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A/N: And here’s another chapter. We’re on to the gala and some…*ahem*…up-close and personal time for Buffy and Spike.


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Chapter Six

One car ride and three boring speeches later, Buffy found herself longing for a little apocalypse-style action. Anything to escape the awkward dinner conversation and the walking, talking mine field that was Spike.

It had started with the introductions, when they had found themselves sharing a table with two other couples.

Giles had introduced himself, then Willow, but as he reached Buffy the social niceties had ground to a halt. One of the women, a fifty-something matron with a pearl choker and big hair, had been a frequent patron of her mother’s art gallery and immediately recognized Buffy’s name. Even now, almost a year later and with Buffy’s own death in the interim, it was still hard to accept the loss of her mother. Being reminded by a stranger, even one as well-meaning as Ellen Carmichael seemed to be, didn’t help. Buffy felt herself withdrawing more and more as the woman babbled on.

“Joyce used to talk about you all the time, dear. She was so proud of you. You and your sister…Debbie?”

Buffy’s eyes fastened on the table’s centerpiece, a colorful floral arrangement surrounding a miniature replica of the obelisk. “Dawn,” she murmured, then cleared her throat and spoke a little louder. “Her name’s Dawn.”

“Oh, that’s right. I think I’d forget my own name sometimes if I didn’t have Dan here to remind me. But yours is so unusual. I knew who you were the minute Mr. Giles introduced you. Your mother was right, you’re a lovely young woman.”

Buffy jerked in surprise as strong, cool fingers entwined with her own. Looking up, she found Spike staring at her, an inscrutable look on his face. Slowly, he raised her hand to his lips, brushing a light kiss across the back. “That she is,” he agreed softly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m a lucky bloke to sit next to such a beauty.” Then his head turned and she could breathe again.

Spike gifted Mrs. Carmichael with a dazzling smile, all the while maintaining his hold on Buffy’s hand. She could free herself, but not without causing a scene, something she would only do if, oh…say…a pack of hungry werewolves decided to crash the party.

Maybe she would get lucky.

She settled for kicking him under the table, which might have been more effective if she’d worn something other than open-toed shoes. Giles glared from across the way, but their dual displeasure was apparently lost on Spike as he became the new focus of Mrs. Carmichael’s attention.

“So…you’re Buffy’s young man?”

“That would depend on your definition of young,” he answered with a charming grin. The two couples laughed appreciatively as his arm came to rest across the back of Buffy’s chair. While he wasn’t suicidal enough to place his hand on her shoulder, its dangling presence was implicitly possessive and impossible to ignore.

The other woman at the table, who looked and dressed a bit like a brunette Sharon Stone, was attending the gala with a man she had called “her friend.” Buffy sourly noted that she seemed especially taken with Spike, smiling at him a little too warmly. “I think we missed someone in the introductions. You are…?”

Spike met her gaze. “The name’s S—”

“William!” Buffy interjected frantically as she gave him another hard kick, ignoring his mingled look of amusement and exasperation. “His name’s William,” she repeated, steadily and without yelping this time. She relaxed, then felt her eyes widen comically as she realized they were waiting for a last name. “Um…Giles! William Giles.”

Buffy scooped up her water glass, taking a hasty sip and pretending not to notice the incredulous look on Giles’ face.

“Oh, you’re related then?” Mrs. Carmichael piped up, glancing from Spike to Giles and back again to Spike. “Father and son?”

“Yuh-huh,” Buffy answered weakly, since the pair in question were too busy glowering at each other. Twin scowls turned her way as both spoke simultaneously.

“I should say not!”

“Not bloody likely!”

Buffy’s toes connected with Spike’s shin a third time as she aimed a level stare across the table at Giles. “They’re such kidders, these two,” she explained, bestowing a brilliant smile upon their confused dinner companions. “Always joking around. Like father, like son.”

Spike looked as if he’d swallowed a barrel’s worth of congealed rat’s blood, while Giles managed a painful grimace vaguely resembling a smile. But both subsided without further protest, and Buffy breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

She should have known better.

The Sharon clone, whose name was actually Sheila, leaned forward, proudly displaying her ample cleavage as she addressed Spike. “So, if you two are father and son, do you mind if I ask why your accents are so different? I couldn’t help noticing.”

Of course she couldn’t. Any more than Buffy could keep from noticing the wicked gleam in Spike’s eyes as he straightened in his chair and assumed a terrifyingly innocent expression.

“Yeah. That’s because dear old Da’, here, up and left Mum and me when I was just a tyke. He was too busy gettin’ his jollies on with one tart or another to check in much. Has a thing for younger birds, you know,” he added, with a helpful jerk of his head in Willow’s direction. “It’s only these last few months that we’ve had a reconciliation of sorts. Reckon I’ll enjoy it as long as it lasts. He’ll get tired of me as soon as he’s got another little bun in the oven. Pretty well lost count of all the brothers and sisters I got runnin’ around now.”

If Giles had been glaring before, he was practically seething now. A red-faced Willow sat tongue-tied, while their new acquaintances were left speechless and blinking. Except for that Sheila ho, Buffy realized, who looked like she could barely keep from bursting into raucous laughter.

The music started up for the pre-dinner dancing and Buffy grabbed Spike’s arm. “Oh look, honey, they’re playing our song.” Smiling sweetly through clenched teeth, she hauled him up and out onto the dance floor, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake.

When they were far enough away, she whirled around, ready to tear into him.

He smiled at her. “Didn’t know we had a song. Would have liked something with more of a beat, but I guess it’ll do.”

“It’ll do? It’ll do?!” she asked incredulously. “I’ll ‘do’ you, mister!”

The sudden interested gleam in Spike’s eyes and the wicked smirk that curled his lips caused Buffy to mentally review what she’d just said. She blushed furiously. “You know what I meant!” she hissed.

Spike snorted, unable to keep from laughing, but he sobered quickly, casting a speculative eye around them. “What I know, Slayer, is that if we don’t start dancin’ soon, we’re gonna be attractin’ a whole lot more attention than either of us wants. Well…more than you want, leastways.”

Caught in a snit with nowhere to rant, Buffy glared at the dancing couples around them then back at Spike. After several long beats, he laced his fingers with hers and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She didn’t help him, but she didn’t stop him either. As they began swaying slowly to the music, Buffy refused to look at him, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on his chest.

Not that she was enjoying the view. No siree, not one little bit. She just didn’t want to look at that stupid bow tie the whole time they were out there.

Feeling Spike’s lips brush her ear, she stiffened in his arms.

“C’mon, pet, don’t be mad,” he coaxed softly. “Was just a bit of harmless fun. You can’t tell me the prospect of sitting through some dull-as-dirt speechifying doesn’t make you want to tear the head off somethin’.”

She gave him a pointed look.

“Something that isn’t me,” he clarified, his tone firm. Tilting his head, he searched her face. “Admit it now. You’re just as eager as I am to get to the main event. Am I right?”

Eyeing him with a sour expression, she tried hard not to let herself be distracted by the cool hand resting in the small of her back. “You mean am I looking forward to dodging security guards, hiding out in a dark, cramped closet, picking a fight with God-only-knows-what to stop some unknown event that’s going to be accomplished in some mysterious way we have yet to figure out, all without having the slightest clue as to why it’s happening?”

Her lips quirked. “Yeah…I am, actually. A little.”

With a pleased nod, Spike grinned at her. “See? That right there. That’s what I’m sayin’. Birds of a bloody feather, we are.”

Buffy sobered instantly. “No,” she said, stone-faced. “We’re not.”

His smile faded. “Yeah. We are. Or could be, if you’d stop denying it for two bloody seconds.” He looked to the ceiling as if he might find the patience he needed in one of the supporting beams. Then his gaze zeroed in on her again, intense and searching. “You know what I’m talking about, Buffy. Full on out, no holdin’ back, fists flyin’ and your blood howling for more. It’s pure poetry. There’s something inside us that calls, only most of the time you’re afraid to listen because someone’s made you think it’s something to be ashamed of. But when you’re not, Buffy…when you give yourself to the dance…”

He lowered his face to hers, staring deeply into her eyes. “When you dance, you’re bloody magnificent, Summers,” he breathed. “So…alive.”

The quiet reverence that shone in his face was almost as painful as it was compelling. Cradled in his embrace, Buffy could feel herself slipping again. Like she almost had in the basement. Like she’d wanted to in the bedroom.

She forced herself to meet his passionate stare with a cool gaze.

“And you’re not.”

Which was a lie, of course. Spike might have shuffled off his mortal coil more than a century prior, but he was filled with more vitality than anyone she’d ever known. That’s why, even as her words caused the light in his eyes to dim, she knew it would never be extinguished. It was an unquenchable flame, just as he was, and that was the real contrast between them. It was something she’d lost and desperately wanted back. But to admit as much would give him power over her, and that was something she could never do.

She lifted her chin. “You want to know the difference between us, Spike? It’s pretty simple. Remember what Willow and Xander said back at the house – about using the obelisk to make the world a better place? If you got your hands on it, what would you do with it?”

He stared back at her, obviously at a loss. “Wouldn’t do anything with it. Mojo like that, no good ever comes from it, not even the evil kind. There’s always payback. You know that, Buffy.”

“I do know,” she agreed. “But are you telling me that if you could have anything you wanted…or anyone…you wouldn’t even be tempted?”

Spike was a lot of things, but slow wasn’t one of them. Buffy could see the dime drop.

His jaw hardened. “Don’t want you that way. Wouldn’t be real.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” she reminded him, challenging him with the ghost of the BuffyBot.

She caught a flicker of something in his eyes. “Learned my lesson then, didn’t I?” he countered softly, his steady gaze holding hers.

And that was the problem in a nutshell. Evil things weren’t supposed to learn from past mistakes. Unless it was how to be even more evil. They weren’t supposed to fall in love, or fight beside you, or keep a promise when they had nothing to gain. They weren’t supposed to risk themselves to protect what you love most or keep a secret simply because you asked. And they really weren’t supposed to listen quietly to things you couldn’t tell anyone else, all the while never asking for anything in return.

Buffy’s eyes widened as her own dime dropped. Back at the table, Spike’s performance had been a carefully calculated distraction. He’d known what she was feeling, the pain her mother’s loss still caused her, and he’d acted like an ass, not to annoy her…

Well, okay…to annoy her. But only as a means of taking her mind off her loss. And that was something else evil things weren’t supposed to do.

Leave it to Spike never to play by the rules.

Disconcerted, Buffy ended the dance abruptly and walked off the floor, leaving an unusually silent Spike to follow. She was relieved that he made no effort to call her back or to finish their aborted conversation.

Thankfully, he had more or less behaved himself for the rest of the evening, but Giles was still seething and the atmosphere at the table had been a little…strained. It had come as an obvious relief to everyone when the speeches had finally concluded and they were free to escape into the exhibit area for the big unveiling.

Now, almost two hours after her short-lived dance with Spike, all of the gala attendees crowded around an elaborate replica of an ancient Abyssinian sacrificial alter. Buffy had maneuvered herself away from the vampire to a position between Willow and Giles, but she could still see the him out of the corner of her eye, standing on the other side of Willow. Her mind was a muddle of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She might have considered that a good thing under different circumstances, but not when it distracted her from the mission. And definitely not when it was Spike doing the distracting.

Buffy sighed, forcing herself to get back on track. For the first time since entering the room, she focused on the granite obelisk. It was at least ten feet tall, maybe a little more, and about two feet wide. It narrowed to a rounded point at the top and was covered with strange symbols and other carvings, which had so far defied translation, according to Giles. Near the base of the obelisk lay a raised alter containing a large stone slab that had several holes sunk into it. Back at the house, when Giles had shown them a drawing of a similar set-up in the book he’d brought, he’d explained that the holes were most likely used to collect the blood of sacrificial victims.

Nice.

She was still contemplating that less-than-charming thought when Willow leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“I don’t know, Buffy. It looks pretty heavy. Do you really think you and Spike can get it out to the truck okay?”

Buffy glanced over at Spike, who seemed more interested in studying her than taking in the exhibit. Looking away, she shrugged. “As long as Spike holds up his end, we shouldn’t have a problem.” She kept her gaze on the display, ignoring the soft snort that originated from the other side of Willow.

She could do this. She could. Starting now, the obelisk would have her undivided attention. She’d be cool, calm, and unstoppable – just like those old-time postal carriers people always talked about. Neither wind, nor rain, nor confusing Spike issues would keep her from her appointed slay. She’d stop the bad guy, deliver the obelisk to Giles’ friend, and put this bout of temporary insanity firmly and irrevocably behind her. Nothing Spike did from that point on could get to her.

She was sure of it.

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The utility closet Giles had chosen as their hideaway was every bit as cramped as Buffy had feared. But, thankfully, not as dark. A small bulb in the ceiling cast a dim glow over the narrow confines, revealing shelves of cleaning supplies, as well as brooms, a large vacuum cleaner, and other equipment shoved off to the side.

One thing it didn’t reveal was Spike.

Buffy felt her jaw tighten. She had left him alone for only a few minutes, just long enough to slip into the ladies room to change out of her evening gown and into the fighting clothes that were stashed in the weapons bag she had checked at the door. The woman checking the coats and purses had been unusually oblivious to the heavy weight of the bag, or maybe she just hadn’t cared what might be in it. Either way, it was an attitude that could get her killed fast in a town like Sunnydale.

Five minutes. Five…freaking…minutes. And he couldn’t stay put. Seething, Buffy whirled around, intent on hunting him down before the security patrol made its first sweep, only to run smack into an unyielding man-shaped surface.

“Oof!” Startled, Buffy looked up as strong arms encircled her, catching her so that she wouldn’t fall. Which was totally unnecessary, of course.

She scowled at Spike, who seemed in no hurry to let go, and shrugged herself free. “I thought I told you stay put!” she accused.

Spike raised an eyebrow at her. “What does that mean, exactly? ‘Stay put.’ I mean, what’s ‘put,’ anyway? Some kind of code for ‘birdbrained sot who knows bugger-all about anything and does whatever anyone tells him,’ even if it gets him killed?”

Recovering herself, Buffy shrugged and gazed at him blandly. “If the shoe fits.”

His eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, a sound in the outer corridor warned them that the first security patrol was on its way. Grabbing Spike’s arm, Buffy hauled him inside the closet and shut the door. But she’d pulled a little harder than she’d meant to, sending Spike slamming up against the shelves, which in turn dislodged a bottle of ammonia that teetered precariously on the edge. Buffy dived to catch it before it could hit the floor and found herself up-close and personal with Spike, in a highly intimate way.

Red-faced, she was about to straighten and untangle herself when a sound at the door caused her to freeze. She couldn’t even turn her head to look in that direction, considering what her ear was pressed up against, but she heard the doorknob turn and held her breath.

Surely Willow had cast the spell by now. She’d been preparing for it when Buffy had left her and Giles in the ladies room. So why was she now on the verge of getting busted in a highly compromising position? Not to mention, humiliating, and totally not what it looked like at all and, oh my god, was that really what she thought it was pressing against her cheek?

Suddenly, a faint buzzing sensation settled over them like a softly vibrating blanket. As it dissipated, the rattling doorknob fell silent. Buffy waited a few more seconds, to give the security guard time to move on, then jumped to her feet, putting as much distance between herself and Spike as she could. Which wasn’t much, unfortunately.

Spike’s smirking face was the last thing on earth she wanted to see right now, but in their cramped quarters she had little choice. One word. Just one snarky innuendo and he was dust. She didn’t care if she had to drag the damn obelisk all the way to New Jersey and back by herself, he was so history.

But when she finally looked up, she didn’t find him smirking, or grinning, or even smiling in that wickedly sexy way he had that should really be against the law. Instead, he was staring at her intently. His gaze was smoldering, but his expression gave away little if anything. His voice, on the other hand…

“Buffy…”

Oh, why did it have to sound that way? Warm, and raw, and slightly breathless, even though he had no reason to be. His hand rose to hover in the air, almost cradling her cheek, but stopped just short of touching her, as if waiting for permission.

“Yes?” she breathed, vaguely aware her response could be taken more than one way. Even she wasn’t sure how she meant it.

But Spike, it seemed, had very definite ideas.

Instead of touching her face, as she was certain he would, he let his hand fall away. A sharp twinge of disappointment shot through her but turned into something else as he moved, closing the narrow gap between them. She looked up, straight into blue eyes burning with the same smoldering heat she remembered from her dreams and their brief encounter in the basement. Only this time, she didn’t pull away. As he slowly leaned down, still holding his body apart from hers, she felt herself straining upwards, lifting her face to his, already anticipating the heady feel of soft, full lips and his tongue in her mouth.

But again he stopped, a mere hair’s breadth away, his moist breath teasing her lips as he whispered into her mouth. “Do you want this? Tell me you want this,” he urged.

“I…” She couldn’t think, couldn’t react. All she could do was stand and wait, her body suddenly alive and tingling in a way it hadn’t been since she’d come back. Or for a very long time before that. She’d almost forgotten what it could be like.

“Tell me you want this, Buffy. Ask me to kiss you,” he coaxed softly. Offering further incentive, his hand rose to gently cup her breast, sending a tiny jolt through her as his thumb skimmed lightly across one very sensitive nipple.

A moan escaped her, along with a single word. “Please…”

It was enough. In a heartbeat, his mouth had captured hers, his tongue plundering the soft depths with a ferocious intensity as her hands rose to grip his shoulders. She clung to him tightly, squeezing the muscles beneath her hands, silently urging him on.

Somewhere in a rational part of her mind, Buffy knew it was wrong, knew there were a thousand different reasons she should not be doing this. But she did it anyway. Because she wanted it. Because at that moment the idea of not doing so seemed completely and utterly impossible.

His oh-so-talented mouth continued to move, drawing her out, igniting a raw hunger inside that blazed brighter with each broad sweep of his tongue. His arm snaked around her waist, a large hand spreading wide across her bottom as he pulled her snugly against his rock-hard body and held her there, grinding and pumping with ruthless intensity.

Oh god. Oh god. The things she felt.

And she finally let go, hands frantically caressing the smooth, hard planes of his form with feverish abandon, fumbling to reach elusive flesh hiding beneath troublesome clothing. His were equally busy, roaming her body, lighting somewhere then just as quickly moving on. Gliding and grasping, hungry and searching, never still.

Oh, right there. Please, stay there. And he miraculously obeyed, almost as if he could read her mind.

She was panting hard now. The fast, shuddering breaths shook her body with the force of a small hurricane. Her head fell back, cradled against a hard-muscled bicep as his mouth trailed moist kisses down her jaw and found the tender hollow at the base of her neck. His tongue flicked out to taste it, then fell into a steady licking rhythm, while his hands did other things that robbed her of any coherent thought.

Then his mouth was back on hers, slanting sideways, deepening the kiss as if he wanted to inhale her. She opened to him, more than willing to meet halfway. Her hands loosened their grip and slid across the broad expanse of his back, savoring the delicious sensation of taut muscles rippling beneath the smooth fabric.

God, she wanted to feel him…all of him, everywhere. She wanted his hands not to stop. She wanted the weight of his body pressing her down. She wanted his mouth on her breasts.

And it was, kissing and nipping, as if her clothes weren’t even there. How did he know? How could he tell? She rolled her head, moaning aloud in a wash of raw need, no longer caring who or what might hear. He was the wave battering against her shore, surging forth and receding, each time taking a little more of her with him. All she could do was clutch at his shoulders, pliant and willing beneath the onslaught of sheer sensation.

She was alive again.

Suddenly, his shirt was open, and she must have done it. The edges were fisted in her hands, while the buttons littered the floor, and his jacket lay tangled around their feet. The satin vest was a splash of red in the corner, shredded beyond repair. Her eyes lingered for a moment on his chest, heaving with the force of their exertions, then roamed over the well-defined muscles of his abdomen. Drifting lower still, she was confronted anew with the unmistakable evidence of his arousal, instantly kindling an answering flood of heat and desire in her.

She lunged forward, her mouth locking onto his, ravenous and demanding, firm and thoroughly committed. She smiled in triumph against his lips as a deep groan escaped him, ramping up the intensity, kissing him into submission. She was in charge now. Something inside had awakened and begun to stir. Something that had been sleeping since her return.

No. Even before that.

Letting go of his shirt, she splayed her hands against his chest. Smooth, and hard, and warm…

Gasping, Buffy pulled back, her eyes wide with shock. She looked at her hands, spread flat over the place where his heart was. The same heart she could feel racing beneath her fingertips, the hammering beat keeping time with her own.

Slowly, her gaze raised to meet his. His head was tilted in that way she knew so well as he stared back at her. Her eyes narrowed, and her hands slammed him back into the door with a force that rattled the shelves on the opposite wall.

“Where is he?” she hissed, her voice low, deadly. “Who are you? What have you done with him?”

Blue eyes that had smoldered with passion a moment before grew cold, and an ugly smile twisted lush, kiss-swollen lips. “Had you goin’ there, didn’t I?” ‘his’ voice whispered. “Expect you would have given it up in another minute or so. What gave me away?” His eyes trailed insolently down her body and back up again, fastening on her face as he added the last insult. “…love.”

A blinding rage out of all proportion to that taunting endearment overwhelmed her, as if someone had turned on a tap, allowing a torrent of emotions to come cascading out. Spike had made this possible, except that it wasn’t Spike, and she had almost given herself to it, thinking it was. Buffy didn’t know which was worse.

“Tell me where he is!” Her hold loosened as she raised a fist, prepared to deliver a vicious blow whether the thing answered her or not.

She never got the chance. A hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat, lifting her off the floor. The grip tightened, increasing the pressure as her legs kicked uselessly in the air. Slowly, so very, very slowly, the breath was being squeezed out of her, and nothing Buffy did could dislodge that iron grip.

As she flailed and wheezed, a dim mist descended over her vision, and the last thing she saw before the blackness engulfed her was the smirking face of the Not-Spike.


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TBC in Part 7





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