong hint of lust.
They played with each other like that when it came to their sex life – see who would scream uncle first. She loved him like this -- just knowing that she had the NYPD’s best detective and resident genius at her mercy. She could ask him for anything she wanted, to do anything she wanted, and he would without question. Of course, she would never -- they didn’t play mind games like that. In the end, it never mattered who gave in. In fact, it was more fun when they didn’t – instead dragging it out for as long as they had time for.
She knew he wasn’t thinking right now – couldn’t if he tried. She wanted him to take her to Europe. She wanted to see him in even more of his element, wrapping his tongue around foreign languages and taking her through cities. Well . . . maybe there was one thing . . .
“Bobby,” she purred, stroking him. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, panting. Her other hand came up to roam his chest. “Bobby,” she implored more insistently.
“Yeah?” he got out between breaths. In his defense, she kept tugging on him harder and harder faster and faster.
“Would you do something for me?”
“Anything,” he answered instantly. She smiled prettily at his response.
“Take me away. Take me to Europe. Just the two of us. To Italy.”
“I don’t speak Italian that well.”
“But you would . . . for me,” she stated.
She could have asked and gotten the same answer when they weren’t in a sexual situation, but this was just more fun.
“Okay,” he breathed. Actually, he’d always wanted to take her places, show her cobblestone roads in English countryside and the top of the Eiffel Tower. She’d never shown an interest before, but with the surprise pregnancy and birth, there had hardly been any time to seriously consider it until now. But they could consider it later. Now wasn’t the time. And the only way they were both going to win right now was if they both gave in.
Bobby inhaled deeply and let out a relaxed breath, “God, we needed that.”
“Uh-huh,” was all the sound Alex could make in trying to catch her breath. She looked at him, fondness glazed over her eyes. She ran a hand through his tough curls, “Think you need a haircut, babe.”
“Yeah?” She nodded.
“I think I need one too,” she said absentmindedly, playing with the split ends of her hair.
He gently pushed her hand away and replaced it with his own less critical fingertips to run over her strands, “I like it this length.”
She looked at him suspiciously, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I can grab it, tug on it. And the same reason you like it better when I don’t shave . . . I can feel it,” he leaned in, his hot breath on her ear, “when you go down on me.”
“Oh,” she sighed. But the damage had been done. Her leg slid up the sheet, slick with their sweat, and between his legs.
They spent the rest of the afternoon lazily going down on each other. God, he was right about the not shaving thing. There were about twenty different sensations going on between her thighs all at once.
He woke up forty-five minutes later. The bedroom door that led to the washer and dryer was wide open. He stuffed his hands under his pillow and watched Alex at the machines. She hummed quietly to herself as she bent over to change loads. She was wearing a fitted white t-shirt and white panties and when the hall light hit her just so, he could see right through both, which she wore nothing under.
He cleared his throat audibly and when she whipped around guiltily, he gave her an accusatory glance, taking in the cold bed next to him, her overabundance of clothes, and her distance from him. “Figured I’d try to get something accomplished,” she reasoned, but threw off her t-shirt and slid back into bed with him nonetheless. Their lovemaking had always had that effect – it calmed his mind and allowed him to sleep, but always left her energetic.
She rolled onto her stomach, blankets pooled at her waist. As he rolled over on top of her he fisted the white bed sheet and flung it off her causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. He kissed down her back. He methodically took her one arm and then the other and placed them straight out in front of her. He slowly spread her legs with his. She was completely lax underneath him, loving the feel of his weight pressing down on her and into the cool sheets. He entered her then.
This was another wonderful product of their lovemaking. He was always so enamored with her afterwards, like he couldn’t believe she’d allowed him the privilege and honor of fucking her, that he worshipped her body afterwards, with gentle, massaging hands on her back, breasts, and thighs. And she loved being manipulated by him like this.
A knock on the door interrupted any more fun, informing them of her mother’s return, daughter in tow. Alex got up to meet them at the door and retrieve her daughter while Bobby got dressed. When he did make it out to the living room, Alex was conversing with her mother, Emma thrashing about violently in her arms.
She was cranky and tired from being off her routine and most likely hungry. The baby made pitiful whining noises that she liked to fake when she was restless. Bobby scooped her up, kissing her silky hair while she squirmed, strode into the kitchen and plopped her into her high chair. She wiggled piteously some more when he turned his back on her to shift through the cupboards. She perked up considerably when she hung over the side of the chair and spied what he had in his hand when he turned back around.
He pulled up a chair across from her and reached into the striped bag, bringing out a familiar treat. He laid a half a dozen animal crackers in front of her. The baby eagerly reached out, misjudging her grasp a few times out of her eagerness before managing to shovel one into her mouth. Bobby picked up another, a bear if he wasn’t mistaken, and made it shimmy across the table, making animal noises all the while. The baby loved this of course, and clapped for the show her daddy was putting on for her, chewing on the crackers all the while. He airplaned some towards her mouth, which she opened like a baby bird, only to make it instantly disappear out of his hands, a magic trick she’d seen him do before. Emma liked this game until the cracker disappeared one too many times and she pounded her fists on the table, shrieking a little in her throat. Always one to indulge his little girl, Bobby chuckled at her impatience (which she probably got from him) and offered up the treat which the baby stuffed happily into her mouth. He heard Alex say goodbye to her mother and a few minutes later felt Alex’s hands caress his shoulders and slid down so she hung over his back to watch their little girl. Minutes went by before Emma shifted in her seat again and, to the best of her verbal ability and the sign language Bobby had taught her since birth, let if be known that she demanded a meal more substantial than the crackers in front of her. Sighing, Alex squeezed her husband one last time, “So much more Mommy and Daddy time.”
His keys jingled in the lock as he opened the door, careful not to make too much noise in case his daughter was napping. He had to be completely silent when Emma slept because of her constant fear that he was having fun without her, always slipping out of her crib to peek around the corner to see what he was up to. It drove his wife (who had a bit more freedom to move when it came to their daughter) nuts that she had to repeatedly usher Emma back to bed and begin the whole bedtime ritual from the top. Usually it worked out alright – he would use Emma’s naptimes as a chance to catch up on some homework for a case they were working on. A quiet hobby, research didn’t hold Emma’s short attention span, and dissertations on the inner-workings of a psychopathic mind were not something you could share with a one year-old.
Upon entering he heard an insistent hum coming from another part of the house – the washer and dryer running, he surmised. He had spent the day in court testifying against a man in an art theft/murder case. Eames hadn’t been there when the confession occurred (she had been in the opposite interrogation room getting the conflicting story from the wife), and what she did know could be found in her report, so she didn’t have to be called to the stand. Normally she would have gone anyway as his partner, but since having Emma the busyness of their daily lives had increased exponentially. Now, when one of them had the opportunity to shake off a responsibility to spend time with Emma or shorten their to-do list, they took it. The result was an almost perfectly run egalitarian household.
Placing his keys and folder onto the top of the high bookshelf just inside the doorway (so Emma couldn’t hide the former and color on the later, both of which she was prone to do) he followed the drone of the machines through the twists and turns of the small but comfortable home. The washer and dryer were located in the hallway behind folding wood doors between their bedroom and Emma’s. He bypassed the household item and moved toward the bedroom to hang up his suit jacket in the closet (so Emma couldn’t get finger paint on it . . . if having a kid did nothing else, it made you diligent on where you put your belongings).
“Hey,” a voice called out, “tall, dark, and handsome.”
Bobby jerked to a stop, turned, and saw his wife standing in front of the dryer looking in his direction. He pointed at himself questioningly as he spun around, looking for someone behind him.
She humored him with a smile, “Yeah you,” she crooked a finger at him, “come help me with this.” She threw a pile of clean laundry at him which he caught and brought over to set on the dryer next to her, picking up each item individually and folding it. In the meantime he had hung his jacket on the knob of the nearest door.
“How was court?” she asked as she folded closely next to him, her hip bumping and rubbing against his thigh -- whether she was doing it on purpose or not, he wasn’t completely sure. Either way, it (along with the hypnotic drone of the machines) was enough to distract him because he didn’t know how much time had passed before she spoke again.
They hadn’t seen each other all day or, it seemed, a long time before that. They had just finished a long, harrowing case the previous day when meanwhile, they had yet to catch their breaths from the one before that. During all of this was, of course, their precocious daughter who was exhausting enough on her own.
“Earth to Goren,” his wife’s voice echoed off the steel machines, nudging her hip into him a little harder. The smirk he caught out of the corner of his eye quitted any guilty feelings he may have had at zoning out. So it had been on purpose. “Court?” she prompted.
He dropped the shirt he was folding and turned to his wife, his hands drifting to her waist. He shrugged, “Guilty, twenty to twenty-five, just like we thought.” She seemed satisfied with the conclusion.
“Been thinking about you all day,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her on the neck.
“Uh-huh,” she commented doubtfully. Despite her tone and air of indifference, she fisted his tie in her hand and tugged hard toward her, though she continued to fold with her other hand.
He tilted his head, coming at her from another angle. In an exaggerated huff, she threw the pants she was folding and turned to face him head on, eyes narrowed. He met her glare, flashing a little boy grin, continuing to get fresh with his hands. “You forget,” she chastised, “I know all your little tricks. First you get into my personal space to throw me off and get me all flustered,” he inched even closer, “then you pounce. Those Jedi mind tricks of yours don’t work on me, ya know.” He may seem socially inept at times but he knew the effect he can have on people and he knew how to flirt and what to say to a girl to get what he wanted, whether it be chicken parmesan, a confession, or a kiss.
And Alex was all too aware. “I’m immune,” she declared, even as her fingernails scraped his scalp and her hand wound into his hair, leaning harder into him and forcing his mouth harder onto her neck.
Bobby pulled back a little and spoke into the delicate skin of her neck, causing goosebumps to rise there, “Are you suggesting I stop?”
He felt her lips curl into a smile against his ear. “Now don’t go putting words in my mouth,” she reprimanded.
She backed off and he reeled a little bit in confusion. “Make yourself useful, detective.” She handed him wet clothes, he threw them in the dryer and turned the dial to thirty minutes. Just enough time to do what he wanted to do, he surmised.
Completing his assigned task, he circled behind her. She meant to keep him distracted, get him a little annoyed – it was more fun that way. “For someone who doesn’t follow the rules, you take instruction very well,” she commented, as she again folded clothes, pretending the whole while that nothing had been started.
He moved against her until her back was molded to his front. His palm slid under her shirt, fingers skimming then diving under the waistband of her jeans. Her head thudded back against his chest, her eyes closed. “Turn around,” he murmured into her ear. She was facing him before she even noticed what she was doing. Damn. He smirked in triumph, “For someone who says she only pretends to listen to me, you’re very receptive.”
“I said I only pretend I don’t listen to you. I listen if you’re gonna make it worth my while.”
He ignored her sassy mouth and backed her up against the dryer until she was leaning backwards at the waist. He knew he had her when she threw her arms around his neck in complete submission.
His hands slid to her waist and he lifted her up onto the dryer, kicking her legs on either side of the corner. He kissed her, making up for all the late nights at crime scenes and days surrounded by an impressionable youth. He purposefully took a step back so she’d have to lean forward to keep the kiss. When she did, she immediately stiffened as the vibration of the appliance hit her clit. Her hands went up to squeeze his biceps hard and she threw her head back. Her eyes never opened. He watched her face for a while, letting her lean into the vibration, rocking her hips back and forth. He tilted into her, using that quiet, commanding, dangerous voice he kept for the interrogation room, “See how good it can be when you listen to me?” A small noise in the back of her throat was all the response she could muster.
“Emma?” he mumbled between nibbles on her neck, quickly traveling southward.
“Um,” Alex shook her head trying to clear it – Emma? Emma? Who was Emma? “My mother’s,” Alex answered finally, pushing him away from her hard. Confusion was breaking through the haze of lust he was in. She whipped her shirt over her head, and any confusion of her motives instantly vanished as he launched back at her. Literally grabbing her, her thighs pressed tight to his, he lifted her off the machine, spun them around and landed with and “oomph” against the opposite wall. The breath was knocked out of her, which was fine with her because it just made the slamming of their pelvises all the more intense to her already hyper nerve endings. Her right hand traveled up the wall, her nails scratching into the surface, searching for purchase, leverage to get closer, push deeper.
Whatever master plan he may have had was gone now, but that was fine enough with him. He got the ball rolling and that’s as far as he normally ever got with Alex. Not far into their seducing of each other, he always reached a point when “all that damn thinking” as she put it, was forced out the window – some move she made, thing she said, article of clothing she took off.
They slid along the wall until they entered the bedroom. She considered the layers of denim and cotton barriers between them. “If you want this to get fun, you’re going to have to put me down.” “Down” wasn’t even out of her mouth when he unceremoniously dropped her on her feet.
She stood on tiptoes to kiss him as she worked at the buttons of his white button-down. He ran his hands from around her back to the front clasp of her bra. She let her arms drop and the straps slid smoothly down her arms and off, landing on the floor somewhere behind her.
He moved toward her again, but she shoved him against the wall yet again. Considering the rare opportunity of being alone, one would think they would revel in it and take their time. But they couldn’t wait. They needed each other and they needed each other now. Slow and languid could be later. Now they needed rough and loud and hard. She reached her hand into his boxers and when she found what she was searching for, she wrapped her fingers around him and his eyes slammed shut and his head thumped back against the wall. His face didn’t even register the pain in his skull. In fact, she had managed to wipe his face of all expression except complete and utter submission with a strong hint of lust.
They played with each other like that when it came to their sex life – see who would scream uncle first. She loved him like this -- just knowing that she had the NYPD’s best detective and resident genius at her mercy. She could ask him for anything she wanted, to do anything she wanted, and he would without question. Of course, she would never -- they didn’t play mind games like that. In the end, it never mattered who gave in. In fact, it was more fun when they didn’t – instead dragging it out for as long as they had time for.
She knew he wasn’t thinking right now – couldn’t if he tried. She wanted him to take her to Europe. She wanted to see him in even more of his element, wrapping his tongue around foreign languages and taking her through cities. Well . . . maybe there was one thing . . .
“Bobby,” she purred, stroking him. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, panting. Her other hand came up to roam his chest. “Bobby,” she implored more insistently.
“Yeah?” he got out between breaths. In his defense, she kept tugging on him harder and harder faster and faster.
“Would you do something for me?”
“Anything,” he answered instantly. She smiled prettily at his response.
“Take me away. Take me to Europe. Just the two of us. To Italy.”
“I don’t speak Italian that well.”
“But you would . . . for me,” she stated.
She could have asked and gotten the same answer when they weren’t in a sexual situation, but this was just more fun.
“Okay,” he breathed. Actually, he’d always wanted to take her places, show her cobblestone roads in English countryside and the top of the Eiffel Tower. She’d never shown an interest before, but with the surprise pregnancy and birth, there had hardly been any time to seriously consider it until now. But they could consider it later. Now wasn’t the time. And the only way they were both going to win right now was if they both gave in.
Bobby inhaled deeply and let out a relaxed breath, “God, we needed that.”
“Uh-huh,” was all the sound Alex could make in trying to catch her breath. She looked at him, fondness glazed over her eyes. She ran a hand through his tough curls, “Think you need a haircut, babe.”
“Yeah?” She nodded.
“I think I need one too,” she said absentmindedly, playing with the split ends of her hair.
He gently pushed her hand away and replaced it with his own less critical fingertips to run over her strands, “I like it this length.”
She looked at him suspiciously, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I can grab it, tug on it. And the same reason you like it better when I don’t shave . . . I can feel it,” he leaned in, his hot breath on her ear, “when you go down on me.”
“Oh,” she sighed. But the damage had been done. Her leg slid up the sheet, slick with their sweat, and between his legs.
They spent the rest of the afternoon lazily going down on each other. God, he was right about the not shaving thing. There were about twenty different sensations going on between her thighs all at once.
He woke up forty-five minutes later. The bedroom door that led to the washer and dryer was wide open. He stuffed his hands under his pillow and watched Alex at the machines. She hummed quietly to herself as she bent over to change loads. She was wearing a fitted white t-shirt and white panties and when the hall light hit her just so, he could see right through both, which she wore nothing under.
He cleared his throat audibly and when she whipped around guiltily, he gave her an accusatory glance, taking in the cold bed next to him, her overabundance of clothes, and her distance from him. “Figured I’d try to get something accomplished,” she reasoned, but threw off her t-shirt and slid back into bed with him nonetheless. Their lovemaking had always had that effect – it calmed his mind and allowed him to sleep, but always left her energetic.
She rolled onto her stomach, blankets pooled at her waist. As he rolled over on top of her he fisted the white bed sheet and flung it off her causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. He kissed down her back. He methodically took her one arm and then the other and placed them straight out in front of her. He slowly spread her legs with his. She was completely lax underneath him, loving the feel of his weight pressing down on her and into the cool sheets. He entered her then.
This was another wonderful product of their lovemaking. He was always so enamored with her afterwards, like he couldn’t believe she’d allowed him the privilege and honor of fucking her, that he worshipped her body afterwards, with gentle, massaging hands on her back, breasts, and thighs. And she loved being manipulated by him like this.
A knock on the door interrupted any more fun, informing them of her mother’s return, daughter in tow. Alex got up to meet them at the door and retrieve her daughter while Bobby got dressed. When he did make it out to the living room, Alex was conversing with her mother, Emma thrashing about violently in her arms.
She was cranky and tired from being off her routine and most likely hungry. The baby made pitiful whining noises that she liked to fake when she was restless. Bobby scooped her up, kissing her silky hair while she squirmed, strode into the kitchen and plopped her into her high chair. She wiggled piteously some more when he turned his back on her to shift through the cupboards. She perked up considerably when she hung over the side of the chair and spied what he had in his hand when he turned back around.
He pulled up a chair across from her and reached into the striped bag, bringing out a familiar treat. He laid a half a dozen animal crackers in front of her. The baby eagerly reached out, misjudging her grasp a few times out of her eagerness before managing to shovel one into her mouth. Bobby picked up another, a bear if he wasn’t mistaken, and made it shimmy across the table, making animal noises all the while. The baby loved this of course, and clapped for the show her daddy was putting on for her, chewing on the crackers all the while. He airplaned some towards her mouth, which she opened like a baby bird, only to make it instantly disappear out of his hands, a magic trick she’d seen him do before. Emma liked this game until the cracker disappeared one too many times and she pounded her fists on the table, shrieking a little in her throat. Always one to indulge his little girl, Bobby chuckled at her impatience (which she probably got from him) and offered up the treat which the baby stuffed happily into her mouth. He heard Alex say goodbye to her mother and a few minutes later felt Alex’s hands caress his shoulders and slid down so she hung over his back to watch their little girl. Minutes went by before Emma shifted in her seat again and, to the best of her verbal ability and the sign language Bobby had taught her since birth, let if be known that she demanded a meal more substantial than the crackers in front of her. Sighing, Alex squeezed her husband one last time, “So much more Mommy and Daddy time.”
Monday, September 22, 2008
Spuffy: What You're Waiting For -- Chapter Four
CHAPTER 4 –
When Buffy opened her eyes the next morning, she was immediately met by expressive blue ones that must have been studying her for quite some time.
“ ‘M sorry about last night,” he rumbled, his early morning accent thicker than usual. He was sitting on the floor with his chin propped up on her bed, looking like a guilty little schoolboy with a riot of curls. The word “adorable” flittered through her sleep-addled brain.
“Me too,” she replied honestly, pulling back the covers and scooting over, inviting him to snuggle. This wasn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed. But it was usually when one of them had drunk too much or was forlorn about some aspect of their lives. They’d lie in bed, commiserating, before drifting off to sleep. He’d tried to cop a feel several times, but that was beside the point. “You’re nice enough to come all the way out here with me and then . . . .” she drifted off as she looked around her childhood bedroom. “Wait, how did I get here?”
“You better cut back on those pancakes your mum makes, luv, you weigh a ton,” he joked.
She shoved his shoulder, “Shut up. You just want to keep me in you debt.”
“And one of these days I’m gonna cash in,” he said rolling out of bed, feet hitting the floor. He stood before her in grey sweatpants and a green t-shirt. He clapped his hands together, “So, itinerary for today? There has to be an Apple Festival or a clog dancing performance to go to or something.”
Buffy smiled at his sarcasm and flung herself out of bed and quickly shifted through a drawer before settling on an outfit and taking it into the bathroom in her bedroom to get changed. She continued their conversation through the closed door.
“More like dress fittings. It’ll be me, Dawn, my mother, and some mysterious girl named Janice who I’ve heard everything about but have yet to meet. All would be very boring to you. You can hang around at the house and I could meet you afterward for lunch, though.”
He nodded, “Sounds good.” Buffy gathered her things and opened the door to reenter her bedroom, only to almost drop them on the floor when she took in his state of undress in the middle of her floor. His pants were just being pulled up over his hips and his chest was bare.
“What are you doing!?” she averted her eyes a little. Not like she hadn’t seen him shirtless or in his boxers before, but every time she did get a glimpse, she didn’t like the summersaults that assaulted her stomach.
“Getting dressed,” he replied, like she was a complete idiot.
“What if my mother walked in here?” she bent over and threw his shirt at his bare chest, which he caught.
“Then she’d get a free show,” he twirled his shirt around his head like an expert, then laughed when she turned three shades of red. “And since when have you been a blusher?”
Buffy gasped, “I am not blushing,” then felt a new wave of heat radiate down her neck. Since when WAS she a blusher? She shook her head violently, “Agh! You’re impossible. Get dressed, find yourself something to eat, DON’T snoop through my things, and I’ll talk to you in a couple of hours.” Instructions complete, she turned and left the room, and the house, and him.
Three hours later found Spike reclined on the Summers’ couch; his bare feet up on the coffee table and eating chips. He was home alone and taking full advantage. He glanced around the living room. He could honestly say he felt at home here. The big house with its worn furniture and years of memory scratched into the hard wood floors. It was such a contrast to his rather sparse, antiseptic living space in his rent controlled New York apartment. Granted, it was rather posh where city apartments were concerned, but it didn’t feel like home – just a place where his bed happened to be.
Unlike Buffy, Spike could see himself living in a small town someday. One where everyone knew their neighbors, births and weddings were town affairs and babysitters were trustworthy and easy to find. In New York, his neighbors were an up and coming rock star who was never home and a few beatniks who had yet to realize that communism was just not happening in this country. But he didn’t have any plans on telling Buffy about his warm and fuzzy feelings. She’d castrate him. Buffy was still pretty bitter about where she came from but Spike couldn’t see how. Seemed like an alright place to him. Don’t get him wrong, Spike loved being a big city boy who knew how to quickly and correctly place an order at Starbucks and was in no particular hurry to slow down. Sunnydale was just a nice change of pace, is all. He ruminated on all of this during commercial breaks of an A-Team marathon. Five episodes in, a knock on the door tore him away from Mad Murdock and company.
The door opened and a burly, Boy Scout type stood on the porch. White teeth and a bouquet of daisies met the look of indifference on Spike’s face. This must be one of the townies Buffy talked about, come around to see the bride-to-me most likely.
“Is Buffy in?” the guy asked, a hopeful little look in his eye as he desperately tried to hide the look of disappointment that came over his face when Buffy didn’t answer the door.
Spike stood a little straighter. Well if this pillock was here for Buffy, Captain Cardboard wasn’t getting far. Besides, he thought, sneering at the spray clutched in the man’s big knuckles, Buffy preferred roses, not daisies.
“No. Who are you?” Spike asked, squaring his body to further block the doorway when the boyscout’s gaze wandered over his right shoulder.
The boy flung out his hand, “Riley Finn, I’m an old friend of Buffy’s. You must be Buffy’s city friend in for the wedding.” At Spike’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Word travels fast in this town,” he offered.
“I bet it does,” Spike replied in monotone. They stared at each other in silence. Spike watched as Finn rocked on his heels awkwardly. And Spike wasn’t about to save him.
“I offered to help set up for the ceremony,” Riley explained. The statement was met with silence. “So . . . when is Buffy expected back?”
“Don’t rightly know. She’s going to call when she’s done and I’m meetin’ her for lunch.” Spike purposely left the answer ambiguous. Let ‘im come to his own conclusions. Spike got his desired response when Finn’s eyes narrowed in what must signal his thinking process.
“I’m sorry, you said you were . . . ?”
“Spike,” he answered, purposefully using his nickname. There, let that spread around Small Town, USA. “She’ll see ya at the next barn raising,” Spike closed the door in Finn’s face and turned on his heels, pacing back to the couch.
He had changed his mind.
Small towns blow.
“I don’t like your boyfriend, pet,” Spike slid into the shiny, red diner booth across from Buffy.
She looked up from her plastic menu, puzzled, “My boyfr . . .”
“Ranger Joe came to call this afternoon,” Spike announced, interrupting her. God as his witness, he was not going to utter that name.
“Ranger Who?” she shook her head, her lips still puckered at the drawn out ‘who.’ “Spike, what are you talking about?”
Spike sighed, “Some guy named Finn,” he ground out.
He was annoyed. Walking around downtown Sunnydale was delightful, what with all the little, independently owned mom ‘n’ pop shops. But he couldn’t enjoy any of them because all he could concentrate on was this Finn character and who he was and what he meant to Buffy.
“Riley? What did he want?” Buffy’s slightly annoyed tone please him immensely.
“Don’t rightly know, don’t rightly care, what’s good here?” he picked up the menu and began to debate the merits of the BLT versus that of the grilled chicken sandwich.
Buffy put down hers, “Well he must have said something,” she insisted.
“Nope,” Spike answered instantly, continuing to peruse his menu, “came lookin’ for Dawn, even brought flowers for her. Told ‘im she was out to places unknown,” he fibbed tersely. He dropped his menu and looked Buffy in the eyes, “Any more insignificant others I should know about, pet?”
Right then, the waitress came to take their drink orders and to top-off Buffy’s coffee, but she took one look at the two of them in a staredown and she quickly retreated. Buffy, taken aback at his tone, put her forearms on the table and leaned toward him, “Hey, passive aggressive guy, you wanna take it down a few notches?” she hissed, glancing around to see if anyone else was watching the scene he was creating.
“What?” Spike chuckled brusquely. “Can’t take a joke? What?” he groused again when she continued to stare at him.
Buffy sat back in the booth and crossed her arms, “Sounds to me you’re a little jealous.”
“Hmph, jealous my ass. How was the dress shop?”
His hairpin turn of subject made her smile, but she said nothing. “Fine. I can’t believe it was so simple. As maid of honor I got to pick my own style. Though, Dawn wouldn’t let me get black. ‘Oh, Buffy, that is sooooo New York,’” she captured her sister’s voice perfectly, “‘And not in a good way.’” She returned to her own cadence, “I can’t believe the wedding’s tomorrow already,” she sighed.
Spike thought he saw a bit of remorse in her eyes. “Regret not coming a little earlier, pet?”
“No!” she sang at his raised eyebrow. He kept looking at her. “Seriously, Spike, I do not want to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary . . . now where’s our waitress?”
TBC
When Buffy opened her eyes the next morning, she was immediately met by expressive blue ones that must have been studying her for quite some time.
“ ‘M sorry about last night,” he rumbled, his early morning accent thicker than usual. He was sitting on the floor with his chin propped up on her bed, looking like a guilty little schoolboy with a riot of curls. The word “adorable” flittered through her sleep-addled brain.
“Me too,” she replied honestly, pulling back the covers and scooting over, inviting him to snuggle. This wasn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed. But it was usually when one of them had drunk too much or was forlorn about some aspect of their lives. They’d lie in bed, commiserating, before drifting off to sleep. He’d tried to cop a feel several times, but that was beside the point. “You’re nice enough to come all the way out here with me and then . . . .” she drifted off as she looked around her childhood bedroom. “Wait, how did I get here?”
“You better cut back on those pancakes your mum makes, luv, you weigh a ton,” he joked.
She shoved his shoulder, “Shut up. You just want to keep me in you debt.”
“And one of these days I’m gonna cash in,” he said rolling out of bed, feet hitting the floor. He stood before her in grey sweatpants and a green t-shirt. He clapped his hands together, “So, itinerary for today? There has to be an Apple Festival or a clog dancing performance to go to or something.”
Buffy smiled at his sarcasm and flung herself out of bed and quickly shifted through a drawer before settling on an outfit and taking it into the bathroom in her bedroom to get changed. She continued their conversation through the closed door.
“More like dress fittings. It’ll be me, Dawn, my mother, and some mysterious girl named Janice who I’ve heard everything about but have yet to meet. All would be very boring to you. You can hang around at the house and I could meet you afterward for lunch, though.”
He nodded, “Sounds good.” Buffy gathered her things and opened the door to reenter her bedroom, only to almost drop them on the floor when she took in his state of undress in the middle of her floor. His pants were just being pulled up over his hips and his chest was bare.
“What are you doing!?” she averted her eyes a little. Not like she hadn’t seen him shirtless or in his boxers before, but every time she did get a glimpse, she didn’t like the summersaults that assaulted her stomach.
“Getting dressed,” he replied, like she was a complete idiot.
“What if my mother walked in here?” she bent over and threw his shirt at his bare chest, which he caught.
“Then she’d get a free show,” he twirled his shirt around his head like an expert, then laughed when she turned three shades of red. “And since when have you been a blusher?”
Buffy gasped, “I am not blushing,” then felt a new wave of heat radiate down her neck. Since when WAS she a blusher? She shook her head violently, “Agh! You’re impossible. Get dressed, find yourself something to eat, DON’T snoop through my things, and I’ll talk to you in a couple of hours.” Instructions complete, she turned and left the room, and the house, and him.
Three hours later found Spike reclined on the Summers’ couch; his bare feet up on the coffee table and eating chips. He was home alone and taking full advantage. He glanced around the living room. He could honestly say he felt at home here. The big house with its worn furniture and years of memory scratched into the hard wood floors. It was such a contrast to his rather sparse, antiseptic living space in his rent controlled New York apartment. Granted, it was rather posh where city apartments were concerned, but it didn’t feel like home – just a place where his bed happened to be.
Unlike Buffy, Spike could see himself living in a small town someday. One where everyone knew their neighbors, births and weddings were town affairs and babysitters were trustworthy and easy to find. In New York, his neighbors were an up and coming rock star who was never home and a few beatniks who had yet to realize that communism was just not happening in this country. But he didn’t have any plans on telling Buffy about his warm and fuzzy feelings. She’d castrate him. Buffy was still pretty bitter about where she came from but Spike couldn’t see how. Seemed like an alright place to him. Don’t get him wrong, Spike loved being a big city boy who knew how to quickly and correctly place an order at Starbucks and was in no particular hurry to slow down. Sunnydale was just a nice change of pace, is all. He ruminated on all of this during commercial breaks of an A-Team marathon. Five episodes in, a knock on the door tore him away from Mad Murdock and company.
The door opened and a burly, Boy Scout type stood on the porch. White teeth and a bouquet of daisies met the look of indifference on Spike’s face. This must be one of the townies Buffy talked about, come around to see the bride-to-me most likely.
“Is Buffy in?” the guy asked, a hopeful little look in his eye as he desperately tried to hide the look of disappointment that came over his face when Buffy didn’t answer the door.
Spike stood a little straighter. Well if this pillock was here for Buffy, Captain Cardboard wasn’t getting far. Besides, he thought, sneering at the spray clutched in the man’s big knuckles, Buffy preferred roses, not daisies.
“No. Who are you?” Spike asked, squaring his body to further block the doorway when the boyscout’s gaze wandered over his right shoulder.
The boy flung out his hand, “Riley Finn, I’m an old friend of Buffy’s. You must be Buffy’s city friend in for the wedding.” At Spike’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Word travels fast in this town,” he offered.
“I bet it does,” Spike replied in monotone. They stared at each other in silence. Spike watched as Finn rocked on his heels awkwardly. And Spike wasn’t about to save him.
“I offered to help set up for the ceremony,” Riley explained. The statement was met with silence. “So . . . when is Buffy expected back?”
“Don’t rightly know. She’s going to call when she’s done and I’m meetin’ her for lunch.” Spike purposely left the answer ambiguous. Let ‘im come to his own conclusions. Spike got his desired response when Finn’s eyes narrowed in what must signal his thinking process.
“I’m sorry, you said you were . . . ?”
“Spike,” he answered, purposefully using his nickname. There, let that spread around Small Town, USA. “She’ll see ya at the next barn raising,” Spike closed the door in Finn’s face and turned on his heels, pacing back to the couch.
He had changed his mind.
Small towns blow.
“I don’t like your boyfriend, pet,” Spike slid into the shiny, red diner booth across from Buffy.
She looked up from her plastic menu, puzzled, “My boyfr . . .”
“Ranger Joe came to call this afternoon,” Spike announced, interrupting her. God as his witness, he was not going to utter that name.
“Ranger Who?” she shook her head, her lips still puckered at the drawn out ‘who.’ “Spike, what are you talking about?”
Spike sighed, “Some guy named Finn,” he ground out.
He was annoyed. Walking around downtown Sunnydale was delightful, what with all the little, independently owned mom ‘n’ pop shops. But he couldn’t enjoy any of them because all he could concentrate on was this Finn character and who he was and what he meant to Buffy.
“Riley? What did he want?” Buffy’s slightly annoyed tone please him immensely.
“Don’t rightly know, don’t rightly care, what’s good here?” he picked up the menu and began to debate the merits of the BLT versus that of the grilled chicken sandwich.
Buffy put down hers, “Well he must have said something,” she insisted.
“Nope,” Spike answered instantly, continuing to peruse his menu, “came lookin’ for Dawn, even brought flowers for her. Told ‘im she was out to places unknown,” he fibbed tersely. He dropped his menu and looked Buffy in the eyes, “Any more insignificant others I should know about, pet?”
Right then, the waitress came to take their drink orders and to top-off Buffy’s coffee, but she took one look at the two of them in a staredown and she quickly retreated. Buffy, taken aback at his tone, put her forearms on the table and leaned toward him, “Hey, passive aggressive guy, you wanna take it down a few notches?” she hissed, glancing around to see if anyone else was watching the scene he was creating.
“What?” Spike chuckled brusquely. “Can’t take a joke? What?” he groused again when she continued to stare at him.
Buffy sat back in the booth and crossed her arms, “Sounds to me you’re a little jealous.”
“Hmph, jealous my ass. How was the dress shop?”
His hairpin turn of subject made her smile, but she said nothing. “Fine. I can’t believe it was so simple. As maid of honor I got to pick my own style. Though, Dawn wouldn’t let me get black. ‘Oh, Buffy, that is sooooo New York,’” she captured her sister’s voice perfectly, “‘And not in a good way.’” She returned to her own cadence, “I can’t believe the wedding’s tomorrow already,” she sighed.
Spike thought he saw a bit of remorse in her eyes. “Regret not coming a little earlier, pet?”
“No!” she sang at his raised eyebrow. He kept looking at her. “Seriously, Spike, I do not want to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary . . . now where’s our waitress?”
TBC
Spuffy: What You're Waiting For -- Chapter Three
CHAPTER 3 –
“What do you think of the word ‘choleric’?” She was sprawled out on her bed, laptop in front of her, contemplating her newest chapter on the unjustified anger of men when their cheating is discovered.
“It’s pretentious,” Spike retorted, his eyes never leaving the collection of yearbooks and photo albums he had discovered hidden away in the depths of her closet. He was reclined on the floor with his back against her bed, lazily flipping through each of them. “Who’s Will?”
“Huh?” she asked, only half paying attention to him.
“Buffy,” he recited out of the yearbook in front of him, “I love you more than anyone and I’m so glad I met you. Blah, blah, blah. Love Will.” He craned his neck to face her, “Who’s Will?”
“My high school lover,” she answered absentmindedly, concentration not leaving the computer screen.
“What!? Buffy, this is your sophomore yearbook,” he pointed, “It’s says here he loves some bloke named Xander too. What kind of freaky shit were you into, Summers?”
At his tone, Buffy tore her eyes from her Word document. He was really starting to get worked up.
“Will,” she emphasized, “Is short for Willow. I was joking about the lover thing.” She reconsidered, “Well, she is gay now so . . .”
“Oh,” he replied, considerably calmer. “Well then who’s Xander?”
“Xander and Willow were my best friends from high school,” she gestured to a photo next to him on the floor for proof. “I haven’t seen or talked to them in years,” her sentence trailed off, a flicker of sadness behind her eyes, but she quickly shook it away, back to her writing.
Spike lifted the picture in the air, studying it, “You going to look them up while you’re in town?”
Buffy nodded, “I should. They are coming to the wedding.”
Spike raised his brow, “Sure are a close knit bunch around here, aren’t you?”
“Part of our small town charm,” she answered, noticeably unimpressed by her home.
Spike glanced at the clock, “Wait, weren’t you supposed to be shopping for bridesmaid dresses or something?”
“Not until tomorrow,” she answered, “I didn’t want to go, but unless I want to get stuck with some tapioca nightmare, I’m going to have to suck it up. Dawn’s agreed to let me pick it out myself if I grace her with my presence.”
“Buffy! William! Dinner’s ready!” Her mother’s voice floated up the stairs.
Buffy turned to him in shock, “William? You let her call you William?”
Spike threw the books he was pouring over aside, getting up from the floor, “I told her she could call me that if she wanted to,” he shrugged, offering her a hand to help her up from the bed.
“You don’t let me call you William,” Buffy accused indignantly, following him down the stairs.
He shook his head, “I never said you couldn’t. You just don’t.”
“Huh,” Buffy huffed, mulling over his words in her head.
Thirty minutes later, her family was predictably engrossed in the many facets of William “Spike” Giles. Buffy poked at her mashed potatoes while questions were volleyed around the table.
“Where did you go to school, Spike?” her mother asked, all eyes on him.
“Oxford. I majored in English Literature,” he replied, relaxed. Too relaxed for being in a room full of nosey people he’s known less than twenty-four hours, Buffy thought.
“And you chose to be an editor? Why didn’t you become a writer?”
Buffy scoffed, “If you saw the office he has and his bank statement you wouldn’t be asking that question.”
“You make good money?” Joyce inquired after shooting her daughter a disappointed look at her rudeness.
“Yeah, and half of it’s due to me,” Buffy teased.
Spike rolled his eyes, “Yes, Joyce, the money is good, and I do freelance on the side. Being an editor allows me to write only when I want to and about the subjects I choose. It allows me to be picky and takes the pressure off. That way,” he added, a mischievous smirk on his face, as he looked at Buffy, “I don’t turn into an irrational phobic mess like your eldest here.”
“Yeah, who’s laughing all the way to the bank in her Jimmy Choos,” Buffy shot back, making a show of forking her salad into her mouth. “If my current lifestyle has been working so well for me so far, I see no need to change it,” she snipped.
Her mother leaned into the table, “Yes, but Buffy, when are you going to settle down and get married?”
“When I find a man who has more balls than I do,” she deadpanned.
Buffy was used to these remarks. When she had first told her family she was moving to New York to be a writer, you would have thought she had denounced God and declared herself a Satanist. The big city was a big scary thing for her family – a mysterious place. For months afterward, Joyce had told the inquisitive neighbors that her oldest daughter had gone to visit relatives, hoping Buffy would see the light and return home. And, just in case Buffy needed any more encouragement, every few days another envelope from her mother would arrive with newspaper clippings from The New York Times she had picked up from a bookstore. All the headlines were about rape, murder, or larceny.
“Can we be excused?” Buffy asked. Not waiting for a response she grabbed Spike’s arm, wrenched him out of his chair, and led him out of the kitchen.
Hours later found them outside on the side porch nursing beers. Buffy sat on the railing and Spike across from her, leaning against the house.
“What about your dad? Is he coming to the wedding?” Spike took a swig from his bottle.
Buffy huffed, “We’ll see,” she said doubtfully.
“Don’t you want him to pull through?”
“I don’t want him to suddenly pull through, no,” she looked off into the trees of her backyard.
Spike smirked a little. Buffy’s capacity to be self-centered amazed him sometimes. So did her capacity for complete selflessness. It was all or nothing with her. “Well good thing this wedding has nothing to do with you and what you want then, isn’t it?”
She whipped her head around, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, “Means your sis and mum want him there, so he should be.”
Buffy squared her shoulders, “But it’s the same thing every damn time he comes! He disappears to Spain for a few years with some secretary, shows up for one family event, and instantly he’s the most wonderful father and man on the planet! It makes no sense!”
“So glad you didn’t come out of the divorce bitter,” he commented dryly.
“Just like you handled your mother’s death so well?” It was a low blow but she didn’t care. That was a dicey piece of his history that not many were privy to and she knew it. “He left and turned my mother into a statistic.”
“Divorce made her a statistic? You convince thousands of women a year to leave their husbands just with one of those little books of yours!” he marveled.
“They are in unhappy marriages! They are desperate . . .”
“No,” he drawled, “you’re desperate. They are in flawed relationships. The first sign of a problem, even if it’s as trivial as leaving the toilet seat up, you’re running scared. And you’re teaching millions of women to do same.”
“What? Am I teaching the women you date to not put up with your crap and you’re all pissed? For a man who goes through women like socks, you fight an awful lot.”
“And for a woman who claims to have no intimacy problems with men you’re awfully quick to give up on them.”
“I help women get out of flawed and abusive relationships.”
“But you don’t write for that crowd. No, you write for women like you,” he took a few steps toward her, examining her, “mid to late twenties and unwilling to stay and work for it. You want it handed to you with a nice little bow.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, but you . . .”
“Stop it,” she ground out, holding up her hand. “Stop pretending you know every little facet of me because you don’t,” she stood and pushed past him into the house.
“Fine. ‘Cause this fight we’re having is probably going to be a chapter in your book!” he shouted after her, cursing under his breath. He took a couple long gulps of his beer, emptying it. He looked at the bottle, not really seeing the label. It was that tone. That cold, dead tone she used. Shouting he could stand. She could yell at him all she wanted, it didn’t faze him. It was when she turned all ice queen on him that really pissed him off, turning all her emotions off and completely disengaging. From him. From life. Channeling all his frustration and rage, he chucked the bottle into the woods, hearing the satisfying shattering of glass.
An uneasiness Spike couldn’t explain woke him a couple hours later. He lifted his head from the mattress on Buffy’s floor. There had been an argument about his sleeping arrangements earlier in the day. When Buffy’s mom found out Buffy had banished him to the cot in the basement, she chastised her daughter for a good solid hour. Buffy had given in, apologized to her mother for such blatant mistreatment of their houseguest, and offered to make him a bed on the sofa. Joyce had shot down that idea right off the bat because A. There was a draft in the living room and B. The rest of the family (Buffy excluded) were early risers and would be disturbing his sleep that he so honorably earned in his nine to five desk job. So, here he was on an extra mattress piled full of more pillows and blankets than one would ever need in California, next to Buffy’s bed.
A bed which, at the moment she was not in. A glance at the clock proved his suspicion of the late hour. Even Buffy, who heralded the genius that came to her late at night, usually forced herself into bed by now.
After their fight, possibly one of their ugliest (and that was saying something) Spike had stormed upstairs and fallen into a fitful sleep. Spike stilled and listened for any rustling in the house and heard absolutely nothing. He tried to force himself back to sleep. She probably bunked with her sis for the night, too pissed off to be in the same room as him. But something propelled him up and off of his comfy bed and his bare feet hit the cold wood floor of the hallway.
The thought of peeking in Dawn’s room to see if Buffy was there crossed his mind, but the potential shadiness of the action convinced him otherwise. Padding down the stairs as quietly as he could manage, he hit the foyer and hung a right to the living room. He was rewarded by finding a lightly snoring Buffy asleep at her laptop at the desk in the living room, her head and arm over the keys and her screensaver (a series of pictures which included some of the two of them) floating across the screen.
He stood and watched her for a moment, but took mercy on her for the crick in her neck she was likely to have in the morning. He approached her and gently rubbed her bare arm, whispering her name. When she didn’t budge an inch, he repeated her name a little louder, accompanying it with a brush of her hair out of her face. Her face scrunched up in agitation, the little crinkles appeared between her brows and her lips visibly pouted. A small growl made its way from the back of her throat. Spike decided that he was getting nowhere fast. And even if he did succeed in waking her, he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with the mood she was likely to be in.
Mind made up, he softly slid his hand under her head, trying not to jostle her too much. Clearing her head from her keyboard, he powered off the notebook and closed it. Now without the light from the screen, moonlight singularly illuminated the room. Sliding her from the chair, he easily scooped her up into his arms. Still sleeping, Buffy leaned into his chest, one hand bunching into his t-shirt. He carried her upstairs and back into her bedroom. Pulling down the covers, he managed to slide her into bed without waking her. But just before he settled himself back onto his makeshift bed, he tucked the hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead.
“‘Night Buffy.”
TBC
A/N: The “more balls than I do” line was taken from Salma Hayek.
“What do you think of the word ‘choleric’?” She was sprawled out on her bed, laptop in front of her, contemplating her newest chapter on the unjustified anger of men when their cheating is discovered.
“It’s pretentious,” Spike retorted, his eyes never leaving the collection of yearbooks and photo albums he had discovered hidden away in the depths of her closet. He was reclined on the floor with his back against her bed, lazily flipping through each of them. “Who’s Will?”
“Huh?” she asked, only half paying attention to him.
“Buffy,” he recited out of the yearbook in front of him, “I love you more than anyone and I’m so glad I met you. Blah, blah, blah. Love Will.” He craned his neck to face her, “Who’s Will?”
“My high school lover,” she answered absentmindedly, concentration not leaving the computer screen.
“What!? Buffy, this is your sophomore yearbook,” he pointed, “It’s says here he loves some bloke named Xander too. What kind of freaky shit were you into, Summers?”
At his tone, Buffy tore her eyes from her Word document. He was really starting to get worked up.
“Will,” she emphasized, “Is short for Willow. I was joking about the lover thing.” She reconsidered, “Well, she is gay now so . . .”
“Oh,” he replied, considerably calmer. “Well then who’s Xander?”
“Xander and Willow were my best friends from high school,” she gestured to a photo next to him on the floor for proof. “I haven’t seen or talked to them in years,” her sentence trailed off, a flicker of sadness behind her eyes, but she quickly shook it away, back to her writing.
Spike lifted the picture in the air, studying it, “You going to look them up while you’re in town?”
Buffy nodded, “I should. They are coming to the wedding.”
Spike raised his brow, “Sure are a close knit bunch around here, aren’t you?”
“Part of our small town charm,” she answered, noticeably unimpressed by her home.
Spike glanced at the clock, “Wait, weren’t you supposed to be shopping for bridesmaid dresses or something?”
“Not until tomorrow,” she answered, “I didn’t want to go, but unless I want to get stuck with some tapioca nightmare, I’m going to have to suck it up. Dawn’s agreed to let me pick it out myself if I grace her with my presence.”
“Buffy! William! Dinner’s ready!” Her mother’s voice floated up the stairs.
Buffy turned to him in shock, “William? You let her call you William?”
Spike threw the books he was pouring over aside, getting up from the floor, “I told her she could call me that if she wanted to,” he shrugged, offering her a hand to help her up from the bed.
“You don’t let me call you William,” Buffy accused indignantly, following him down the stairs.
He shook his head, “I never said you couldn’t. You just don’t.”
“Huh,” Buffy huffed, mulling over his words in her head.
Thirty minutes later, her family was predictably engrossed in the many facets of William “Spike” Giles. Buffy poked at her mashed potatoes while questions were volleyed around the table.
“Where did you go to school, Spike?” her mother asked, all eyes on him.
“Oxford. I majored in English Literature,” he replied, relaxed. Too relaxed for being in a room full of nosey people he’s known less than twenty-four hours, Buffy thought.
“And you chose to be an editor? Why didn’t you become a writer?”
Buffy scoffed, “If you saw the office he has and his bank statement you wouldn’t be asking that question.”
“You make good money?” Joyce inquired after shooting her daughter a disappointed look at her rudeness.
“Yeah, and half of it’s due to me,” Buffy teased.
Spike rolled his eyes, “Yes, Joyce, the money is good, and I do freelance on the side. Being an editor allows me to write only when I want to and about the subjects I choose. It allows me to be picky and takes the pressure off. That way,” he added, a mischievous smirk on his face, as he looked at Buffy, “I don’t turn into an irrational phobic mess like your eldest here.”
“Yeah, who’s laughing all the way to the bank in her Jimmy Choos,” Buffy shot back, making a show of forking her salad into her mouth. “If my current lifestyle has been working so well for me so far, I see no need to change it,” she snipped.
Her mother leaned into the table, “Yes, but Buffy, when are you going to settle down and get married?”
“When I find a man who has more balls than I do,” she deadpanned.
Buffy was used to these remarks. When she had first told her family she was moving to New York to be a writer, you would have thought she had denounced God and declared herself a Satanist. The big city was a big scary thing for her family – a mysterious place. For months afterward, Joyce had told the inquisitive neighbors that her oldest daughter had gone to visit relatives, hoping Buffy would see the light and return home. And, just in case Buffy needed any more encouragement, every few days another envelope from her mother would arrive with newspaper clippings from The New York Times she had picked up from a bookstore. All the headlines were about rape, murder, or larceny.
“Can we be excused?” Buffy asked. Not waiting for a response she grabbed Spike’s arm, wrenched him out of his chair, and led him out of the kitchen.
Hours later found them outside on the side porch nursing beers. Buffy sat on the railing and Spike across from her, leaning against the house.
“What about your dad? Is he coming to the wedding?” Spike took a swig from his bottle.
Buffy huffed, “We’ll see,” she said doubtfully.
“Don’t you want him to pull through?”
“I don’t want him to suddenly pull through, no,” she looked off into the trees of her backyard.
Spike smirked a little. Buffy’s capacity to be self-centered amazed him sometimes. So did her capacity for complete selflessness. It was all or nothing with her. “Well good thing this wedding has nothing to do with you and what you want then, isn’t it?”
She whipped her head around, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, “Means your sis and mum want him there, so he should be.”
Buffy squared her shoulders, “But it’s the same thing every damn time he comes! He disappears to Spain for a few years with some secretary, shows up for one family event, and instantly he’s the most wonderful father and man on the planet! It makes no sense!”
“So glad you didn’t come out of the divorce bitter,” he commented dryly.
“Just like you handled your mother’s death so well?” It was a low blow but she didn’t care. That was a dicey piece of his history that not many were privy to and she knew it. “He left and turned my mother into a statistic.”
“Divorce made her a statistic? You convince thousands of women a year to leave their husbands just with one of those little books of yours!” he marveled.
“They are in unhappy marriages! They are desperate . . .”
“No,” he drawled, “you’re desperate. They are in flawed relationships. The first sign of a problem, even if it’s as trivial as leaving the toilet seat up, you’re running scared. And you’re teaching millions of women to do same.”
“What? Am I teaching the women you date to not put up with your crap and you’re all pissed? For a man who goes through women like socks, you fight an awful lot.”
“And for a woman who claims to have no intimacy problems with men you’re awfully quick to give up on them.”
“I help women get out of flawed and abusive relationships.”
“But you don’t write for that crowd. No, you write for women like you,” he took a few steps toward her, examining her, “mid to late twenties and unwilling to stay and work for it. You want it handed to you with a nice little bow.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, but you . . .”
“Stop it,” she ground out, holding up her hand. “Stop pretending you know every little facet of me because you don’t,” she stood and pushed past him into the house.
“Fine. ‘Cause this fight we’re having is probably going to be a chapter in your book!” he shouted after her, cursing under his breath. He took a couple long gulps of his beer, emptying it. He looked at the bottle, not really seeing the label. It was that tone. That cold, dead tone she used. Shouting he could stand. She could yell at him all she wanted, it didn’t faze him. It was when she turned all ice queen on him that really pissed him off, turning all her emotions off and completely disengaging. From him. From life. Channeling all his frustration and rage, he chucked the bottle into the woods, hearing the satisfying shattering of glass.
An uneasiness Spike couldn’t explain woke him a couple hours later. He lifted his head from the mattress on Buffy’s floor. There had been an argument about his sleeping arrangements earlier in the day. When Buffy’s mom found out Buffy had banished him to the cot in the basement, she chastised her daughter for a good solid hour. Buffy had given in, apologized to her mother for such blatant mistreatment of their houseguest, and offered to make him a bed on the sofa. Joyce had shot down that idea right off the bat because A. There was a draft in the living room and B. The rest of the family (Buffy excluded) were early risers and would be disturbing his sleep that he so honorably earned in his nine to five desk job. So, here he was on an extra mattress piled full of more pillows and blankets than one would ever need in California, next to Buffy’s bed.
A bed which, at the moment she was not in. A glance at the clock proved his suspicion of the late hour. Even Buffy, who heralded the genius that came to her late at night, usually forced herself into bed by now.
After their fight, possibly one of their ugliest (and that was saying something) Spike had stormed upstairs and fallen into a fitful sleep. Spike stilled and listened for any rustling in the house and heard absolutely nothing. He tried to force himself back to sleep. She probably bunked with her sis for the night, too pissed off to be in the same room as him. But something propelled him up and off of his comfy bed and his bare feet hit the cold wood floor of the hallway.
The thought of peeking in Dawn’s room to see if Buffy was there crossed his mind, but the potential shadiness of the action convinced him otherwise. Padding down the stairs as quietly as he could manage, he hit the foyer and hung a right to the living room. He was rewarded by finding a lightly snoring Buffy asleep at her laptop at the desk in the living room, her head and arm over the keys and her screensaver (a series of pictures which included some of the two of them) floating across the screen.
He stood and watched her for a moment, but took mercy on her for the crick in her neck she was likely to have in the morning. He approached her and gently rubbed her bare arm, whispering her name. When she didn’t budge an inch, he repeated her name a little louder, accompanying it with a brush of her hair out of her face. Her face scrunched up in agitation, the little crinkles appeared between her brows and her lips visibly pouted. A small growl made its way from the back of her throat. Spike decided that he was getting nowhere fast. And even if he did succeed in waking her, he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with the mood she was likely to be in.
Mind made up, he softly slid his hand under her head, trying not to jostle her too much. Clearing her head from her keyboard, he powered off the notebook and closed it. Now without the light from the screen, moonlight singularly illuminated the room. Sliding her from the chair, he easily scooped her up into his arms. Still sleeping, Buffy leaned into his chest, one hand bunching into his t-shirt. He carried her upstairs and back into her bedroom. Pulling down the covers, he managed to slide her into bed without waking her. But just before he settled himself back onto his makeshift bed, he tucked the hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead.
“‘Night Buffy.”
TBC
A/N: The “more balls than I do” line was taken from Salma Hayek.
Spuffy: What You're Waiting For -- Chapter Two
CHAPTER 2 –
“Are you daft? Buffy, I am not going to your sister’s wedding with you. I don’t even know your sister.”
“Neither will half the random relatives there,” she defended.
Her nonchalance flabbergasted him, “Summers, it’s on the other side of the bloody country!” He whipped his arm out for effect, drawing the attention of the tourists who weren’t accustomed to the crazy locals. “Chances are you’ll whip out a pen in the middle of the ceremony and start taking notes on all the wrong reasons to be getting married in this day and age. Turn it into a book,” he grumbled, beginning to walk away.
He was crumbling and she knew it. He always averted those expressive blue eyes of his when he was weakening. “Which is all the more reason for you to be there with me,” she argued. “We will have been working on the book all they way up to the ceremony itself, therefore I will feel no need to be working on it during.” She gave him her winningest smile, satisfied she had stated her case.
“You’re off your bird,” he threw out, shaking his head.
ONE WEEK LATER . . .
“Buffy! You didn’t tell me you were bringing your boyfriend!” Joyce Summers exclaimed after the front door of the house on Revello Drive swung open.
“He’s not my . . .” Joyce’s eldest tried to explain but was unceremoniously pushed to the side by her relative. Buffy was left to stand idle in the doorway as her mother fawned over her new houseguest, ushering him into the kitchen with promises of hot chocolate with little marshmallows. Buffy jumped as a pair of long arms banded themselves around her waist.
“You came!” Dawn squealed.
“Of course I came,” Buffy replied, as if there had never been a question of her attendance.
Her sister didn’t seem so convinced.
“Come on, I wanna show you something,” Dawn started up the stairs with Buffy at her heels.
Dawn made a ceremony of opening up the door of Buffy’s childhood bedroom. Whereas the eldest Summers daughter expected to be greeted by her dated New Kids On the Block poster, she was instead met by a big conglomerate of white silk and lace taking up the majority of the bed.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Dawn exclaimed, picking up the wedding dress and twirling about the room with it.
“It’s something alright,” Buffy replied noncommittally.
Dawn plopped herself and the dress down onto the bed dejectedly and Buffy instantly regretted her lack of enthusiasm.
“Buffy, I know weddings are your thing and stuff, but can’t MY wedding be an exception? I really want you to be okay with this.”
“I’m happy for you, Dawnie, really,” Buffy said with true sincerity, wrapping her sister in a hug.
“Good,” she nodded breaking the embrace, satisfied for the time being, “Now, who’s the sex on legs downstairs?”
“Dawn!” Buffy said appalled.
She received a well-practiced eye roll from her sister, “Oh, come on, Buffy, I’m getting married in mere days. You don’t think me and Connor have never . . .”
Buffy’s eyes widened comically, “I am so not hearing this.” She placed her hands over her ears for emphasis.
Dawn laughed at her sister’s discomfort. “Come on, who is he? And don’t tell me he’s just your editor. I know you just told mom that.”
“Really, that’s all there is,” Buffy insisted, running her fingers over Dawn’s dress. She got a doubtful look from the bride-to-be. “Believe me, he’s only showing interest because I’m uncharted territory.”
“I don’t think so,” Dawn sang, prancing out of the room.
Buffy sighed, moving to clear the bed of wedding paraphernalia so she would have somewhere to sleep. The clocked glared a quarter past midnight, and Buffy yawned, exhausted from their numerous connecting flights.
A light knock on the doorframe brought her attention to Spike leaning in the doorway, the top few buttons of his sky blue dress shirt undone, showing off his collarbone.
“You’re family’s great,” he noted, entering the bedroom, not bothering to hide his blatant examination of her belongings, “Though your mother won’t stop trying to feed me.”
He reached around behind her, extracting some long ago forgotten item. With a quirked eyebrow he brought to her face a stuffed pig that had seen better days.
“Mr. Gordo,” she answered his unvoiced question.
“Of course,” he replied. He tossed the pig into the air, “I bet this little pig has witness all sorts of goings on in this room, curled up in bed with you at night . . .” he let the suggestive remark hang there.
“No, Spike, only your girlfriends would take part in bestiality,” she shot back.
Spike tilted his head, as if considering her for the first time and entertaining an epiphany simultaneously, “You say I’m a whoring bastard like all the other men in the world. What have I ever shown you that would lead you to crown me with that dubious title? Have I ever paraded girls in and out of my office? Received numerous phone calls in one night?”
No, he hadn’t done any of those things. In all reality, she couldn’t even name one of his girlfriends. Had he even had any since she’s known him? Well, she had caught him flirting with another author, Faith, but Buffy knew Faith flirted with everyone and it hadn’t gone beyond that. Besides, the dark fiction writer had moved out to L.A. since then and nobody had heard from her.
Buffy shook her head, unable to come up with a response, “You’re a pig, Spike.”
Spike smiled, “No, I believe that honor goes to Mr. Gordo.” He handed the stuffed swine to her. “Just something to think about, Summers. Goodnight.”
He turned his back on her and shut the door, leaving her confused.
TBC
“Are you daft? Buffy, I am not going to your sister’s wedding with you. I don’t even know your sister.”
“Neither will half the random relatives there,” she defended.
Her nonchalance flabbergasted him, “Summers, it’s on the other side of the bloody country!” He whipped his arm out for effect, drawing the attention of the tourists who weren’t accustomed to the crazy locals. “Chances are you’ll whip out a pen in the middle of the ceremony and start taking notes on all the wrong reasons to be getting married in this day and age. Turn it into a book,” he grumbled, beginning to walk away.
He was crumbling and she knew it. He always averted those expressive blue eyes of his when he was weakening. “Which is all the more reason for you to be there with me,” she argued. “We will have been working on the book all they way up to the ceremony itself, therefore I will feel no need to be working on it during.” She gave him her winningest smile, satisfied she had stated her case.
“You’re off your bird,” he threw out, shaking his head.
ONE WEEK LATER . . .
“Buffy! You didn’t tell me you were bringing your boyfriend!” Joyce Summers exclaimed after the front door of the house on Revello Drive swung open.
“He’s not my . . .” Joyce’s eldest tried to explain but was unceremoniously pushed to the side by her relative. Buffy was left to stand idle in the doorway as her mother fawned over her new houseguest, ushering him into the kitchen with promises of hot chocolate with little marshmallows. Buffy jumped as a pair of long arms banded themselves around her waist.
“You came!” Dawn squealed.
“Of course I came,” Buffy replied, as if there had never been a question of her attendance.
Her sister didn’t seem so convinced.
“Come on, I wanna show you something,” Dawn started up the stairs with Buffy at her heels.
Dawn made a ceremony of opening up the door of Buffy’s childhood bedroom. Whereas the eldest Summers daughter expected to be greeted by her dated New Kids On the Block poster, she was instead met by a big conglomerate of white silk and lace taking up the majority of the bed.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Dawn exclaimed, picking up the wedding dress and twirling about the room with it.
“It’s something alright,” Buffy replied noncommittally.
Dawn plopped herself and the dress down onto the bed dejectedly and Buffy instantly regretted her lack of enthusiasm.
“Buffy, I know weddings are your thing and stuff, but can’t MY wedding be an exception? I really want you to be okay with this.”
“I’m happy for you, Dawnie, really,” Buffy said with true sincerity, wrapping her sister in a hug.
“Good,” she nodded breaking the embrace, satisfied for the time being, “Now, who’s the sex on legs downstairs?”
“Dawn!” Buffy said appalled.
She received a well-practiced eye roll from her sister, “Oh, come on, Buffy, I’m getting married in mere days. You don’t think me and Connor have never . . .”
Buffy’s eyes widened comically, “I am so not hearing this.” She placed her hands over her ears for emphasis.
Dawn laughed at her sister’s discomfort. “Come on, who is he? And don’t tell me he’s just your editor. I know you just told mom that.”
“Really, that’s all there is,” Buffy insisted, running her fingers over Dawn’s dress. She got a doubtful look from the bride-to-be. “Believe me, he’s only showing interest because I’m uncharted territory.”
“I don’t think so,” Dawn sang, prancing out of the room.
Buffy sighed, moving to clear the bed of wedding paraphernalia so she would have somewhere to sleep. The clocked glared a quarter past midnight, and Buffy yawned, exhausted from their numerous connecting flights.
A light knock on the doorframe brought her attention to Spike leaning in the doorway, the top few buttons of his sky blue dress shirt undone, showing off his collarbone.
“You’re family’s great,” he noted, entering the bedroom, not bothering to hide his blatant examination of her belongings, “Though your mother won’t stop trying to feed me.”
He reached around behind her, extracting some long ago forgotten item. With a quirked eyebrow he brought to her face a stuffed pig that had seen better days.
“Mr. Gordo,” she answered his unvoiced question.
“Of course,” he replied. He tossed the pig into the air, “I bet this little pig has witness all sorts of goings on in this room, curled up in bed with you at night . . .” he let the suggestive remark hang there.
“No, Spike, only your girlfriends would take part in bestiality,” she shot back.
Spike tilted his head, as if considering her for the first time and entertaining an epiphany simultaneously, “You say I’m a whoring bastard like all the other men in the world. What have I ever shown you that would lead you to crown me with that dubious title? Have I ever paraded girls in and out of my office? Received numerous phone calls in one night?”
No, he hadn’t done any of those things. In all reality, she couldn’t even name one of his girlfriends. Had he even had any since she’s known him? Well, she had caught him flirting with another author, Faith, but Buffy knew Faith flirted with everyone and it hadn’t gone beyond that. Besides, the dark fiction writer had moved out to L.A. since then and nobody had heard from her.
Buffy shook her head, unable to come up with a response, “You’re a pig, Spike.”
Spike smiled, “No, I believe that honor goes to Mr. Gordo.” He handed the stuffed swine to her. “Just something to think about, Summers. Goodnight.”
He turned his back on her and shut the door, leaving her confused.
TBC
Spuffy: What You're Waiting For -- Chapter One
TITLE: What You’re Waiting For
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Buffy Summers is a jaded writer. Spike Giles is her editor. When Buffy is summoned home for a family affair in the midst of her latest novel, she drags New York back home with her to little ol’ Sunnydale. Her two worlds are going to collide. And nothing will ever be the same.
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy Summers yawned, re-crossing her legs in the plush leather chair on which she perched. Wishing she would have brought a magazine, she took to glancing about the room, searching for some aspect that she hadn’t noticed before. The rectangular office she sat in was more than familiar. She could map it out in her head – a wooden door led into the deep red toned room, an appropriate color for its dramatic owner. Its décor was minimal. A fireplace was built into the wall behind her. Swanky was an appropriate term. Only in New York.
Across from her, behind his mahogany desk sat her editor, William “Spike” Giles, both elbows on the smooth top as he hunched over her latest manuscript, thin frames perched on his nose.
Buffy fidgeted her hands in her lap. No matter how many chapters of her writing he read, and he had read every word she had written since she arrived in the Big Apple four years ago, she was still nervous for his opinion.
Sensing movement out of the corner of her eye, her gaze shot to the man in front of her. When he did nothing but turn the page and continue reading, failing to acknowledge her annoyance, she sighed deeply.
Why she subjected herself to this torture time and time again, she didn’t know. A sadist when it came to her writing, Buffy always chose to hang around his office while he poured over her writings. She wouldn’t let him go home to read it, like he did so many of his other clients. She wanted him to read her stuff right then and now and give her instant responses. She had tried leaving her manuscript with him overnight once, but she was so nerve wracked that she couldn’t sleep. Would he spill something on it? Or would someone steal it while he was at the gym? What if he read it and forgot to tell her some important aspect of his review the next time he saw her? He would have read numerous transcripts by then and would have forgotten the whole ambiance of the piece!
Ten minutes later, Buffy held her breath, straightening her spine, and waited for his final verdict.
He looked up at her.
“Your last sentence doesn’t make any sense.”
Making a noise of indignation, Buffy stood defiantly, coming to lean over behind him, reading the sentence he was pointing to. “Yes it does,” she said finally.
Spike shook his head, “It’s grammatically incorrect in so many ways it makes my head spin.”
“I’m experimenting with language,” she defended haughtily. “Who was Shakespeare if not a daring wordsmith?”
He shot her a look, “You’re hardly the Bard. And the fact that you would stoop so low as to use my idol against me does nothing but show your desperation.”
“Well other than the last sentence . . . which we’re keeping,” she added determinedly at his look he gave her over his glasses, moving back around the desk, “what do you think?”
He sighed, pushing the chair out from under him and standing up, “Yet another brilliant manifesto on how all men are pigs who take pride in nothing but sowing our wild oats and lying to you fairer sex.”
“Really?” She squealed, “Brilliant?” she asked, ignoring the rest of his unenthusiastic tirade.
“I’m sure you’ll sell millions, yet again, to the bitter women of the world,” he waved his hand toward the large window to his right, gesturing to the potential buyers that walked the streets ten floors below them, his voice lacking in excitement.
He walked around the perimeter of his desk, gathering up piles of papers and sliding them into his briefcase, Buffy hot on his heels and making her way to follow him out the door.
“So when you say ‘brilliant,’ is that more brilliant than my last book? Or is it a different kind of brilliant, because I think this one has a much different tone. Do you think I may loose some people or am I only in a situation to gain?”
“Summers,” he interrupted, “you are the only writer that I edit who I am also friends with outside work. You are the only one I have given my home address and phone number to. Please don’t make me regret it.” He made his way around the group of people exiting the elevator, entering and pressing the down button. Buffy came to a rest next to him.
“I’m dedicated,” she commented.
“You’re neurotic,” he answered as the doors closed.
Leaving the building, they waited for the light, crossing the congested New York street, Spike in his dark grey Armani suit, coffee in hand, and Buffy hurrying along beside him as much as she could in her sensible brown skirt, suit top, and heels.
“It’s Friday, Summers, why don’t you take some time off and relax? That’s what I plan to do.” They safely navigated the zigzagging taxis and reached the sidewalk. Spike spun in front of her, “Come out with me tonight,” he requested smoothly.
But not smooth enough, as Buffy easily dodged his statement with ease, “I’m afraid your idea of relaxation – a/k/a whoring your way around New York . . .”
“How many years have I known you, Summers?” he interrupted.
“Four and you’ve been trying to get into my pants for three of them,” she countered coolly. “I’m sorry, Spike, but it’s just not my idea of a good time.” She moved to go around him, but he blocked her path.
“I’ll show you enough good times to fill two of those books of yours,” he stated cockily, giving her a promisingly heated look that, for a split second, had her thinking twice. But years of practice had her brushing off the notion as ludicrous within seconds.
She looked at him, astounded by his persistence, “Where does this misguided optimism of yours come from?”
“Who was it?” he challenged, ignoring her question.
She shook her head in confusion, “Who was who?” She continued her way down the street.
“The man who ruined you for the rest of us,” he said, following her.
“For the rest of you?” she balked, “Like I’m some kind of buffet?”
Truthfully, there hadn’t been that many given the chance to ‘ruin her’. But those who had had been doosies. Firstly, there had been Angel. Who, to make a long and very melodramatic story short, left her after they graduated because he knew ‘it was best for her’. For about five seconds, there had been Parker, who had come closest to breaking her spirit. And then there was Riley, who had had the misguided notion that men were to protect women. When he discovered that Buffy was strong and independent enough to take care of herself and didn’t need to rely on him in any way, he bolted to places unknown. All these men and, as some New York shrinks would suggest, her father, left her with a jaded (and some would say bitter) outlook on romance. But the common factor of all of them? She had been perfectly content until they had decided it was over.
“Well you just wait for my next chapter,” she warned Spike. “It has to do with my friend Willow’s first love. First, she catches him in bed with another woman. Actually, it was the floor, but anyway, he up and leaves her without so much as saying goodbye and . . .”
The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her.
“Hello?” she answered brightly, only for her voice to drop into an annoyed anger, “Oh, hi. She’s what!? When? No, I absolutely cannot. This is unacceptable.” There was a pause as the person on the other line stated their case. “You know what? Fine.” She slammed the phone shut.
“Arch nemesis?” Spike questioned nodding to her phone, noting her hostile tone.
“Mother,” she answered in a huff. “I have to go home for my sister’s wedding in two weeks and this is the kind of warning I get.”
“Shotgun wedding?” he questioned the abruptness of the nuptials.
“No, we all had a pretty good idea this was coming. Since they met two years ago they’ve been joined at the hip.” Spike detected a hint of snarl in her voice.
“You don’t sound very happy for her.”
“They’re twenty -- much too young to be getting married.”
Spike shrugged, “They found each other and want to start their life together sooner rather than later. What’s so wrong with that?”
“They can’t even legally drink to their own toast,” Buffy merely grumbled in response.
“Well, good,” Spike remarked, “You can get some well-needed relaxation and fax me those chapters by the end of the week.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped, “I can’t do that!” She shook her head, “No, way.” She whipped out her cell, “I’ll just call my mother back and tell her I can’t make it. There’s just no way . . .”
Seeing she was serious, Spike grabbed the phone out of her reaching fingers, “You will do no such thing. You are going to your sister’s wedding,” he told her sternly. “You’re just going to have to suck it up about those chapters of yours because I will not be there to hold your hand.” She didn’t pitch the fit he thought she would, and instead cocked her head to look at him strangely. “What?”
“I have a proposition.”
TBC
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Buffy Summers is a jaded writer. Spike Giles is her editor. When Buffy is summoned home for a family affair in the midst of her latest novel, she drags New York back home with her to little ol’ Sunnydale. Her two worlds are going to collide. And nothing will ever be the same.
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy Summers yawned, re-crossing her legs in the plush leather chair on which she perched. Wishing she would have brought a magazine, she took to glancing about the room, searching for some aspect that she hadn’t noticed before. The rectangular office she sat in was more than familiar. She could map it out in her head – a wooden door led into the deep red toned room, an appropriate color for its dramatic owner. Its décor was minimal. A fireplace was built into the wall behind her. Swanky was an appropriate term. Only in New York.
Across from her, behind his mahogany desk sat her editor, William “Spike” Giles, both elbows on the smooth top as he hunched over her latest manuscript, thin frames perched on his nose.
Buffy fidgeted her hands in her lap. No matter how many chapters of her writing he read, and he had read every word she had written since she arrived in the Big Apple four years ago, she was still nervous for his opinion.
Sensing movement out of the corner of her eye, her gaze shot to the man in front of her. When he did nothing but turn the page and continue reading, failing to acknowledge her annoyance, she sighed deeply.
Why she subjected herself to this torture time and time again, she didn’t know. A sadist when it came to her writing, Buffy always chose to hang around his office while he poured over her writings. She wouldn’t let him go home to read it, like he did so many of his other clients. She wanted him to read her stuff right then and now and give her instant responses. She had tried leaving her manuscript with him overnight once, but she was so nerve wracked that she couldn’t sleep. Would he spill something on it? Or would someone steal it while he was at the gym? What if he read it and forgot to tell her some important aspect of his review the next time he saw her? He would have read numerous transcripts by then and would have forgotten the whole ambiance of the piece!
Ten minutes later, Buffy held her breath, straightening her spine, and waited for his final verdict.
He looked up at her.
“Your last sentence doesn’t make any sense.”
Making a noise of indignation, Buffy stood defiantly, coming to lean over behind him, reading the sentence he was pointing to. “Yes it does,” she said finally.
Spike shook his head, “It’s grammatically incorrect in so many ways it makes my head spin.”
“I’m experimenting with language,” she defended haughtily. “Who was Shakespeare if not a daring wordsmith?”
He shot her a look, “You’re hardly the Bard. And the fact that you would stoop so low as to use my idol against me does nothing but show your desperation.”
“Well other than the last sentence . . . which we’re keeping,” she added determinedly at his look he gave her over his glasses, moving back around the desk, “what do you think?”
He sighed, pushing the chair out from under him and standing up, “Yet another brilliant manifesto on how all men are pigs who take pride in nothing but sowing our wild oats and lying to you fairer sex.”
“Really?” She squealed, “Brilliant?” she asked, ignoring the rest of his unenthusiastic tirade.
“I’m sure you’ll sell millions, yet again, to the bitter women of the world,” he waved his hand toward the large window to his right, gesturing to the potential buyers that walked the streets ten floors below them, his voice lacking in excitement.
He walked around the perimeter of his desk, gathering up piles of papers and sliding them into his briefcase, Buffy hot on his heels and making her way to follow him out the door.
“So when you say ‘brilliant,’ is that more brilliant than my last book? Or is it a different kind of brilliant, because I think this one has a much different tone. Do you think I may loose some people or am I only in a situation to gain?”
“Summers,” he interrupted, “you are the only writer that I edit who I am also friends with outside work. You are the only one I have given my home address and phone number to. Please don’t make me regret it.” He made his way around the group of people exiting the elevator, entering and pressing the down button. Buffy came to a rest next to him.
“I’m dedicated,” she commented.
“You’re neurotic,” he answered as the doors closed.
Leaving the building, they waited for the light, crossing the congested New York street, Spike in his dark grey Armani suit, coffee in hand, and Buffy hurrying along beside him as much as she could in her sensible brown skirt, suit top, and heels.
“It’s Friday, Summers, why don’t you take some time off and relax? That’s what I plan to do.” They safely navigated the zigzagging taxis and reached the sidewalk. Spike spun in front of her, “Come out with me tonight,” he requested smoothly.
But not smooth enough, as Buffy easily dodged his statement with ease, “I’m afraid your idea of relaxation – a/k/a whoring your way around New York . . .”
“How many years have I known you, Summers?” he interrupted.
“Four and you’ve been trying to get into my pants for three of them,” she countered coolly. “I’m sorry, Spike, but it’s just not my idea of a good time.” She moved to go around him, but he blocked her path.
“I’ll show you enough good times to fill two of those books of yours,” he stated cockily, giving her a promisingly heated look that, for a split second, had her thinking twice. But years of practice had her brushing off the notion as ludicrous within seconds.
She looked at him, astounded by his persistence, “Where does this misguided optimism of yours come from?”
“Who was it?” he challenged, ignoring her question.
She shook her head in confusion, “Who was who?” She continued her way down the street.
“The man who ruined you for the rest of us,” he said, following her.
“For the rest of you?” she balked, “Like I’m some kind of buffet?”
Truthfully, there hadn’t been that many given the chance to ‘ruin her’. But those who had had been doosies. Firstly, there had been Angel. Who, to make a long and very melodramatic story short, left her after they graduated because he knew ‘it was best for her’. For about five seconds, there had been Parker, who had come closest to breaking her spirit. And then there was Riley, who had had the misguided notion that men were to protect women. When he discovered that Buffy was strong and independent enough to take care of herself and didn’t need to rely on him in any way, he bolted to places unknown. All these men and, as some New York shrinks would suggest, her father, left her with a jaded (and some would say bitter) outlook on romance. But the common factor of all of them? She had been perfectly content until they had decided it was over.
“Well you just wait for my next chapter,” she warned Spike. “It has to do with my friend Willow’s first love. First, she catches him in bed with another woman. Actually, it was the floor, but anyway, he up and leaves her without so much as saying goodbye and . . .”
The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her.
“Hello?” she answered brightly, only for her voice to drop into an annoyed anger, “Oh, hi. She’s what!? When? No, I absolutely cannot. This is unacceptable.” There was a pause as the person on the other line stated their case. “You know what? Fine.” She slammed the phone shut.
“Arch nemesis?” Spike questioned nodding to her phone, noting her hostile tone.
“Mother,” she answered in a huff. “I have to go home for my sister’s wedding in two weeks and this is the kind of warning I get.”
“Shotgun wedding?” he questioned the abruptness of the nuptials.
“No, we all had a pretty good idea this was coming. Since they met two years ago they’ve been joined at the hip.” Spike detected a hint of snarl in her voice.
“You don’t sound very happy for her.”
“They’re twenty -- much too young to be getting married.”
Spike shrugged, “They found each other and want to start their life together sooner rather than later. What’s so wrong with that?”
“They can’t even legally drink to their own toast,” Buffy merely grumbled in response.
“Well, good,” Spike remarked, “You can get some well-needed relaxation and fax me those chapters by the end of the week.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped, “I can’t do that!” She shook her head, “No, way.” She whipped out her cell, “I’ll just call my mother back and tell her I can’t make it. There’s just no way . . .”
Seeing she was serious, Spike grabbed the phone out of her reaching fingers, “You will do no such thing. You are going to your sister’s wedding,” he told her sternly. “You’re just going to have to suck it up about those chapters of yours because I will not be there to hold your hand.” She didn’t pitch the fit he thought she would, and instead cocked her head to look at him strangely. “What?”
“I have a proposition.”
TBC
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
