Chapter 44 - Disclosures

It occurred to Buffy that while she wasn’t having sex with Spike, she had entered into a very physical relationship with him. She hadn’t quite intended to, but she had done so nonetheless.

When it came to blood—at least her blood—Spike was not a ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of vampire.

It was Saturday.

Spike covered every inch of her. His body pressed hers into the mattress, his mouth fastened on her neck. One of his arms was wrapped underneath her, pulling her up even as his weight pushed her down, as if it were possible to draw her any closer to him. His other hand was at the back of her head, fingers alternately flexing and relaxing against her skull as he drank.

He had come to her window, appearing as she got ready for bed after patrol, and tapped against the glass with a fingernail. She had closed her door, slid open the window, and sat down on the bed.

He’d wordlessly shed the duster, and the rest had followed suit from there.

Presently Spike pulled out of her neck, finishing once again by slipping back into his human features and gently lapping at the holes he’d made.

For some reason, Buffy thought that once he’d gotten his fill, he’d leave as quickly and silently as he came. So she was surprised when he rolled onto his side, pulling her with him and cradling her body against his. His chin rested on the top of her head, and one of his hands loosely draped over her shoulder.

And then he was still. Deathly still.

It was one thing that she’d noticed the night they’d been together. As she’d lain next to him afterward, he had been still. Not a muscle had moved in him. No heartbeat, no rise and fall of lungs, nothing. Only an immobile, cool body pressed against hers.

The only difference was now he was warm.

When she woke up the next morning, he was gone. Too mentally and physically drained to take it as an insult or rejection, she rather realized that it was good. Explaining Spike to her mother was not something she wanted to do.

Drowsily turning off her alarm—she would be sleeping late—Buffy rolled over and went back to sleep.

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Despite Buffy’s careful precautions, everything came crashing down that night.

Her mother knew.

Not even here two weeks and her mother knew about the Slaying.

They’d been out doing last minute shopping when two vampires practically jumped them at their car. Buffy had dusted both in quick succession, leaving her mother staring, mouth open as her bag fell to the ground.

There was absolutely no way to explain away two vampires in game face disintegrating three feet from her.

“Mom, we need to talk.”

Buffy had driven them home, explaining what she could as she did so. For some reason, it was easier if she didn’t actually have to look Joyce in the face.

She called Xander, who said he and Oz would cover patrol, and Giles, who would hopefully lend some credibility to the whole story. Even if he was a stranger, he looked credible.

Giles arrived at their house shortly after they did (with books, of course), and together they told Joyce the whole of it, Buffy filling in how she became the Slayer in L.A., and Giles informing her of the history and duties of the Slayer.

It was very similar to what Wesley had told her. Buffy decided there must be a “One Girl in All the World” speech that Watchers were required to memorize in school, sort of like the Preamble to the Constitution.

It was over an hour later now, and Giles had just left. Buffy sat facing her mother in the living room.

“So you’re a slayer.”

“The Slayer. There’s only one.”

“Right.” She shook her head, as if to clear it. “Honey, have you tried not being one?”

“It doesn’t exactly work like that, Mom. I was called—I’m the Slayer. Look, it’s really not so bad. I’ve got superpowers.” She smiled and tried to lighten the mood. “Great for lifting furniture to vacuum.”

“But you have to fight these vampires.”

“Yeah. But it’s okay.” There was no reason for her mother to have to realize right away how dangerous what she did was.

“And there are vampires; vampires are real. Those men in the parking lot—their faces—and they just exploded.”

She fell silent, and after a moment, Buffy asked, “So…are you going to be okay with all this?”

“I’m not…okay with it, but I think I can deal with it. I just need some time. And a drink, I think,” she said nervously. “And Mr. Giles also fights vampires?”

“Sort of. Not so much fights as researches. With books and stuff. He was, though, before I got here. But fighting is the Slayer’s job.”

“And Mr. Giles owns a magic shop? A real magic shop?”

“Yes, Mom. And Willow’s a witch. A real witch.”

“This is going to take some getting used to.” Joyce paused and looked around the room. Her eyes paused in the corner window. “So that’s how you got the Christmas tree home and set up the other day.”

“Yeah,” Buffy admitted.

“So I suppose there’s no Xander with a truck.”

“Oh, there’s totally a Xander. Just no Xander tree-helping.”

“What’s he?”

“Huh? Oh, no, Xander’s normal. Well, in an I-stake-vampires sort of way, but he’s not a witch or anything.”

Buffy then hit the high points of the vampire crash course again. ‘If you see someone who looks like that, run; don’t invite people in after dark; here’s some holy water for your purse.’

Her mother had gone to bed shortly after, and Buffy reflected that it hadn’t gone as badly as she thought it would have. At least she wouldn’t have to be sneaking around every night, nor was her mother calling the loony bin on the lot of them.

After that, they had a relatively normal Christmas. It seemed Christmas was not a particularly vampy time, even on a Hellmouth, and Buffy had a few nice days of non-patrolling relaxation.

Joyce had insisted that she invite everyone over for lunch on Christmas day, and in spite of Buffy’s protests, her mother had pulled out the gold-rimmed china and plated candlesticks. But regardless of the setting, they had soon fallen into a friendly talk that was strangely comfortable, even though her mother kept curiously bringing up Hellmouth related things.

There was only one person Buffy didn’t see over the holidays. Knowing that she wasn’t patrolling, or perhaps sensing that she’d be busy with family and friends, he had stayed away.

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Spike was lying on his bed, chain smoking. It was one of the benefits of being dead, not having to worry about annoying things like health. Smoking had the added benefit of not coming with a hangover.

He wasn’t particularly in a mood, but chain smoking just seemed like the thing to do while he mulled certain things over.

He took another long drag, pulling the last out of it. Then he dropped his arm over the bed, casually tossing the cigarette onto a plastic bag that was serving as his ashtray.

Certain things being Buffy. The more time he spent with her, the clearer it became.

Spike lit up another.

She was like a drug. A wonderful, horrible drug that he completely craved.

It wasn’t just the blood. Not that the blood wasn’t good—there were no words to describe how good it was—but he craved her, desired her. All of her. Her presence. The whole package. Even if she was the Slayer.

He knew he wasn’t getting out of this.

Not that he wanted to.

Which meant that he was right and truly buggered.

In a good way.

Somehow, he’d known as much since the night he had drunk her blood and agreed to come with her. If he had never left L.A., maybe he would have been able to—well, not forget about her, certainly, but move on. Hold on to her as a happy memory.

Maybe not.

But then she’d gone and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Maybe he would have followed her without it, stalked her around Sunnydale, keeping himself amused and her alive.

Or maybe not.

Spike had never been one for what ifs. What mattered was the now. And now, she had hired him once again.

Sure, he’d do what she’d paid him to do—he’d watch her back, teach her to fight, fight dirty even, make her into the best Slayer if that’s what she wanted. Some of it he would have done anyway, if he’d come here on his own.

He realized that he’d do whatever it took to keep her alive.

But he’d also do more than that; he’d do what he wanted. He wasn’t going to hide in the shadows, only coming out when she called him.

She didn’t seem too bothered by this attitude so far. There was an easy familiarity that they had both fallen back into. She didn’t seem adverse to his company. And as long as he didn’t show up and introduce himself to her pals, he doubted she would press the matter.

There was more going on than she professed, even if she didn’t want to admit it and was trying to keep the past and the present separate. ‘Business,’ she said, but it was still there, hovering between them. He knew it and she knew it. They danced around the obvious during everything that they did.

The only time he had all of her was the blood—he could pull her to him and possess her fully. There were no pretenses, no words, nothing but them.

They got along best when they didn’t talk about things. They got along best when there were rules to go by. Hell, they got along best when he was working for her.

Something in his mind whispered that they got along best when he wasn’t killing, but he didn’t intend to explore that at the moment.

He’d agreed to it, so he would do it.

And despite the fact that she was the Slayer, it was with a bizarre sort of satisfaction that he thought of shaping her, sharpening her skills razor fine, until there was nothing that could stand against her. She’d be a force to be reckoned with, powerful and beautiful and lethal.

Spike started another cigarette.

There was a knock on his door. It had to be Buffy; there was no one else that would come here. Slowly getting to his feet, he made his way to the living room.

“Ohmygod, it smells like a smoke factory in here,” she said, stepping inside. “Have you been smoking for the past three days?”

“Just today.”

“Good thing I brought you these, then,” she said, holding up a brown paper bag.

He opened it, finding several packages of cigarettes.

“I wanted to get you something you’d actually use,” Buffy continued. “Sort of a non-Christmas Christmas present. You know, since I haven’t seen you.”

“I didn’t get—”

“It’s no big.” She shrugged.

“Tell you what, pet. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Okay.” She smiled.

Spike grabbed his duster, watching as she evenly but quickly tread down the metal steps that led to the ground.

So little and light and sweet. But she’d be able to take anyone, anything that threatened her.

And if she couldn’t, he would.