Author’s Note: Remember my warning about fairy tale tropes in the previous chapter? This one includes a fanon theory/fairy tale trope—but I’ve tried to address it in a realistic way. Hopefully.

WARNING: The first section of this chapter is pretty smutty. Sorry. I tried to tell my betas that it was maybe a little unnecessary, but they both put their feet down and told me to suck it up and leave it in (did you see what I did there? With the double entendres?). They say I owe you guys, cause you’re all awesome readers (which I happen to agree with), but… if smut ain’t your thing, you might want to skip to the next section once the showering starts.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science

---

---

Chapter 68
Vanity



"Gahhhhh!"

"What? What's wrong?" Spike asks, opening the bathroom door, sounding slightly panicked. Luckily I was done with what I'd shut the door to do, but it was what I saw in the mirror when I went to wash my hands that has me freaked.

"Don't look at me!" I cover my face with my hands.

"What? Why?" Spike asks, coming into the bathroom and standing behind me. In the mirror, of course, I'm alone, which is good. One monster in the mirror is plenty. I can't really believe that's me. My hair is greasy and gives new meaning to the term 'hat hair', and the ends are dry as straw. I've lost weight, and my face is way thin, with dark circles under my eyes. My nose and cheeks are wind burned, and my lips are cracked and dry and way too pale. No wonder my friends didn't recognize me.

"I'm hideous!" I say, blinking against the stinging tears that are building in my eyes. "How can you stand to look at me?"

Spike takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face him. There's an amused smile playing over his lips. "Same way you manage to look at me, I imagine," he murmurs. "Never been so grateful not to have a reflection in my unlife. Besides, a hot shower will put you to rights, pet. Five minutes and you'll be gorgeous again."

"More like five days, a trip to a spa and the salon, and a miracle," I grumble. At least he didn't lie and tell me I was beautiful. Though it would have been nice.

He smiles a little, the motion stretching his gaunt cheeks. He's healing slowly; the hole in his neck isn't quite so gaping anymore and has started to scab in places. He must've taken the duster off in the other room, which gives me a good look at the thinness of his torso and the bloody scratches across his chest. At least they’re healing slightly faster than his neck. I trail my fingers over his prominent collarbone, then down over his ribs, feeling each bone beneath the skin. The muscles in his stomach tighten at my touch.

With a tight look on his face he leans over and turns on the shower, adjusting the hot water. Then, with a glance at my face to see if I'm okay with it, he reaches for the hem of my sweater. I let him peel it and the shirt under it over my head. My tank top is the next to go. For a moment he just stands there, staring at my breasts, lust flickering in his eyes.

And suddenly I don't need him to tell me I'm beautiful.

The rest of my clothes seem to disappear in a blur. Then he's shucking out of his jeans. Under the bright lights in the bathroom, he seems surreally pale. I can't help the blush that rises to my cheeks when I realize that, in spite of everything, he's getting hard. I'm not sure how he manages to ignore it, but he does as he helps me into the tub and pushes me back under the blissfully warm water.

I can't help but moan. God, it feels so good to be warm. Even Spike feels warm as his body leeches heat from the water and the rising steam in the air. "Let me," he whispers in my ear, turning me around so that my back is to his front. I can feel his... I can feel him pressing against me, but he doesn't grind it against my butt like I would have expected. Instead I hear the snap of the shampoo cap, and then his fingers are in my hair massaging the shampoo into a thick lather.

"Oh, god," I murmur, leaning back into his touch.

"Like that, kitten?" he asks, though he's the one purring. I make some kind of noise that means yes, and he increases the pressure a little, kneading my scalp free of all the tension of the last few days. "Rinse," he says softly, turning me again so that my head dips back under the water. When I open my eyes I find him staring at his fingers as they trail through my hair, working out the last of the shampoo. He looks like he's concentrating on something really important.

Spike’s eyes meet mine and he smiles, a real genuine smile that makes me feel like someone switched on a light inside of me. I smile back, and he seems to light up, too. His smile widens and his eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners. "See?" he says. "Gorgeous."

My heart thumps hard in my chest at the look in his eyes.

I step further under the spray and pull him under with me. The water straightens his curls and rinses the blood and grime from his skin. He tilts his head back slightly, letting the water pour over his face. The wounds on his chest aren't nearly as bad as they looked a minute ago, now that I can see them better. His neck looks better, too, without any blood smeared around the wound. He hisses a little as the water hits it, quickly angling his body away so that it doesn't hurt as much.

I reach for the shampoo that I took from his crypt. I'd set it and his other stuff on the edge of the tub earlier when I came in, and now I'm glad. I'm even more glad that Spike's not too tall for me to do this. I always wanted to wash Angel's hair, but he'd have had to kneel for me to reach. Also, he really didn't like his hair being touched. Spike, on the other hand, starts purring as I lather his curls, and I'm glad I get to do this for him. Glad that it's him. "Like that?" I tease.

"Don't suppose you'd want to help me bleach it, later?" he asks on a groan of pleasure. "Probably need a touch up by now."

I finger the bright ends of his hair. It doesn't look bad, two-toned like this. But it also doesn't look like Spike. I remember missing the bleach, during my little time trip. It suits him, in a weird way, like the black nail polish and the big ugly boots. I guess learning to love someone for the good and the bad in them means learning to like their bad fashion choices, too.

"Okay," I tell him. When he glances at me in surprise I only grin. After a moment, he answers with one of his own.

"My turn?" he asks, scooping up a bottle of my conditioner. I nod and turn around, eager to feel his fingers in my hair again. Within minutes he's got me moaning again, pressing back against him.

"God, you're good at that," I murmur.

"Want to know what else I'm good at?" he whispers in my ear. I shiver a little when his tongue traces the edge of my earlobe, and instantly I'm wet and achy for him. I can't remember anyone ever having this kind of effect on me. All Spike has to do is touch me and I'm so turned on...

I half expect him to turn me around or bend me over, but he doesn't. Instead his fingers carefully rinse the conditioner out of my hair, then trail down my throat to tease the skin just behind and below my shoulders with gentle, barely there touches. Goosebumps race down my arms, in spite of the heat. And then he's redefining sex for me all over again.

Feather light touches on my skin, finding places I didn't even know were sensitive. Cool fingertips trace the undersides of my breasts, the skin just inside the curve of each hipbone, below my ribcage. Each new spot makes me shiver and gasp and press back against him. I can feel him, hard and ready, nestled against my butt, but he doesn't rub it against me. He doesn't even twitch his hips. With inhuman patience he just traces my body. Little touches here, there, making my skin come alive. My eyes drift shut so that I can better sense it all.

As he trails his fingertips over the curve of my hip and around to trace the super sensitive skin just below the curve of my butt, I feel his lips ghost over my throat. I gasp, arching back against him, tilting my head so he can have better access. His other hand plays over my stomach, drifting up to paint warm water over the tip of one incredibly hard nipple. I can feel myself getting wetter, aching, my entire body now just one big instrument that he's playing like a master.

His tongue laps lightly against my jugular, which drives my Slayer senses crazy. The tingle that's normally reserved for just the nape of my neck seems to shoot straight through my body until I can feel it in the tips of my breasts, and between my thighs. Vampire! it's screaming.

"That's it," Spike whispers, and I realize I'm the one doing the grinding, moving against his still body like a cat begging to be pet. I'm whimpering, too, wanting something more than just all these tiny teasing touches.

But Spike is evil.

His tongue teases my throat; one finger flicks my left nipple while his other hand drifts down to play lightly with the curls between my thighs. My skin feels too hot, too tight, too sensitive for all of this. I need...

I need...

"I know what you need," Spike murmurs against my throat. "Can hear your heart pounding, smell you getting so wet and slick for me, feel your nerves getting tighter and tighter. All you need is the right... touch..."

He pinches my nipple, and taps a finger against my clit, just once. With blunt teeth he nips at my throat.

"Come," he whispers in my ear. "Come for me, love."

And I do.

And so does he, spilling himself with a hoarse growl against my lower back.

For a moment we simply stand there, panting together under the warm water, our bodies trembling. I've never experienced anything like that before, never thought such a thing would be possible. He barely touched me, and I didn't really touch him much at all, and yet...

Spike lets out a long, shuddering breath. "Buffy," he murmurs, resting his head on my shoulder. I can feel his cool breath against my back. "Love you," he whispers into my skin. "Love you so much."

"I love you, too, Spike," I whisper back.

***

We finish out the last of the hot water before we manage to get out of the shower. It's only our growly stomachs and the cold air that keep us from taking as long to get dressed. It feels so good to be in clean clothes, and I can't help but linger a little with the blow dryer, trying to make my hair look semi-normal again. Finally I have to put the dryer down or risk making my hair worse than it already is. When I turn around, Spike is leaning against the doorjamb, dressed head to toe in black once more. He almost looks like the old Spike, though he's still too thin and his two-toned hair gives it away. He's smiling softly at me, this look of awe on his face, like he can't quite believe he's here.

"We should talk," I say, before I can think better of it. That's me, smooth segue-girl. Spike stiffens, then scowls. "Don't be a bonehead," I tell him, knowing he's thinking I'm going to break things off with him. "I just... I know you overheard Giles and me earlier. We should talk about that."

"Bloody hell," he mutters, running a hand through his hair and looking sheepish. "You were just gone for ... I got worried."

"Which is why you took the time to leave no footprints?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Bugger," he says, scowling at his boots. I take his hand and lead him into my bedroom. I perch on the bed, and he sits beside me, looking about as tired as I feel.

"How much of it did you hear?" I ask, not sure where to begin.

"Watcher would rather stake me than go through with this ritual thing," Spike says, flatly.

So pretty much all of it, I guess. That makes things sort of easier. "Do you know what it is?" I ask.

"Just what he told you. Joiny ritual thing that would mystically connect us for as long as we both shall live... or... exist. Whatever," Spike says with a sigh.

"You don't look happy."

Spike glances at me from beneath his lashes, then gets up and starts to pace. His jaw is all clenchy. "No," he says finally, "I'm not happy about it."

Oh.

It never occurred to me that Spike might not want to be bound to me. I thought...

"Don't be daft, you stupid bint," Spike says, crouching in front of me. Though the words are mean, his tone isn't. "I'm not happy about it because... I want you, yes. More than I've ever wanted anything on this soddin' planet, I want you. An' I want you to love me the way I love you." He stops for a moment, thinks about it. "Scratch that. I'm still selfish. I want you to love me better than I love you. Because you can, because you're good and soulful and you loving me... God, Buffy. It makes me feel like a man. Like... like all this, everything I've been through getting to this place, this time, this moment... like it was worth it. And like—and don't you dare tell anyone I said this or I swear I'll bite your tongue off—like maybe there's a chance for me to be something more. Something better."

He means it, too. I can see it shining in his eyes. Then he scowls. "But what I don't want is for you to bind yourself to me because of some soddin' prophecy that says you have to. Yeah, I'm for saving the bloody world and all, but not... not if it means you'd be bound to a creature you still loathe. Not if it means I'd spend the rest of however long I have on this planet knowing that as much as I love you, you're still wishing I was Angel or... anyone other than me."

Spike laughs a sort of hysterical giggle. He drops his head against my knees to take a couple of hugely unneeded breaths. When he looks back up at me, the expression on his face is twisted with self-mockery. "Talk big, don't I? Truth is... you're willing, I'll do it. Because I am a selfish bastard, and I do want you all for myself, and because I plan to make sure you stick around for a bloody long time."

"How long?" I whisper.

There's something hard and determined in his eyes. "Long as I can keep you that way, luv. Thing is... The thing is, Watcher said that it doesn't usually work with humans. Which makes me wonder. Normally rituals like this—ones between vamps and demons—it only works because of something in the blood... whatever it is that makes us immortal..." He bites his lip and watches me through his lashes. "But... if Rupes is right, it'll work between you an' me. I don't know what that means, exactly. I just... wonder if it doesn't mean that you might be sticking 'round a bit longer than anybody thought."

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "You think... maybe there's something in my blood that makes me... part demon?"

Spike frowns. "No. You're not part demon. But... Slayers are sorta the flip side of the vamp coin, yeah? I mean, you've got the same strength, speed, you've got the sped up healing abilities, too. Technically, vamps, we're not entirely immortal. We can be killed just like you can. Difference is that there's so many of us, and only one of you. Sure, you can pick off the weakest of us, but those of us that are stronger, smarter... we last longer. If there were a thousand Slayers about, hunting down vamps…wonder how long some of them might live?"

"You're saying you think maybe Slayers are... what? Not entirely mortal?" I ask.

Spike shrugs. "I don't know, do I? Just... trying to suss it out, same as you."

I think about that for a minute, what it might mean, if it were true.

"Would I...," I lick my lips, remembering some of Angel's reasons for not staying with me. "Do you think that I'd get old? I mean, you love me now, but... what if I'm old and wrinkly and I have to slay with my cane?"

Spike shakes his head, chuckling. "I'd love you just the same, pet. But if it's true...I'm not sure about it, luv, but I don't think you'll get much older physically as it is."

"Huh?"

"Don't know many humans whose bodies stop aging after they hit their late teens," he says, watching my face carefully.

"Spike, I don't look like a seventeen year old," I tell him.

"Yeah, you don't look like a teenager any more, but most of it's in how you carry yourself, and in your eyes. Seen too much and done too much, I wager. And you've lost that last bit of baby fat. But in here..." he taps his finger against my chest and closes his eyes and I get the weird feeling that he's listening to things inside me. "All that Slayer healing is keeping you in top shape, repairing anything that breaks down. Don't know for sure, of course, but..." He shrugs, struggling with it. "Might just be wishful thinking on my part."

A shiver goes down my spine. I'd never really thought of it before, but... what if he's right? He's right about the healing. I rarely ever scar, and while I get sick sometimes... What if... I can't wrap my head around it, the idea that... that, that without that death wish Spike once mentioned, or barring some accident, I might actually BE a Cheeto. Or... you know, like Peter Pan?

While everyone else gets to grow up, grow old, live their normal lives and die in their normal beds... I'll stick around like Styrofoam. One more way that being the Slayer has robbed me of everything normal.

Then again... there's this eternally young, eternally handsome—well, maybe not so much at the moment, cause he's still looking pretty skinny—vampire here. One who loves me. Who will love me until he's dust. And if I do this ritual thing... At least I might not have to worry about getting all wrinkly while he stays young and pretty forever.

Still, the thought that eventually I might have to watch my friends grow old without me... it's not a happy thought.

Spike shrugs at my frownies. "'Course, there's always plastic surgery, pet, if you're afraid things are starting to sag," he says with a leer, effectively shattering all my morbid thoughts.

"Oh my god, Spike," I say, rolling my eyes. "You are such a pig."

"Oink oink," he says, then climbs onto the bed beside me and picks up Mr. Gordo from my pillow, turning the stuffed pig to look at me. "Handsome fellow," he comments with a smirk. "Can see the resemblance." He flops back and snuggles against the pillows. "Let's sleep on it, Slayer," he says. "No need to make life altering decisions when we're both run ragged."

I sigh. He's right. I hate that he's usually right. But I need time to process what all of this means, and we only have a little while before the others show up demanding to know what happened in hell and what we're going to do about Louhi.

Spike reaches out a hand and pulls me down beside him. I snuggle up against his chest and nestle my head into the crook of his shoulder, thankfully on the non-holey side of his neck. Then he brushes a kiss against my forehead. "Sleep, luv," he murmurs. "We can decide how to save the world later."

"I'm not getting plastic surgery," I mumble into his t-shirt.

"Thank god," he says. "Do you have any idea how bad silicon tits taste?"

"No," I say, yawning, and feeling myself starting to drift off now that I'm no longer moving. "And I don't want to know why you do."



***

I feel like I've barely dropped off when Spike wakes me up a little while later. "Scoobies are downstairs," he complains, burying his face in my hair.

A minute or so after that I hear the thud of a door shutting and a low murmur of voices as the others sneak around downstairs trying to be quiet. "Like a herd of bloody elephants," Spike mutters. I giggle a little, then yawn. Guess we have to get up, though I could easily sleep for another week. My stomach chooses this moment to growl and remind me that three slices of pizza are not nearly enough to make up for a week or more of nothing but snow, hot chocolate, and power bars. A minute later I smell what can only be the deliciousness that is Chinese food wafting up the stairs.

Spike sniffs and sits up. "I call dibs on the Kung Pao," he says, sliding off the bed. "And if Harris even thinks about touching it, I'll bite his arm off."

"You don't even need people food," I complain, my mouth watering.

"So?" he smirks, helping me up. I check my hair in the mirror and give it a quick brush, then slick on some lip-gloss to hide the worst of the damage to my lips. Spike's practically vibrating in the doorway, but he lingers until I'm ready. Then we head downstairs together.

Willow meets us at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh," she says. "I was just... coming to wake you."

"Tell me there are egg rolls," I say, desperately.

She grins. "Extra orders. We ordered triple of everything we normally get. Oh, and ... and there's more blood. It's already heating in the microwave," she says, looking at Spike warily.

"Ta, Red," he says, and disappears into the kitchen.

The others are all in the living room, setting out more than a dozen containers and cartons of food on the coffee table. Pooh is frisking around between everyone, sniffing everything and wagging his tail furiously. Someone hands me a bowl piled with fried rice and chicken and egg rolls. I sink onto the couch and dig in. A few minutes later, Spike joins me, settling beside me with a huge thermos of blood. He commandeers a carton of spicy Kung Pao and some chopsticks of his own.

"You're a lot better at that now than you were the first time," I say, smiling as I watch him shovel chicken into his mouth.

"Have a hundred years of practice, now, don't I?" he says, expertly snagging some rice out of my bowl and not dropping a grain of it before he pops it in his mouth.

"How do you know how good Spike was with chopsticks a hundred years ago?" Willow asks.

I glance at Spike, not sure how much he wants me to tell. He stiffens, then shrugs. "Might as well, luv," he says softly.

I look around the room and finally find Whistler standing by the wall, watching me steadily over the rim of his beer bottle. "Did you know?" I ask him. "Did you know what they were going to...ask of me before I found him?"

He makes a face. "I knew you'd be tested," he says. "They didn't really give me specifics."

Beside me, Spike growls. "You're Whistler."

"Guilty," Whistler says, with a shrug. "And before you start getting all indignant, you might want to remember that without a little bit of help from the guys upstairs your ass would still be on ice, Blondie. It was her choice to go after you, and I'm not sure even the PTB could have stood in her way. We just sped up the process, is all. You could still be stuck there, you know."

"She didn't need to see all that," Spike snarls.

"Yeah," Whistler says. "She did. Was the only way we could know for sure."

"What? That she knew exactly what sort of damaged goods she was buying?" Spike asks.

"That she loved you, you moron," Whistler says, effectively shutting everyone up. Spike just blinks at him, stunned. "She had to know you...all of you. She had to choose. Frankly, I think you're kind of a bum deal, but, hey, she likes you. And so, apparently, do the PTB. Who'm I to argue with their choice of Champions?"

"Whoa, whoa... wait a second," Xander says, coughing around a mouthful of spring roll. "Back the truck up. Buffy's not in love with Spike. I mean, yeah, she rescued him but that was because of Louhi. Right?"

He turns pleading eyes toward me, and I feel the others all do the same.

"Was kinda hoping to put that revelation off until after we'd saved the world," I say quietly.

"Buffy," Giles says. "I think maybe you ought to explain exactly what you went through. Perhaps that would... well, perhaps it might make it easier to... to understand."

I frown and poke at my food, but everyone is staring at me and I know I'm not going to get out of this that easily. Spike's hand slides around behind me, to rest against my back. It's a comforting sort of gesture and it gives me strength. Funny how I can face down demons, take a field trip through hell, and save the world, but the thought of facing my friends and their judgment scares the crap out of me.

I take a deep breath, then another. Focusing on Spike's hand on my back and Tara's open and listening face, I begin.

"Okay, so, after I stepped through the big swirly portal thingie I found myself in New York, about twenty or so years ago..."