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Chapter 6
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Betaed by: Goblin_Dae, Science, and Subtilior

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. This is written purely for fun.

DUST: A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfic by KnifeEdge



Somehow, Spike asleep was almost more irritating than Spike awake. Buffy stayed in the kitchen for an hour or so, watching the basement door as if she could see through it. She couldn’t help wondering if the vampire down below was sleeping or not, and if, when she finally went down to check on him, he’d be under the spell. It was like Schroeder’s Cat, she thought, though she’d never figured out what the Charlie Brown character had to do with it. Schroeder didn’t even have a cat.

Out of sight clearly wasn’t out of mind. Spike was still annoying her to death.

Distractions were good, she decided. Especially if they were of the productive variety. Stupid vampire hadn’t even really tried to break the spell, after all. He’d just automatically assumed she’d be the one to fix it. Wouldn’t Spike be surprised if she managed to find the solution before he woke up?

So she tried to focus on Willow’s books, but the text was tiny and she didn’t understand half of the words, which seemed to be written in Latin or Greek or something else totally incomprehensible. The table of contents for the first book didn’t yield anything obviously helpful. There were a couple of spells on how to temporarily put people to sleep, but both of them supposedly wore off after short periods of time. The second book was even worse. Maybe she could find a copy of Spellbreaking For Dummies?

Eventually, frustrated, she went upstairs and tried to wake her mother. Only that got her thinking about Spike again and wondering exactly what he’d tried in order to wake her. Somehow she doubted he’d limited himself to sitting on the edge of her bed and gently shaking her while calling her name. That didn’t seem like Spike’s style. She remembered an almost empty water glass by her bed that she couldn’t recall putting there. Had he tried splashing her with water? If so, that clearly hadn’t been what did it, since she had been dry by the time she woke. So it couldn’t have been the water. Or ice cubes. Her alarm clock had been moved, but it hadn’t been ringing or playing music.

He’d been touching her, she remembered. His hands were on her upper arms, and he’d been shaking her slightly. There was a good chance that it was simply that which had done it. He was a vampire. He triggered her Slayer survival instincts. She woke up. End of story.

But what if he’d done something else? Said something specific or ...

Something prodded at the back of her brain as she stared down at her mom. Something about the way Joyce’s curls spilled across the pillow, and how peaceful she looked. Then there was the sleeping town. It was all vaguely familiar, or at least similar to ...

What if?


He wouldn’t have.

Would he?


There was so much blood.

It was everywhere: spattered on the walls in fantastic sprays worthy of Jackson Pollock but with far more depth, so thick on the floor that it cushioned the soles of his boots with each step, soaking into the bedclothes until the cotton was slick and red as crimson satin. The body lying on those saturated sheets, however, was somehow pristine. Her golden hair and golden limbs spread in bright contrast against the blood.

The room was drenched in Slayer: Slayer perfume, Slayer sweat, Slayer sex and, above all, Slayer blood. The scent was so rich he could almost feel it coating his tongue and the inside of his nose and throat. He was drowning in it, inhaling it in great mouthfuls, wanting it to fill his dead lungs, his hollow chest, his painfully hard cock. He wanted to drink the scent, then lick every surface of the room clean, roll in it until it had seeped into his very pores.

She must be dead. Nothing lived when every drop its blood had been drained and used for interior decor; Spike knew that for a fact.

Still, he approached the bed. The blood on the floor sucked at his boots, threatening to pull them off completely. Her eyes were closed, her hair a halo around her head. Her long slender limbs were arranged as if she had been waiting for her lover. It was a pose not even Angelus could have contrived, it was so natural and graceful. Light gilded her skin, highlighting the golden hairs on her arms, the rosy peach of her nipples, the supple flare of her hips. Even in death she was a molten thing, so bright it hurt to look at her.

It disturbed him to know that when he touched her she’d be cold.

Maybe there was still some blood left in the fount? He was starving. He’d never felt hunger like this. His fangs ached to sink into that glorious skin, to taste that blood from its source. He wanted to bury his face between her thighs and drink her that way, his sharp teeth embedded in her swollen sex. He wanted to plunge into her mouth, bite her tongue, and drain her of words and blood.

Spike reached out, skimming his fingers over the long column of her neck.

Her eyes opened. Her lips parted. She gasped.

He jerked back, surprised at her warmth, that she was still alive. Something in his chest thudded hard.

“Did you kiss me?”

Her voice seemed to come from everywhere, surrounding him and demanding an answer.

Something in his chest pounded again—

—and he sat up abruptly, instantly aware that he was not in a blood-soaked bedroom, but instead stretched out on a rough cot in the Slayer’s basement, and his chest fucking hurt.

He blinked, bewildered, at the shoe in his lap. Then he looked up. The Slayer was standing at the foot of the basement stairs with something clutched in her hands and a furious look on her face.

“What?” Spike asked, blinking a bit owlishly.

“Did you kiss me?” Buffy said, enunciating clearly, as if she thought he was stupid. Come to think of it, she likely did. He eyed the stiletto heel of the shoe she was clutching, and then noticed its slightly dusty mate on the floor. There was big cardboard box near her, the flaps torn open, labeled simply Shoes. The one in his lap was a battered old pink Converse sneaker with sparkly laces. He fought down a laugh as he pictured the Slayer in them. Best not to irritate her further when she had ready ammunition at hand, he thought.

“What the hell are you on about, Slayer?”

“When you tried to wake me, did you kiss me?”


Spike sneered. “Yeah, I took one look at you snoring away and drooling on your pillow and couldn’t help myself, Slayer. Had to have me a bit of a snog.” He made a dismissive noise. “Think a lot of yourself, don’t you, pet? You’re no Sleeping Beauty. Besides, fairy tales are rot. Did you know in the original version the prince raped her while she slept, got her up the spout, and she woke up when one of her sprogs sucked the splinter out of her finger? There wasn’t any of that true love’s kiss crap.”

Buffy went pale under her tan, her eyes horrified. “Raped?” she whispered. “S—Spike … did you ...?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “It’s too bloody early for this. Right, smaller words, because clearly you’re too thick to get it.” He sat all the way up, bunching the sheet at his waist. “Sorry, luv, you just don’t do it for me. I like my women dark and slender ... and screamin’ my name. Not scrawny as an altar boy and comatose. You needn’t fret. Your virtue is unsullied ... Well, as unsullied as it can be after you’ve slept with Ang—” The second pink sneaker caught him in the head. “OW! Bloody hell! Knock it off, you harpy!”

But Buffy had already subsided back against the stair rail, her arms crossed protectively around her middle. “So, you didn’t kiss me,” she said.

“Did you even hear a word I just said?” Spike grumbled, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead. “I’m gonna have a bruise, you know.” He was just glad she’d swapped the stiletto for the Converse. With her aim he might’ve been missing an eye by now.

“Maybe you said something specific.” Her face brightened. “Like a ... a code word or a key phrase or something. Magic words. Can you remember anything you might have said while trying to wake me up?”

“Yeah,” Spike drawled. “But I doubt any of the words I used would be magic.”

“Why not?” she said. “What’d you say?”

He rolled his eyes, then proceeded to rattle off a list of profanities in four different languages. George Carlin would have been dead from jealousy.

Buffy blanched. “Okay ... okay, stop. Probably not that, then. Just ... I don’t even want to know what some of those words mean.” She sighed, then seemed to register something. “Hey,” she said. “You’re awake.”

“You hit me with a fucking shoe, of course I’m bloody awake.”

“You didn’t happen to hit me with a shoe, did you?” she asked, hopefully.

“Wish I had done, you sadistic bitch,” Spike grumbled. “But, no. Why?” It was dark outside, he could tell that without even glancing at the low basement windows, so he knew he’d slept at least a few hours, but he still felt like he could do with another week. He didn’t need to yawn—oxygen depletion hadn’t been a problem for him for over a century—but he did it anyway, stretching his arms over his head and watching through hooded eyes as the Slayer looked at everything but him.

“No reason, just ... trying to figure out how you woke me up,” she said.

“And you thought I’d snogged you awake?” he asked, incredulous. Vaguely he recalled his dream and the desire to bite her tongue for her and suck her dry through it; that was a better scenario than him playing fucking Prince Charming.

“Well, think about it,” she said. “It’s sort of like what happened in Sleeping Beauty, right? Not your icky version but the other one.”

“Sleeping kingdom happened in the sodding original, too,” he said. “Still, doesn’t explain why we’re awake, or why we can’t leave. If you were the sleeping princess, shouldn’t waking you up have done for the rest of the bloody town? Think you’re stretching, Slayer.”

“But what if I’m not?” she said, sitting down on the edge of the stairs and fiddling with a silvery slingback heel that for some reason dragged up a dusty memory of Monte Carlo, Dru in a long black dress, and a demonic piano player. He could still picture the way her heels had dug into the pianist’s back when Spike had caught them in flagrante. Fuck, now that he was thinking about it, he could even remember the jangle of piano keys as Dru had pounded them in musical ecstacy ...

“The princess, I mean,” the Slayer continued, providing a welcome distraction from that kick down memory lane. “I’m usually the saver, not the savee. Maybe I’m supposed to wake someone up.”

“This mean you’re gonna make out with every girl in town, Slayer?” Spike said, brightening at the thought. “Gotta say, I like this plan.”

“No. Ugh. You’re revolting. And ... put some pants on or something. I can’t look at you without being blinded.” Spike ignored her command and leaned back against the wall, stretching out his legs and flexing his toes. She tossed the shoe back in the box and got up, pacing like a cat, deliberately not looking at him again.

When he glanced down he saw the sheet had dropped even lower on his abdomen. Well, that explained the delicious blush staining her cheeks. Didn’t explain why the sight of said blush was giving him a sodding cockstand. Normally it took a little more blood than that to get him hard and hungry. Probably just a side effect of not feeding for so many days, he decided, relentlessly willing his body back under control. Much as he loved to brass her off, who knew what stupid rule she’d slam him with if she caught him with a hard-on. He could always claim it was just morning wood—even though that erection had been summarily destroyed by her long distance kick in the head—but it was smarter not to chance it.

She was still prattling, oblivious to his distraction. “... so maybe I’m supposed to figure out who the spell initially targeted and wake them up. Maybe you’re wrong, maybe it is a true love’s kiss sort of spell.”

“Think you’re forgetting a few things, luv,” Spike said. “First, in the story the princess or whatever was stashed in a bloody obvious tower surrounded by thorns. Last I looked, Sunnyhell hasn’t grown any huge towers or briar hedges to point us in the right direction. Second, if it’s supposed to be your soddin' true love ... well, I suppose that rules out Angel—” He put up a hand to stall her before she could charge, privately amused at how easy it was to wave that red cape. Still, he knew from recent experience that bringing up Angel only made her more likely to kick his ass.

“Making a point here, not trying to break the bleedin’ rules.” She scowled, but lowered her fists. “It rules out Angel since he’s not even here, and unless you’ve got another true love lurking about, we’re back to square one again. Third, where the fuck do I fit into this fairy tale scenario? Last I checked the prince didn’t have a dashingly handsome and fangy partner.”

“Partner ...” Buffy frowned, then her eyes lit up as though someone had stuffed a firecracker up her perky little bum. “Parker!”

“Don’t think I followed that,” Spike said. But she was already bounding up the stairs, ponytail flying, probably full of girlish fantasies of kissing the bastard and him waking up and falling immediately in love with her. Wanker.

Figured that the Slayer would latch onto her dream of finding love with that droopy-eyed git who’d publicly humiliated her a few weeks back. He’d only had to watch five minutes of her dogging the boy’s heels, begging for a scrap of dignity, to know how that particular love scene had played out. From an evil standpoint it was almost admirable, Spike thought. Darla would have turned the lad on the spot—she’d always had an eye for pretty boys with a flair for destroying innocence. And, unleashed as a demon, that prat Parker could have given even Angelus a run for his money.

Somehow, that thought only made him feel sour and on edge. He desperately needed to kill something, but that wasn’t going to happen so long as he was playing nice with the Slayer. He’d have to settle for cigarettes instead.

Spike sighed and reached for his jeans. He probably ought to follow her. There was no way this was going to end well—and, besides, he wouldn’t miss watching the Slayer get her reality cheque cashed for the world.


It was strange, Buffy thought as she sprinted toward campus, that she hadn’t considered this earlier. Stranger still that Spike had been able to dispel the Parker-related funk she’d been living in for the last week. Well, more than a week now, she supposed, though she seriously doubted that dreamtime counted. For days all she’d been able to think about had been Parker. All she’d been able to dream about was Parker. She knew he’d eventually come to his senses and realize that she was someone special and worth more than just a single night of fun. It was just a matter of time.

Oh, she knew that Willow and Xander were convinced that Parker was the scummiest of scum, but it was just so hard to believe — especially when she now had the King of Scum sleeping in her basement to compare him to. Parker was nothing like Spike. Parker had those deep, soulful eyes that you could just lose yourself in, and this way of really understanding what was in her heart. And his eyelashes! You couldn’t be scum with eyelashes like that. It just wasn’t possible.

Besides, Buffy knew she wasn’t that girl. She wasn’t the sort of girl who just fooled around in college for the fun of it. She’d made love with Parker. It hadn’t just been about sex. It had been wonderful and magical and ... and ... well, normal. He’d been warm, and had a pulse and everything. There had even been condoms! It didn’t get any more normal than condoms. More importantly, though, they’d connected.

It only made sense, really. Clearly this was a spell cast by the good guys, right? And if that was the case, then it stood to reason that the spell probably had some nice motive behind it. Since she was the one awake, it meant that she was supposed to break it—and what nicer way of breaking a spell was there than kissing your true love?

Buffy hesitated slightly, her pace decreasing as she looked up at Parker’s dorm building.

The only problem was, she wasn’t entirely sure she was in love with Parker. Obviously she cared about him. A lot. A whole lot, really, because it wasn’t like she was some kind of raging slut who just slept with guys whom she kinda liked. There had to be something there. But she’d only known Parker for a little while, and while she cared about him, and could totally imagine being the girly-half of a Parker-Buffy coupledom—a Puffy coupledom! Only that sounded horrible. Barker? Okay, so maybe the name smoosh thing was kinda lame--it wasn’t the same way she’d loved Angel.

Loving Angel ... it had been incredible. Intense. They had swirled around each other like ... swirly around each other things. For some reason the only mental image she could conjure up was water going down a drain, and that was hardly appropriate. When he’d been in the room, he was all she could see. Well, unless Spike was there, because it was really hard to ignore the bleached pest. But even when Angel had been soulless and evil, he was all she thought about, all the time. Loving him had made her want to die.

It wasn’t like that with Parker. Maybe it could be, eventually. She just had to give it a chance. Was there some rule out there that said that you could only love once in your whole life? And if she could wake him up with a kiss, didn’t that prove that they were meant to be together?

Determination renewed, Buffy stormed through the front doors of Kresge Hall, ready to rescue her prince.


Spike took his time following her. With everyone in town asleep for the last few weeks, all the scents had settled. He could track her for miles right now, without worrying about the trail going cold or other scents getting in the way. So he strolled, enjoying a couple of cigarettes and the cool autumn breeze. He even whistled a little as he opened the door to the dorm building and tipped a purely imaginary hat to the campus security guard napping in the foyer.

His nose led him to the stairs and up three floors. And there it was … The scent of her distress made him want to skip the fifteen feet between the landing and the open doorway that framed her slender figure. He suppressed a grin that he was sure would just get him punched.

“Well,” Spike said. “What are you waiting for? Give him a snog so I can get out of this fucking hellhole.”

He watched as she hurriedly brushed her cheeks with her hand before turning to look at him.


Her big green eyes were brimming with tears and pain. Bloody hell.

Over a century spent doing evil, and his reaction still took him by surprise. Spike had never been able to handle a woman’s tears well. Unlike Angelus, he hated it when they cried. Screaming, sure, that was a bit of all right. Men crying just made him laugh. But a woman’s tears did something to that empty hole in his chest where he figured he’d once kept his soul. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill them, of course, but it made him want to be nice about it. He wasn’t a total monster, after all. He’d thought it’d be different, given that she was a Slayer, but no ...

It made him want to kill something.

He knew why she was crying, though. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that man-boy’s agenda was, and Spike had once taken a Mensa test for fun. He’d scored absurdly high, and to celebrate, he’d eaten the proctor. Without even looking he knew that the Slayer was getting an up-close and intensely painful lesson in the libidinous hobbies of college-age males. Hell, the whole hallway reeked of decades’ worth of sex; the scent had seeped so deeply into the wood and plaster that it could be the glue holding the building together. Still, he couldn’t help but sneak a peek over her shoulder.

Well, well. Twins.

Darla would have fucking adored this one. Or adored fucking this one. Same difference.

“Don’t you dare say anything,” the Slayer warned him, wiping her eyes again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Spike said, though he couldn’t help the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I mean it, Spike, not a single word. It was just an ... idea. And ... clearly I was wrong,” she said. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, then closed the door. Warily they watched each other in the dim hallway lighting. Her eyes were still huge, limpid. Like deep pools of—

“C’mon,” Spike said, turning on his heel. Time to go before he started spouting poetry or some other nonsense. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said. “Let’s.”



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