He
took a drag on his cigarette. The tobacco tasted faintly stale, and he
threw it away.
September nights in L.A. could be damned chilly. Nowhere near as harsh
as London
winters, but not his idea of comfort.
He
could have gone home, months ago, but he would have had to go alone.
Ripper would never have stood for him taking her to Merry old Europe,
just the two
of them. He barely accepted their
being together in Los Angeles.
He
glanced at his watch, not noting the time. She'd come at sunset as she
always did.
"A drink, sir?"
"Wine. White." Not red.
They
had set a few ground rules. One was that he could savor the taste of
blood, even
human blood, all he liked, but in a glass. No involuntary 'donors'. He
was not to consume the stuff in public, even at the bars or discreet cafes
that catered
to L.A. County's nonhuman population.
He
figured that she offered enough to make up for a few restrictions.
He
shifted restlessly, feeling the familiar tightness in his groin at the thought
of
her. The feel
of her skin, the soft brightness of her hair--God, she drove him
out of his
mind with just a look.
She'd
never admit out loud if he had the same effect on her.
He
hadn't asked.
The
scent of violets and crushed grass reached his nostrils a half second before
she laid a
hand on his shoulder from behind.
"Hello,
lover."
They
shared a quick, greedy kiss, then she sat across from him to order her
drink.
"How's
your day, love?" he asked, curious.
She shrugged. "The usual. Research, training with the new Slayers, Buffy
and I
trying not to
get in each other's faces."
"How's your little roomie?" The words were out before he could
censor them. He cursed
silently.
She
put down her glass. "Right. Call me when you haven't been drinking so
much you
run your mouth
like that bike of yours."
She stood. He grabbed her wrist.
"Come
off it, Red, " he hissed. "You know you're not going anywhere
tonight without
me. " He
jerked her to him for another kiss. "If you want it rough, let's take
this somewhere more private, shall we?"
***
His
rooms were located in an apartment building, not a crypt. He kicked the door
shut behind
them.
Lifting
her small weight easily, he strode over to the futon. She squirmed beneath
him as hands
and mouths sought exposed skin , caressing and kissing frenziedly.
He
hissed warningly at her as her pearl white teeth nipped his face. Heeding the
warning,
Willow did not try for a taste of her Sire's blood this night. There would
be other
times, but for now, Spike thought he should remind her who was sire, who
was child.
A
short time later, he gazed down at her sleeping face, pale in its wreath of
spicy
red hair.
Words from a favorite movie of the whelp's drifted through his
memory.
People
think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shit which
is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we
wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid.
He
had been, without a doubt, unusually stupid. He'd let himself forget how
lethal
the words
"I wish" could be, upon a Hellmouth.
Four
months ago, he and his 'beloved' Slayer had escaped Sunnydale, barely ahead
of its
destruction. Nothing had remained but a twisted, broken crater in the
earth--
and the near
lifeless body of a fragile, redhaired Wicca, carried out by her newly
Called
girlfriend.
Giles'
face, twisted in grief. "The magics were too much--they...broke her. She
can't--"
"No!"
Kennedy and Harris, shouting furious denials. Buffy sitting in shock , tears
running down her face.
He'd tried to offer comfort. "Love, I'm so sorry," he whispered.
"If I could trade her some of my years, I'd do it in a second....this
isn't right. I wish I could--"
"Done."
D'Hoffryn's gravelly, hate-filled voice. No time to recant before the spiteful
Lord of Arashmaharr disappeared.
Willow's eyes opening, blazing a
predator's yellow.
Buffy had refused to stake her. "If Spike can learn to act human
again, to love, then she can. We give her a chance."
Spike
tried to help the Wicca remember her humanity.
Part of him feared it was a losing
battle.
Another
part, simply didn't care.
She
was his now. The tie between them
wasn't love. It was a hell of a lot more
permanent.
"Til
death do us part" had very different implications when a couple were both
effectively
immortal unless killed.
Buffy
had pulled away from what her best friend had become, during the first few
weeks--and not
so noticeably, from Spike. Willow's early feral behavior had been
too pointed a
reminder of how 'safe' Spike was not, even as a 'boyfriend'.
He'd
been willing to 'give his life' for the woman he loved, and that had cost
him what he
had wanted, once upon a time.
The
die had been cast. He couldn't change it now, and eternity was too long
to spend in
regretting what was irrevocable.
And
never, never would he tell Buffy-- nor would Willow tell Kennedy--that
they might not
change it if they could.
Shrugging,
dismissing idle thoughts, Spike tugged the blankets aside and
let
Willow pull him close, her green eyes sparkling mischievously....
--The
End--