Chapter 9:
Spike pulled the pillow over his head. Vampire hearing could sometimes be a real curse. Sometime in the late afternoon the Slayer had started thumping and bumping around the house. She'd been doing whatever it was she was up to for quite some time too.
Finally, Spike couldn't take it anymore. He threw on his jeans and stormed downstairs.
"What the bloody hell-" he stopped his rant half way down the stairs.
He looked around the living room. It was clean. All the junk had been picked up off the floor, and there was no sign of dust. A smudged Slayer came out of the kitchen, sponge in hand. There was no sign of the bruises she'd had the night before. She'd found some old clothes and was wearing some gray sweats and a t-shirt that was now covered with dirt and grease.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"You cleaned?" Spike was confused.
Sure he'd agreed the place was a mess, but he'd never thought of cleaning it. Minions cleaned. Evidently, Slayers did as well.
"Am cleaning," she corrected, and went back into the kitchen.
He figured as long as she was cleaning, he wasn't going to get any sleep. On the other hand, having the place cleaned might be worth it. He decided he was awake enough anyway that he couldn't get back to sleep, and it was only a little while till the sun would be up. So he went and took a shower.
Afterwards, he turned on the television and ignored the fact that the Slayer was still cleaning. He'd never cleaned in his life and he wasn't going to start now. Although, he was surprised that the Slayer never even asked him to help.
It started to bug him. Everything he knew about human nature told him that a teenage girl should not be cleaning a house of her own will. At least not without insisting that he help. Unable to take it anymore he stormed into the kitchen to confront her.
The Slayer was lying half-in half-out of the oven, cleaning it. The kitchen was actually sparkling.
"Careful there, Gretel," he commented.
"Huh?" she pulled her head out of the oven. "My name is Buffy, remember?"
"I know that. I meant, in case a witch pushes you in."
She gave him a blank look. "Why would a witch push me in an oven?"
"To eat you."
She looked at him as if was crazy.
"You know. . . Hansel and Gretel?" his voice taking on a slightly exasperated tone.
Still no sign that she knew what he was talking about. "Trail of bread-crumbs, house made of gingerbread. IT'S A BLOODY CHILDREN'S STORY," he ended up yelling.
"Sounds dumb. Witches don't eat people."
Spike jumped up and sat on the island.
"Didn't your mo- anyone ever read stories to you when you were a kid?" He didn't want to specifically bring up her mother since that had proven to be a sensitive subject.
"Why would Ms. Post read stories to me? I can read, you know."
"Ms. Post?" he asked.
"My Watcher."
"I meant your parents."
"Oh, I don't remember," she said a little sadly.
"Ah, didn't know they died. Still your Wa-"
"They're not dead!" she yelled.
Spike got ready to hop off the island, thinking that maybe he should have armed himself with another frying pan.
"Okay, sorry."
"When I was four years old, my parents gave me to my Watcher," she started to explain. She was using the voice that sounded like she was quoting someone. Ms. Post's voice, Spike now assumed. "They knew how important my duty as a Slayer was to the world. They understood that the sooner I began my training the better a Slayer I would be, and that I couldn't afford any distractions from my sacred duty. They were very proud of me."
Something about the Slayer's well-rehearsed explanation didn't sound right to Spike. But, he saw no point in arguing with her about it.
"So your whole life, all you've done is train to be the Slayer?"
She nodded.
"And that's why you've never eaten ice cream, or watched TV?"
She nodded again.
"Well, now I know why your sense of fun is so fucked up. You probably enjoy scrubbing the kitchen, don't you?"
"I don't enjoy it. But Ms. Post always says housekeeping is good exercise."
"I just bet she does. Right, then. We're going out, so get yourself cleaned up and dressed," he told her.
"But I'm not done cleaning the stove," she insisted. "A job left unfinished is a job that might as well not have been started."
"Look, Ms. Post, not here." He hauled her to her feet. "I am. And I say go clean yourself up." He slapped her lightly on the ass to get her moving.
She glared at him, but put down her sponge and headed in the direction of the bathroom.
When she came back downstairs she'd showered, but she was wearing an ugly olive drab polo shirt that was too big for her, along with the jeans he'd bought her.
"Thought I told you to get dressed?" he asked annoyed at the delay.
"I am dressed," she replied, confused.
"In that? I'm not being seen with you in that. What happened to the top I bought you?"
"It's red."
"So?"
She sighed as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Red is bright. Makes you more visible. Plus, bright colors attract vampires."
"And you're what, the urban commando? Wouldn't attracting vampires make things easier for you anyway?"
He was a little offended at the idea that vampires blindly chased down people in bright colors, as if they were bulls in a ring.
"I don't wear red. I only wear subdued colors, so as not to draw attention to myself. The Slayer should pass through the world unnoticed, letting no one know of her existence," she said in the Ms. Post voice.
Spike was completely stumped.
"Where'd you get that rag anyway?" he finally asked.
"In your room. There's a bunch of old clothes in the closet and drawers."
"Right. Fine. We'll find something we both agree on then."
That turned out to be harder than he'd thought. The old clothes she'd mentioned had obviously belonged to the humans who'd once owned the house. The husband had boring taste that spoke of a life of conformity. If the guy had owned at least a dark button down shirt, it would have been a start, but Spike wasn't that lucky.
The closet didn't yield any better results. Holding up one of the dresses quickly told Spike that, although the lady of the house had been the same height as the Slayer, she'd been twice as big. Not to mention he didn't think much of her taste either.
Something at the back of the closet caught his eye. He pulled out a clear plastic garment bag that contained a wedding dress. It had a big three-layered, lace hoop skirt. The delicate bodice had been embroidered with clear shiny beads. It was made to be worn off the shoulder, and he imagined that it showed off a nice amount of cleavage.
It was the size of the bodice that caught Spike's eye. It was much smaller than the other clothes, and as Spike held it up in front of the Slayer, his suspicion was confirmed. The dress was her size.
"I am NOT wearing that," the Slayer stated firmly.
"Of course you're not. You think I'm traipsing around with you, letting everyone think we're newly weds?"
At first, he was surprised that there was no sign of longing in her eyes. No trace that, although she wouldn't wear the dress, she wished to have one like it someday. But then he remembered that she'd been raised to think of only one future–not marrying and having children, but fighting demons.
It made her a sort of alien creature. She really wasn't a girl, at least not any sort he was familiar with. He couldn't really imagine a girl who'd never once dreamed of her wedding day or imagined her prince charming.
"Point is," he continued, throwing the dress across the bed. "Once upon a time, the Missus was your size. She may have kept some other old stuff."
He grunted in triumph when he found a cardboard box at the bottom of the closet. He opened the box and found that it did contain old clothes that would fit the Slayer. Unfortunately, it was also a collection of the worst of the 70s. Paisley was far worse than what she was wearing now.
Determined, he continued to dig through it until he finally found something. Now if he could only find a way to get her to wear it. . . He turned to look up at her and found her sitting on the bed, staring a little sadly at the dress.
"Something wrong?" he asked her.
"I'd forgotten," she said quietly.
"Forgotten what?"
"It was at a wedding." She looked at him and seeing that he wasn't following her, she explained, "Ms. Post. She came and got me at a wedding."
They were both silent for several minutes. The Slayer lost in long forgotten memories and Spike filing away the information, trying to fit it together with the other things he already knew about the Slayer.
The silence began to get uncomfortable for Spike. He was a little too close to a touchy-feely moment with the Slayer for his liking.
"Right, well," he interrupted the quiet. "I found this for you to wear. I take it you do wear black."
"Black's fine," she agreed. "It has no sleeves," she said as she examined the article of clothing he handed her.
He fought to keep from smiling. It had been a long shot, but she obviously didn't recognize it for what it was. "Do you really need sleeves?" he asked.
"I guess not. Turn around," she told him.
Spike was more than willing to do so, not believing his luck. The top he had handed her wasn't a top at all; it was a black bustier. It wasn't decorated, just solid black fabric between the delicate boning. And there was no lace around the cups so it didn't scream "underwear," at least not if you didn't know what it was; and, he guessed that the Slayer's no-nonsense training had not included lingerie.
"How are you supposed to hook these things?" he heard the Slayer complain.
"Want some help, pet? I promise not to look."
"Alright."
Her back was to him, as he turned around, and she was holding the two sides of the bustier together since she'd only managed to hook the top most clasp.
She was beautiful. Her braid was over her shoulder, exposing the pale skin of her back and the curve of her shoulder blades. But it was her bare neck that had him most entranced. He wanted to lick and bite his way down that neck to her naked shoulders.
He stepped in toward her and began to fasten the hooks. He didn't peer over her shoulder to see if her breasts were visible while the bustier was loose, but not because he was a gentleman. Rather he was enjoying being teased by her. When he was ready he would take her, force her. Until then he could be patient.
When she turned around he decided it was well worth the wait. Her thick roped braid drew his eyes down to where her creamy white breasts peaked out from the black fabric, begging him to bury his face in her cleavage. Her bare shoulders made her look vulnerable, while the well-defined muscles on her arms hinted at her true strength.
She placed her hands on her waist and adjusted it. "It fits funny."
"It's perfect," he said, fighting to keep the lust out of his voice.
That's when he noticed that despite the plain clothes she'd picked out for herself earlier, she had once again put on eyeliner.
"If you're not a girl, how come you wear make up?" he asked.
"If you're a guy, how come you have make up?" she retorted.
He shrugged, "A little eyeliner brings out my eyes, or so I'm told. Can't put it on myself, no reflection. Dru usually does it for me."
He felt a momentary pang of guilt when he remembered that he should be thinking of a way to get Dru from the Master, and not playing dress up with the Slayer.
"Who's Dru?"
"My Sire. And don't try to change the subject." He wasn't comfortable talking about Dru with her. It had occurred to him that if worse came to worse he could trade the Slayer for Drusilla. "So what's with the make up?" He stroked a finger down the side of her ear, where he'd noticed a small line of scars. "Used to have your ears pierced too."
She looked down at her hands for a minute. Then she went and got the eyeliner. "Do you want me to put it on you?" she asked.
"Sure."
They sat on the bed facing each other and she leaned forward to begin tracing his eyes.
"We used to go to this rare bookstore, Ms. Post and I. The shop owner could find lots of rare volumes for her. He had a son, named Jason. Look up," she told him so she could line the tops of his eyes. "He was a couple years older than me, and really nice. We used to talk.
"I'd been called just a couple months earlier. There was this powerful vampire couple. I killed the male, but the female, Isabella was her name, got away." She finished with the eyeliner, and stared at the brush, nervously playing with it.
"One night, Jason knocked on my door. I almost. . . I almost invited him in. Even before I was the Slayer I knew better. She'd turned him, to get to me. He said all sorts of mean things. Told me I was a kid that my scar made him sick. How beautiful Isabella was and that she was a real woman and I was just a kid. All sorts of stuff like that.
"He was just a fledgling though. So I beat him up, until he told me where Isabella lived. I staked him, then I found her and killed her too."
She looked up at him, tears glittering in her eyes. "He was right, you know. She really was pretty, and I'm. . ." she looked down again at her hands. "She wore makeup like this, and she had all these earrings on one ear. After I staked her, I found her make up and her earrings. I started wearing them. Ms. Post didn't like it at first; she'd pull out the earrings and scrub my face. But after I kept re-piercing them every night she gave up. She told me if a demon ever ripped my ears off, not to come crying to her."
He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face. Then he ran his thumb along the scar that crossed her lips.
"Vampires are evil. They lie, kitten. You're beautiful."
She blushed a little and smiled. "So does that mean you're lying?"
Without thinking, he leaned forward to kiss her. Before his lips could brush hers, she pulled back, a look of alarm on her face.
To disguise, from himself and her, the disturbing fact that he'd almost kissed the Slayer he quickly spoke, "So, um. You want to get your ears pierced again? I bet we can find a tattoo parlor that's still open. Get you some new earrings."
"Yeah, okay," was all she said.
She looked just as glad as he was to get off the bed and out of the room.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
A/N: Since I'd already posted three chapters this week, I was going to hold off till Monday to post this chapter. But I got such wonderful reviews on the last two chapters. Not just the usual, "I like it, more please" reviews (which are always nice too) but some really interesting comments on what's happening. So I figured since this chapter was done, I'd go ahead and post it.