Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5219267.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Spike/Buffy_Summers
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-15 Completed: 2015-11-30 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 49997
****** Stitched Up ******
by bewildered
Summary
     Something goes horribly, horribly awry with Willow’s ensoulment
     spell, and Angel’s soul finds an unexpected home – in his dirty
     laundry. Read now the tale of a Sock with a Soul; it’s on a mission
     to help the helpless, and it’s starting with Spike and Buffy.
     Departs canon forever during Becoming Part Two. Has about the nuanced
     characterization one should expect from an Ensouled Sock AU. As seems
     to be my preferred genre now, this is a shameless smutty Spuffy
     farce, once I get that pesky canon drama out of the way.
     Written for the 10th anniversary Seasonal Spuffy on LJ (Nov 2015).
     Warnings: By the laws of CA, Buffy is under the age of consent (18)
     at the beginning of this fic, and will be for many more months. Spike
     doesn’t care (he’s evil) and Buffy doesn’t care (she’s a teenager who
     wants to be treated like an adult) and I don't care. She’ll be 18
     before long. There will be sexual situations, bad language, character
     death (or characters-sucked-into-a-demon-dimension, which is close
     enough), and plain old explicit sex. Also an ensouled sock. If you
     keep reading, don’t blame me.
     Temp Sprusilla/Bangel - nothing explicit, but given where this fic
     veers off, some mooning is inevitable.
Notes
     Thanks to feliciacraft, who wrote a post on Tumblr that was the
     initial inspiration for this plot, and to restfield and the_moonmoth,
     who kept making it worse, until we ended up with this fine and
     glorious adventure. Tumblr is a scary, scary place. More thanks to
     the_moonmoth for her thorough beta-read.
     Chapter 1 contains some dialogue and events from “Becoming, Part 2”
     written by Joss Whedon. Thanks to Alexander Thompson at Buffyworld
     for the transcript.
***** Becoming (a Sock) *****
Spike watched darkly as Angel directed his minions in preparations for the
ritual that would send the world into hell. Spike’s minions, they were, or had
been, and while it was really the least of the indignities he had suffered
through his months of recuperation – how the underlings that used to scurry in
fear at Spike’s orders now bowed and scraped before Captain Hairgel – he took a
moment to reflect on how satisfying it was going to be when the slayer mowed
through them on her way to taking down Angel, leaving their dust floating on
the breeze. Served the disloyal buggers right.
Drusilla was dancing to the fey music in her head, a dreamy smile on her face
as she twirled around Acathla, and Spike’s eyes were drawn to her. She danced
with her whole self, she always had, dark expression flowing from her flashing
eyes all the way to the sharp, polished tips of her fingers – that had been an
inspired present, turning that nail technician with the gift for French
manicures – and he couldn’t keep from devouring the sight of her, hunger like a
cannonball in the pit of his stomach. God, she was everything. Everything.
He was hard, with lust and gleeful anticipation of Angel’s death, and he
adjusted the drape of his duster to hide it, because it wouldn’t do for anyone
to suspect that his shattered spine had finally healed, and so well that only
the tiniest tingle in his toes remained as a reminder of the severed nerves.
Nobody could know until the last minute, when he smote Angel down like the
fucking bug he was. That was going to be fun, that was. He wished he had time
to set up a fucking candid camera, maybe two or three, so that later on he
could replay the moment from every angle, see the look on Angel’s face when he
bashed him on the head, because unfortunately, he wasn’t going to be able to
see it when it actually happened.
That was the problem with stabbing someone in the back: not being able to look
them in the eye when you did it.
Drusilla danced over to him then, crooning one of her own special songs, one of
the lullabies she had composed for Miss Edith. She swooped around behind him,
tracing a sensual hand over his chest. “Isn’t it delicious, my sweet knight?”
She encircled his neck with her arms from behind, pressing her cheek to his; he
closed his eyes and breathed her in, every bit of her, sweet sweet death. “What
a lovely party we shall have!”
Spike made himself sound bored, even as he wanted to fling her to the floor,
show her a real party. “Of course, pet.”
Drusilla’s fingernails scraped across his chest, and he hissed in lust and
fury, turning his face away, because it had been so long, so bloody long, and
even now he could tell she didn’t want him, that she had eyes only for her
precious Angel. She was crooning her mesmerizing song again, in his ear, and
finally she spoke, her voice gentle and soft, almost sweet. “I shall miss you,
my Lancelot.”
He looked at her then, sharply. “Not going anywhere, love,” he muttered,
glancing sidelong at Angel, who was broodingly regarding Acathla, like the
drama king he was. Fucking wanker.
Drusilla laughed then, brightly, and danced away, stepping between Angel and
Acathla to caress the hilt of the sword that protruded from the chest of the
grotesque statue. “’Who so pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is
rightwise king born of all England,’” she intoned, then burst out in a fit of
giggles.
“Leave it, Dru,” Angel growled, taking her by the shoulders and setting her
aside. She laughed and danced on as if she hadn’t been interrupted, eyes closed
as she wove in and out of the bustling workers.
Spike watched every step.
It had been too long, but he was finally through with waiting.
It was time to take back what was his.
***
Buffy crept into the mansion silently, sword ready in her hand. She could hear
Angel’s voice, speaking some sort of ritual words, and she closed her eyes
briefly, hoping against hope that she had come in time, that she could stop the
ritual before it began, that Giles was still alive, that Xander would find him
and they would escape, that she could still save the day. It hurt, it hurt so
much to hear Angel speak, to hear his dear voice without his soul behind it,
but she was a big girl now, she had died and lived and loved and lost and lost
and lost, and she was going to do what it took to save the world.
Then she would go somewhere private and cry. A lot.
She crept into the room, eyes fixed on the stupid-looking minion who was
probably supposed to be standing guard but was instead watching Angel as he did
something near the statue – please, please let me not be too late! – and she
swung her sword in a smooth arc, beheading the vampire quickly and silently.
As his dust settled to the ground, she looked up at Angel, who seemed more
annoyed than angry. Well, she would change that.
“Hello, lover,” she purred.
***
Willow looked at the dot-matrix printout in front of her, trying not to shake.
She still felt weak, but she was full of resolve, and she was going to cast
this spell if it killed her. For Buffy. Even though she felt all ooky in her
stomach, kind of excited and terrified and sick all at once, at just the
thought of taking on a spell this intense, at the thought of all the things
that could go wrong. Buffy was totally worth the risk. Buffy had been too
unhappy for too long, wracked with guilt and misery over Angel, and she just
wasn’t supposed to be unhappy, not when everyone else was all coupley and
googly-eyed. Well, not Giles, but there was only so much Willow could do.
Cordelia was almost done setting out the candles and rune stones around the Orb
of Thessulah, and Willow heaved a deep breath. Oz leaned in to press his
forehead against hers; she could feel herself calming just from the contact,
like Oz’s perpetual mellow was flowing through her like cool rainwater.
“You sure about this, babe?” he murmured, stroking her hand.
Willow nodded. “Mostly sure. I’d feel better if we had time to get some sort of
binding agent from Angel, you know, like some hair from his hairbrush, to
narrow down the aim, but we don’t have time for that, and the odds of the spell
working are still really good. Plus, I don’t know if he even has a hairbrush.”
She wasn’t going to think too hard about the things Giles had said about spells
rebounding and energies going wild and all the other things that could go
wrong. She wasn’t going to let things go wrong. Magic was like school, right?
Know the right words and plug in the right data, and you’d get an A on the
test. Willow might suck at fashion and popularity and conversation and all the
things that high school students actually cared about, but she was really,
really good at tests.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Oz’s voice sounded a shade worried,
which meant he was totally scared; Willow squeezed his hand reassuringly.
“Don’t worry. I want to do this.” Willow met Cordy’s impatient gaze. “Are we
ready?”
Cordelia held out her wrapped bundle of sage. “Stinky herbs are a go.” She lit
it, glancing nervously at the hospital room’s sprinkler head as it started to
smoke. “How sensitive are the smoke detectors in here? My hair looks really
good today, especially considering all the fleeing.”
Oz looked down at the book in front of him. “Did I mention I didn’t take
Latin?”
Willow smiled, hoping she looked serene and confident. “Y-you don’t have to
understand it. You just have to say it. I hope.” Okay, the stutter didn’t help,
but she really was confident. Really.
“Right.”
Willow cast her handful of rune stones and began the Ritual of Restoration.
***
Spike felt the impact of iron against dead flesh shiver up his arm, and it felt
glorious, seeing Angel fall before him; he reveled in it, striking again and
again, a blow for each time Angel had sneered or mocked him, for each time he
had fondled Dru in front of him. The blows fell harder and harder: one for
every time Angel had fucked Dru right in front of him, every single bloody time
Angel had tried to prove that Dru didn’t belong to Spike, had never belonged to
Spike, not for the hundred years he had served her and loved her and given her
his whole self.
“Painful, isn’t it?” he grunted, hearing ribs crack, trying to count them to
make sure he didn’t miss any.
He had barely made it to three when Dru leaped at him, whimpering, the force
taking him down to the floor.
Spike caught a fleeting glimpse of the slayer taking out another traitor minion
as he rolled to his feet, before Drusilla filled his vision. She was furious,
glorious, incandescent with rage; he thought dizzily that she had never been so
beautiful.
“I don't want to hurt you, baby,” he said cajolingly. She slammed him into the
wall by his throat, and he shuddered with desire, before steeling himself.
Later, he would let her unleash her fury on him, when they were safely away
from this fucking town. Later.
He punched her in the face. “Doesn’t mean I won’t,” he shrugged.
Drusilla whipped her head back up to glare at him, eyes burning. She was
muttering under her breath; Spike could barely catch the words.
“‘Now I have warned thee of thy vain glory and of thy pride…’” she hissed,
circling him. “’…That thou hast many times erred against thy Maker. Beware of
everlasting pain, for of all earthly knights I have most pity of thee, for I
know well thou hast not thy peer of any earthly sinful man.’” She lunged at
him, talons clawing lines across his cheek, then downing him with a punch. He
grinned as he fell. That was his precious girl, right there. Beauty and death
and poetry all at once.
“Dipping into the Malory, are we, pet?” he laughed out as he rolled back up to
face her.
There was a sudden flash of light, blinding, and Spike turned his head to see
Angel standing before Acathla, sword in hand. The King of Pain, finally worthy.
Bugger.
Drusilla’s smile was radiant as she watched Angel spin the sword jauntily. “Oh…
Here he comes,” she crooned reverently.
Eyes only on Angel.
Jaw clenched, Spike stepped up behind her, hooking his arm around her neck in a
chokehold. He was good at this bit, had over a century of practice capturing
pretty presents to bring home to his dark princess. She wouldn’t break free, he
was sure.
They were going to be together again, the way things used to be.
***
Buffy felt numb.
Covered in the dust of Angel’s minions, she faced him down, sword against
sword, trading quips and blows, blood for blood, but deep inside she felt dead,
because she knew that she had already lost, the moment Angel pulled that sword
free. Nothing left to lose, she had told Whistler, but there had been one
thing, one thing left to her, she knew now.
Hope.
She knew the story of Pandora’s box, the box that held all the world’s ills,
misery and pain and death – she wondered now, as her leaden arm parried and
lunged, if maybe that box had been something like Acathla, releasing terrors
from hell – and at the very bottom of the box, Hope. When she was young, she
had felt bad, that Hope was stuck in the nasty box with all those horrible
things, but now she thought maybe she understood, because Hope seemed like a
nice thing when you had it – until it went away, and you were left with
nothing.
Buffy had nothing left.
Angel disarmed her then, flinging her backwards into something made of hard
stone, and she grunted at the impact, scrabbling backwards as he advanced on
her for the kill.
She closed her eyes. Waiting.
***
Drusilla finally went limp in Spike’s arms, and he hoisted her up, like a groom
carrying his bride across the threshold – and that was rather true, he was
taking his sweet princess off to their new life, blissful togetherness far away
from Sunnydale and Angel and the accursed slayer, and they would finally be
happy again. No distractions, no interlopers, nothing but blood and carnivals –
perhaps theCarnival, in Brazil, which seemed to have an endless supply of
beautiful girls in beautiful dresses for him to bestow upon his own beautiful
love.
He caught a glimpse of Angel out in the atrium, realizing he had the slayer
cornered, defenseless.
“God, he’s going to kill her,” he said out loud, momentarily wondering if he
should go to his erstwhile ally’s aid. Then he shrugged. Bugger that. He had
Dru; that was all that mattered. He turned and headed for the door.
That was when Drusilla knocked him out with a single wild punch.
***
Drusilla rose to her feet gracefully, gazing down at her devoted chevalier,
pity in her eyes. Poor, poor Spike. She would miss him so. He always brought
her the most darling presents, the most delectable tidbits. Foie gras and
dollies and entrails and sweets, and the secret songs of his devotion, the ones
his heart sang silently when he looked at her, the ones he thought were hidden
away. Effulgent and fervent.
But he had betrayed her, had betrayed her Daddy this night and had betrayed
them both in his heart, in his future, his future of sunshine and tears. She
could not follow him there, and he could not follow her where she was destined
to go.
“Forgive me, my gallant Lancelot,” she murmured sweetly. “But Guinevere must
follow the Once and Future King.”
Gallant he was, and devoted, but not always wise, her knight-errant, else he
would not have thought denying breath to the breathless and bloodflow to the
bloodless could bring her low. Foolish, dear boy. So blind. So easily lulled
into defenselessness.
How she would miss his jests.
She placed her hand on his head, briefly, found his devotion, cradled it to her
mind for a final nostalgic moment, then turned to her Daddy, smiling. She felt
wicked, full of joy. The moment had come. Daddy had become Other, had become an
avatar of Acathla, and soon the portal would open.
The portal to Avalon.
Where she would rule as Queen.
She laughed and opened her eyes wide to destiny.
***
Angel advanced on Buffy, sneering.  “No weapons... No friends... No hope. Take
all that away... and what's left?”

Buffy was empty, completely empty, but in that moment, with her death before
her wearing her lover’s face, she suddenly felt something well up inside her,
pure and clear like spring water, and she realized everything she had lost,
everything she had mourned, had just been masks obscuring the truth. She felt
it like sunlight inside her, and as Angel thrust at her with his sword, it came
in slow motion; she clapped her hands together and caught it as if it was
nothing.

What’s left? she asked herself, and answered out loud, “Me.”
She shoved the sword forward, feeling Angel’s nose break under the hilt, and
leapt up, smiling with newfound confidence as she fought. She was so going to
win.
At least she thought so until the first shoe hit her in the head.
She spared a quick glance and saw Drusilla off to one side of the battle,
picking up refuse from the floor and flinging it randomly towards the
swordfight. The mad vampire had laughably terrible aim, or else really didn’t
care; one missile, an old, worn book, hit Angel squarely on the side of the
head.
He batted aside a crumpled newspaper, rolling his eyes. “What the fuck, Dru?”
Drusilla laughed merrily, eyes and mouth wide, clapping her hands in glee. “She
cannot have you, my king!” She hurled another book; Buffy’s sword cleaved
through it, sending pages flying like snow. What happened to my good buddy
Spike? she thought grouchily, shifting so she could see both vampires at once.
Wait, there he was – crumpled by the door. Great.
Behind Angel, the statue of Acathla started to rumble.
***
Willow wasn’t entirely sure how, but between one gasp and the next, something
happened, something wonderful and terrible, and she knew, she knew what to do,
she didn’t need the printout any more. Her head dropped back and she let the
magic and the words – words she had never heard but somehow knew as if they
were written on her bones – and the soul, Angel’s soul, she let it all flow
right through her, and it was better than anything she had ever experienced,
her eyes seeing whole worlds in the foam tile ceiling of her hospital room,
seeing the whole universe, vast and glorious and terrifying, and when the final
word “Acum!” passed her dry lips she felt the soul go forth, now now NOW, and
for a moment she was empty and she wanted to cry, but then everything that was
Willow rushed back into the void the magic had left, and she was full and
complete again, and she looked around at the room and Oz and Cordelia and the
beeping monitors, and everything was back to normal, but it would never be
normal again, everything was suddenly more. She took a deep shuddering breath
and met Oz’s concerned look with a brave, shaky smile.
Cordelia had stopped waving the burning bundle of sage and was staring at her.
“Is that it?”
Willow rolled her eyes, because wasn’t it just the way of the world, that she
could have a transcendent, universe-expanding experience, and then have to come
right back to earth because of Cordelia. “Yes, that’s it.” Cordelia wouldn’t
know magic if it bit her in the butt.
Some sarcasm must have made it into her voice, because Cordelia gave her a
narrow look. “Did it work? I mean, the Orb did that cool glow thing, but, you
know, it might have just been because it went wrong.”
“I’m pretty sure it worked,” Willow said confidently. “I felt something go
through me.” She looked down at the Orb of Thessulah, now still and cold again
in the center of the circle.
Then she frowned, tilting her head. Something about the circle… “Cordelia, did
you put out the rune stones exactly like Giles did at the library?”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Of course I did! There were two stones between each
of the candles.”
“Yes, but the symbols…”
“Oh, were those important?” Cordelia shrugged. “I think they were the same. I
mean, it’s just a bunch of lines and stuff, right?”
Willow stared at Cordelia, appalled. “Of course they were important!
Everything’s important when you’re casting a spell!”
“But you said it worked!” Cordelia stood up abruptly, taking her smoking bundle
of sage over to the sink of Willow’s bathroom. “Jeez, picky much?” She doused
the burning herbs under the faucet.
Willow looked at Oz significantly, eyes wide; he returned her gaze steadily.
“Are you okay?” he asked gravely.
“…Yeah,” Willow grumbled.
“Then the spell was a success,” Oz shrugged. “We’ll just have to wait until
Buffy gets back to see if it worked at the other end.” He leaned in and kissed
her gently on the forehead. “You did everything you could do. Rest now.” He
lifted the tray-table with the candles and rune stones and the Orb and set it
on the floor up against the wall while Willow slid back down in her bed, trying
not to feel disappointed.
Cordelia came back from the little bathroom, setting her dripping herb bundle
down with the rest of the supplies. “So, are we done? I mean, if the world’s
not going to end tonight after all, I’d like to get to bed at a decent hour.
All the moisturizer in the world can’t fight the effects of sleep deprivation.”
She gave Willow a sympathetic look. “I can bring you some exfoliating cleanser
if you want. All you have in that bathroom is a tiny bar of Irish Spring.”
“I’m good,” Willow said hurriedly. “You can go.” Please, please go.
Cordelia looked relieved, but she shook her finger at Willow. “Promise me
you’re not going to let that green skin-destroyer anywhere near your face.”
Willow rolled her eyes. “I promise.”
Once Cordelia had left, Oz eased back down on the bed next to Willow, careful
not to jostle her monitors and tubes and accoutrements. “So, you really think
it worked?”
“I do,” Willow said firmly, snuggling in to Oz a bit while she had the chance.
(The night-shift nurse had given them the stink-eye last time she came by to
check Willow’s vitals.) “I could feel the soul, Oz. It was there inside me, and
then I felt it rush away. It had to have worked.”
She closed her eyes and inhaled the faint remnants of incense and herbs, and
the special comforting scent that was Oz, clean soap and spicy deodorant and a
lingering hint of the Bronze, and tried not to worry. She knew she had done her
best, but… Willow knew how it felt to walk out of a test and know that you had
aced it, and she didn’t feel that way now. She felt… B-plus-ish.
She just hoped a B-plus would be good enough.
***
Buffy dodged another shoe, a sassy black stiletto with a red sole – it was so
not fair that Drusilla owned a pair of Louboutins when Buffy had to make do
with Famous Footwear! Whoops, distraction! She caught herself just in time to
parry another blow and was watching for an opening of her own, when three
things happened at once.
One – the statue of Acathla trembled and its grotesque mouth yawed open,
swirling yellow energies spreading and growing; scattered shreds of paper
started to skitter across the floor, drawn to the portal.
Two – Angel froze mid-swing, face a rictus of agony; his eyes started to glow
faintly.
And Three – Drusilla shrieked, “NO! You shall not have him!” and flung an
entire basket of laundry, hitting Angel square in the face.
There was a sudden blinding flash from within the clothing that enveloped
Angel’s head, and Buffy hesitated, wondering what could have happened. Was it a
good thing?
Then Angel shook himself like a dog, peeling a sock away from his face to
expose his cruelly familiar evil leer. “Looks like I win, lover,” he sneered,
jerking his head at the widening portal behind him. He flung the sock off into
a corner of the room, glancing away from Buffy for the barest second.
Buffy narrowed her eyes, set her jaw, and stabbed him through the heart.
He roared in fury, reaching out to claw at Buffy’s face, but the violet
energies crackling about him twined with the yellow of the portal, holding him
in place, and Buffy backed away, watching stoically as he struggled against the
forces sucking him inexorably backwards.
She just wished it would happen faster.
***
Spike groggily swam up into consciousness, the clang of swords and Drusilla’s
joyful laughter pulling him out of darkness into… yellow. Yellow glowing behind
his eyelids, and he sat up all in a rush, instincts screaming Daylight! But it
was barely dawn, the sky outside the window just pinkening at the horizon, and
the yellow was sickly and pulsated grotesquely.
Drusilla was there, at the edges of the yellow glow, her curls dancing as she
whirled and spun. As he watched, she threw a book, then a shoe at the slayer
and Angel, who were locked in whirling, frantic battle, swords gleaming
unpleasantly in the noisome light.
She was so beautiful, a dark goddess in her element, that for a moment he
forgot that he was supposed to be abducting her and getting the hell out of
Sunnydale, watching her lithe body arch and sway in an ecstasy of violence, but
a moment later he realized the slayer was winning, and he didn’t put it past
the crafty bitch to consider their deal to let Dru live null and void – even
though he had kept the watcher alive! – just because Drusilla was being a bit
of a nuisance, and so he rolled to his feet and started towards the fray.
Drusilla’s shriek as she flung the basket of clothes stopped him in his tracks,
wounded, because even now, even now she was thinking only of her sire, of
keeping him from Buffy, when she had left him, her devoted slave, like trash in
the hall – but he set his jaw and circled around behind her, watching for his
chance. So he had a beautiful, satisfying view of the surprise and shock and
rage on Angel’s face when Buffy impaled him, and it was just as wonderful as he
might have imagined; he grinned at the bastard over Drusilla’s shoulder as he
crept up in her blind spot. Now, nowDrusilla would be his, for all eternity,
and Angel wouldn’t be able to lay his meaty pathetic paws on her again. He
reached out for Drusilla’s shoulder…
…and missed as she turned serenely to face him. For a moment she looked into
his eyes, her own lit from within, seeing right through him. She reached out a
hand, brushed the scratches on his cheek tenderly with her knuckles.
“Farewell,” she said softly, face radiant with unholy joy.
Then she turned and ran to Angel, quivering as the lightning that crackled
around him enveloped her as well. She wrapped her arms around Angel’s waist and
closed her eyes, laughing as the energy swelled and sizzled and boiled, and
then she and Angel and the sword and the light, all went back and in, melting
and melding together, flowing into Acathla’s wide-open mouth, and then she was
gone.
Gone.
Spike fell to his knees, uncomprehending, as the echoes of Drusilla’s laughter
faded.
Then understanding rushed in, and he began to weep.
***
When the light had faded and the wind had stilled and Angel was well and truly
gone, Buffy felt the adrenaline and rage that had kept her fighting drain
suddenly from her, and her legs trembled and failed, and she landed on her butt
in the dust of a dozen vampires, shaking and empty.
As the wind died down, she became aware of the sound of sobs, great wracking
heaves of breath and whimpers and moans of sheer misery, and for a moment she
thought they were her own tears, that she was so overwhelmed with grief that
she didn’t even know she was crying, but then she shuddered and looked across
the room and saw Spike, collapsed on the floor, tears running down his pain-
wracked face, hands scrabbling at his wet cheeks. She faltered to her feet,
stumbling towards him, not knowing anything except that his pain was hers, they
were the same in this moment, and she fell beside him, wrapping her arms around
him desperately, not caring that he could kill her, just knowing that for this
moment he was the only one who could understand, and then the tears came, huge
fat drops and desperate sobs, and they clutched at each other for what seemed
like hours, giving and seeking solace, here at the end of the world.
Then he shoved her away, eyes furious. “This is all your fault!” he hissed.
Buffy scrubbed tears off her face with a fist. “What, that you couldn’t even
take out a girl?” she lashed out.
Then he dove at her neck, fangs out, clumsy with emotion, and she punched him
in the nose with her tear-stained fist, then backhanded him upside the head,
knocking him out cold.
Her nose was running; she blew it on his shirt, because he was such a stupid
jerk.
Then she tossed his unconscious form over her shoulder and left the mansion
behind – forever, she hoped. At the threshold she paused, uncertain. She
couldn’t go home – maybe not ever, but definitely not tonight – and what she
really wanted was to leave, leave everything behind, go somewhere where nobody
knew that she was Buffy, that she was a vampire slayer, that she had had to
kill her own boyfriend to save the world, somewhere that she could just be an
ordinary girl… but she couldn’t just leave Spike there in the mansion, she had
to at least restrain him in some way, and there was only one place in town she
could be assured of finding manacles and chains without a side order of sex
toys (she hoped), and that was Giles’s apartment. And he had a couch, and tea,
and a non-evil shoulder she could cry on – hopefully not too badly injured, but
she figured Xander would have stuck around if that was the case – and she
desperately needed all of the above.
She heaved Spike’s body a bit higher on her shoulder and trudged listlessly off
into the night.
***
Behind her, in a dusty corner of the vaulted hall, something stirred in the
shadows…
It was alive.
 
End Chapter 1
 
Chapter 1 Notes:
In addition to copious dialogue and descriptions of events from “Becoming, Part
2” this chapter has several quotes from Malory’s “Le Morte d’Arthur,” which has
absolutely zero significance for the rest of the story.
 
***** A Sock with a Soul *****
It came to awareness slowly.
I think, it thought laboriously.
Therefore…
…therefore…
…I am?
It quivered with profundity. I am, it thought again, more firmly.
Then, What am I?
It had senses, though it didn’t understand how or what they were, but around it
was the light of a new day, it knew that, so it could see, and it felt a light
summer breeze across it, so it could feel, and there was a faint sound of
traffic in the distance, the barking of a dog, so it could hear, and that was a
pretty decent set of senses, at least fifty percent of the usual complement, so
it was content.
(Later, it would learn that it was fortunate indeed not to be able to smell…)
Somehow, though, the feeling part… it felt wrong. It stretched out its senses,
trying to determine what it was, and finally realized that it was expecting the
stretch and pull of muscle and bone responding to its will. What it felt
instead was… well, not muscle, that was certain. It felt like – it searched its
vocabulary for the word – it felt like cotton.
Oh, wow. It felt out its shape, its texture, the limits of its existence, and
suddenly was filled with knowledge.
It had a word in its surprisingly-large vocabulary for itself now.
That word was: SOCK.
Well.
The sock had no memory of what had come before its sockness; for all it knew it
had always been a sock, but even so it quivered with strangeness, because just
as it knew that it was a sock, it also knew that socks were not generally
sentient, nor – it twitched as a test, feeling the ribbing of its cuff expand –
animate. Which was a pretty puzzle indeed.
The sock thought about that for a moment, but thinking hard about philosophy
and sockness felt an awful lot like work, and while it knew very little about
itself, the sock was starting to get the feeling that work was not something it
enjoyed.
So anyhow, it was pretty certain it was a sock, and as it coiled around itself,
testing its size and texture, it felt very much like a male sock. Both in the
sense that it was huge and shapeless and no-nonsense – it had a vision in its
consciousness of ladies’ socks being somehow more shapely, possibly adorned
with pom-poms – and in the sense that it just felt male. A man-sock. A sock
with the mind of a man.
And as it tested the limits of its consciousness, it realized that it was more
than just a sock with a mind, a sock that could think and feel and move.
It was a sock with a soul.
As a matter of fact, from the overwhelming amount of guilt that flooded the
sock when it noticed that it was a bit on the grimy side, it was pretty certain
its soul was Catholic.
Not a good Catholic, it determined, swishing its guilt around for a judicious
mental taste. It didn’t feel any strong urge to actually remedy its griminess,
or to seek out a priest for absolution. But definitely not a freewheeling
Episcopalian sock.
It was pretty sure Episcopalian socks would have stripes. Or even polka dots.
It was surrounded by more socks, dozens of them scattered along the dusty
floor, and the Sock with a Soul suddenly felt lonely, because it was the only
one that was moving, and though it could not speak, it somehow knew that any
word it could utter would just be echoed back to it, here in this vast empty
hall.
Even that sexy shoe over there, wantonly flashing its red sole at him, didn’t
seem especially soulful. Just soleful. The sock laughed at its own joke,
because it was really very funny.
For a sock.
In its loneliness, the sock suddenly felt a pull, something calling to it from
a distance. Could it be… could it be the sock had a soulmate? Perhaps it was
not destined to be alone forever.
Socks came in pairs, after all. Perhaps souls did, too.
Like an inchworm, the sock began its journey out into the brand new day.
***
Buffy watched the door close behind Xander and Giles and sighed. That was not
the way she had hoped things would go. As it turned out, broken fingers made
the fixing of tea difficult, and while Giles had made a move to hug her when he
saw her face at his door, his joy at her survival was quickly tempered by the
sight of the unconscious vampire over her shoulder, and Buffy’s demand that he
invite Spike in. Giles had rather enjoyed the chaining-in-the-bathtub part –
vicariously, since he couldn’t work the manacles himself – but when Buffy had
finally gotten her hug, she could tell it was hesitant, not to mention painful
for him, and she had forced a reassuring smile to her face and insisted that
Xander take her watcher to the hospital to get his fingers set and other
injuries treated, while she stayed to watch over Spike, assuring Giles that she
would explain the unconscious vampire later.
Giles had looked at her closely. “Are you sure you’re all right? Angel…”
“Is in hell now,” Buffy had said shortly. “Him and Drusilla both.”
His face had been a blend of relief and compassion, with a hint of grim
victory. “Good.” When Buffy remained silent, he had looked at her pointedly
again. “And how are you taking it?” he had asked gently.
“Fine,” Buffy lied. “I’m… I’m fine.” She had shrugged, trying to make it look
nonchalant. “I got the job done.”
Giles had looked as if he didn’t believe her one bit, but his face had blanched
then at the onset of another wave of pain, and Buffy had shooed him and Xander
out the door, and so here she was now.
Alone.
With no tea. And no shoulder to cry on.
She looked at the couch, thinking one out of three was better than nothing, but
she was still too wired to even think about sleeping, and so she drifted around
the apartment, running her hands over the spines of books, peeking into the
drawers of the little spice cabinet, finding a smidgen of comfort in the Giles-
ness of it all. She made it halfway through reading the antique document on the
wall – what is ‘indenture’ anyhow? she wondered halfheartedly – before she
realized it was the most boring thing she had ever read in her entire life, and
then she heard a groan from the bathroom and went to check on Spike.
He was still mostly unconscious, so she put down the lid of the toilet and sat,
watching him twitch. The fluorescent lights made him look like a corpse – which
he was, she reminded herself, but he didn’t seem like it when he was awake –
his hands white and pale against the black iron manacles, and his face seamed
with grief.
His eyes finally blinked open, and for a moment he looked lost and surprised,
like a little boy, but then his flickering glance rested on her, and his
eyebrows knit and his eyes narrowed and he was comfortingly evil again. “You.”
“Me,” Buffy agreed, crossing her legs.
He started to lunge for her, but was caught short by the chains. He looked at
his chained wrists and ankles, shook his head disbelievingly, and started to
laugh. “I knew it,” he muttered darkly. “I sodding knew you’d find an excuse to
take me down.”
“If I wanted to take you down, you’d be a pile of dust,” Buffy replied, though
she suddenly realized she didn’t know why she had brought Spike home with her.
She had just… not been able to leave him there alone. It had felt wrong.
Inhumane.
“Wish I were,” Spike said in a low voice, looking down and off to the side,
laughter gone. “Not much point in going on now, is there?”
Buffy closed her eyes for a moment, remembering yellow, and a voice gone wrong.
“Of course there is,” she said quietly, but she could hear in her own voice
that she didn’t really feel it. She shook herself, because that was a dark path
she didn’t want to start down, and tried again. “There’s always a point.”
Spike glared at her sidelong, tears brimming up in his eyes. “Easy for you. You
had your precious Angel for, what, a year?” He sniffled. “Dru and I were
forever. More than a century together, and…”
Buffy interrupted, furious. “And she dumped you in a nonexistent heartbeat the
second Angel crooked his finger.” How dare he put down her forever love just
because it had been brand-new? Forever had to start sometime, right?
Spike snarled at her, lunging fruitlessly again. “Fuck you,” he hissed.
“Yeah, you wish,” Buffy sniffed.
Spike raked her with a disdainful glare. “Not much for Angel’s sloppy seconds,
love.”
“Funny, that’s what I was going to say about your hobag girlfriend!” Buffy was
on her feet now, hands on her hips.
Spike’s mouth was gaping like a goldfish at that, and then he crumpled visibly,
tears coursing down his face. “You can’t talk about my Dru that way,” he
sobbed. “Not when she’s…” He broke down completely.
Buffy tried not to give in to evil peer pressure, but the tears were already
coursing down her cheeks; she managed to mumble out something about Angel and
punching Spike in the nose before she fell to her knees beside the tub and
started weeping again, hot forehead pressed against the cool porcelain rim of
the tub, crying not just for Angel but for Kendra and Miss Calendar and Giles’s
poor fingers and everything. Everything. She let it all rush through her. The
guilt and the pain. Her mom kicking her out. Snyder’s nasty grin when he
expelled her. All of it, all of this horrible, miserable year, and especially
the horrible, miserable fact that the only person who could witness her grief
wasn’t even a person at all, that a soulless monster was the only one who could
come close to understanding it all. She hated him, she hated him, but she heard
an echo in her head of his snarky words from earlier: And I’m all you’ve got.
Somewhere in there, between one bout of sobs and another, she found herself
grasping desperately until she found Spike’s hand with hers; they clasped
tightly enough to grind bones together, and the pain was good, it gave her
something to hold on to besides the grief, and gradually their weeping died
down from wracking wails to petulant sniffles, and finally she lifted her head
to look Spike in the face.
“Let me go,” Spike said softly, looking longingly at the sunlit window.
“I can’t,” Buffy whispered back. “You’ll just burn up. I can’t just let you do
that.”
“Oh, but you can stake me?” Spike bit out resentfully.
“I didn’tstake you, did I?” Buffy said quietly.
Spike looked away, then lifted his head again, eyes wild and imploring. “I
won’t do anything. Promise. I feel much better now.”
Buffy rolled her eyes at that. “You are such a liar.” He looked disgusted, and
she gripped his hand tightly again. “Don’t go,” she said, voice hard. “We’re
still allies, right? We saved the world. So now it’s time to save ourselves.”
Spike favored her with a sardonic look. “What, plan on getting thee to a
nunnery?”
“I… don’t even know what that means,” Buffy said impatiently. “Look, I need a
partner. I have an idea, and you’re the only one that can help me. You’re the
only one who will want to help me. And, well, I don’t think I can open a
dimensional portal all on my own.”
“You mean…” Spike’s face lit up with uncertain hope.
“We’re going to find a way to get them back,” Buffy vowed. “You and me. Willow
can be on standby to put Angel’s soul back, I know she’ll help me when it comes
down to that, and then everything will be all right. Right?”
Spike set his jaw. “Get them back. Right. Then I’ll take Dru and leave…”
“…And I’ll stay here with Angel. And we will never have to see each other, ever
again.”
Buffy could tell by the look in Spike’s eyes that he liked that last idea just
as much as she did. Even though holding his hand felt kinda nice, now that they
weren’t all desperate and crunchy. Cool and soothing. She dropped it before it
started feeling too nice.
Buffy rose to her feet again, wiping her cheeks off briskly. “You still have to
stay chained most of the time. I can’t trust you not to murder us in our
sleep.”
“Fair enough,” Spike muttered, with a curses, foiled again look on his face.
“Long as you promise not to stake me while I’m chained in this sodding tub. Not
how I want to go.”
“Deal.”
Spike shifted in the tub. “Can I at least have a cushion?” he pouted.
“I think I can swing that,” Buffy shrugged.
“And a television, perhaps?” Spike wheedled.
“God, give it a rest,” Buffy grumbled, heading for the door. “I’ll get you a
pillow and you can take a nap first. We can discuss time-sharing Giles’s Cro-
Magnon electronics when he gets back from the hospital.”
Spike muttered something under his breath that sounded uncomplimentary, but
Buffy let it go. It wasn’t like he was going to be around very long anyhow. She
started towards the hall, then hesitated in the doorway. “Spike?”
“What now, Slayer?” he grumbled.
She looked back at him, feeling suddenly soft. “We’ll get them back. There has
to be a way.”
Even though he was evil and she hated him, the look of camaraderie and hope in
his eyes made her smile as she went to find him a cushion. Though she saved the
fluffiest one for herself. Giles’s couch was practically a rock.
As she curled up on the hard couch, she repeated her own words to herself, like
a prayer. There has to be a way.
***
“I’m afraid there’s no possible way to do what you are asking.”
Buffy valiantly ignored Spike’s glare of wounded betrayal, sinking down in a
chair opposite Giles with an encouraging, hopeful smile on her face. “Are you
sure? I mean, you still have a lot of books that we haven’t looked at yet. I
can totally help.” She hated research, but she would gladly read a million
fusty boring books if it meant getting Angel back.
Giles gave her a withering look that spoke volumes of his regard for Buffy’s
research skills relative to his own. “I am quite certain,” he said shortly.
“Every one of my sources that so much as mentions Acathla confirms that the
ritual is a one-time opportunity, and the ritual has now been completed. I have
also examined the statue of Acathla myself, and I assure you that it is
completely dormant. In addition, both of the swords involved in the ritual have
been consumed, or transported, and are no longer here.”
“Yes, but… You know how when those kids went to Narnia, they got there a
different way every time? Like, there was a wardrobe, and then, um, not a
wardrobe? Anyhow, there might be another way to get to that demon dimension
besides the Acathla thing, right?”
Giles removed his glasses, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead.
“Buffy, you are not seriously suggesting that we go on a Grand Tour of demon
dimensions, on the off chance that we will successfully find this – by all
accounts particularly unpleasant – one location? Forget the needle in the
haystack, it would be like trying to find a particular grain of sand in the
Sahara Desert.”
She actually was suggesting exactly that – a million demon dimensions were tons
better than a million fusty books – but she decided this might be a bad time to
push the matter, with Giles’s fingers still splinted and new bruises still
popping up every so often on his skin. Not that her Angel was responsible for
that, not good Angel, but she knew how hard it was to tell the two apart, and
of course there was Drusilla. She hadn’t even mentioned that part to Giles,
because he so wouldn’t understand. She met Spike’s pissed-off eyes for a
moment.
…Yeah, she didn’t understand it either. But a promise was a promise, and Spike
had managed to keep Giles alive – Giles wasn’t happy with his methods, but they
had worked – and furthermore he had been pretty well-behaved for the past few
days, at least in the sense of not actively trying to kill anyone else or
himself. He was still an asshole, and he still went off into crying jags at the
most ridiculous provocation (she also was crying a lot, but she of course
totally had Good Reasons), but he was sort of bearable once in a while.
Giles turned away from his books with an air of finality. “In any case, there
are more pressing matters to deal with. Your mother…”
“I don’t want to talk to her,” Buffy said quickly.
Giles continued, unrelenting. “Your mother called again this morning, and I
think it would be in your best interest to call her back today.”
Buffy jumped to her feet. “She kicked me out, Giles!” she said, starting to
pace.
“She said something terrible in the heat of the moment which she deeply
regretted just seconds later. She wants you to come back home. She wants to
make amends.” Giles looked vaguely off into the distance. “She even says you
can bring Spike with you.”
“Oh. Oh. I see what this is all about. You just want Spike out of your
bathtub.”
“I want out of his sodding bathtub,” Spike grumbled from the couch.
Buffy glared at Giles, ignoring Spike. “Do you want my mother to get eaten?”
Buffy folded her arms.
“I wouldn’t eat Joyce,” Spike assured her. “She’s a lovely lady.”
“I will, of course, assist you in installing appropriate restraints for Spike,”
Giles said with a bit of an eye roll – that subtle British-y one that he didn’t
think Buffy had caught on to yet, but she totally had. “However, there is no
denying that your mother’s house has significantly more room for both you and
Spike. You will have your own bed, rather than the couch you complain so
vociferously about. And, I should point out, you are still a minor, and will be
for many months to come. Like it or not, your mother is the most appropriate
guardian for you.”
Buffy pouted. “She should have thought about that before she kicked me out.”
With a sigh, Giles continued. “I understand your feelings about your mother
are… complicated at the moment. But returning to your home is the logical thing
to do. Especially since you have your appeal to the school board coming up so
soon.”
“Yeah. That.” Buffy sat down on her chair again. “How important is a high
school diploma anyhow? I’m going to die one of these days, and then I’ll be
sorry about all the things I missed out on while trying to graduate.” She
frowned. “Well, I won’t be sorry, I’ll be dead, but someone will feel sorry for
me and my truncated youth, misspent on Geometry and Civics.”
“I won’t,” Spike volunteered with a shark-like grin, though he had a funny look
in his eyes when he said it.
“We know, Spike,” Buffy huffed. “You’re gonna bathe in my blood, dance on my
grave, and desecrate my corpse, and if I’m very lucky you’ll do it in that
order.” She put a little extra bite in her voice because seriously, Spike could
show a little concern for the girl who had patted his back and made comforting
noises every time he had turned on the faucets over his stupid girlfriend.
Well, okay, he had shown concern at the time, because she might have gotten a
little teary too, and he had done a bit of awkward back-patting himself, but
you’d think after days of mutual Patting of the Backs, he’d at least stop
reveling in the thought of her death. Jerk.
Giles frowned. “Buffy, time spent on your education is not misspent.”
“I am so glad that you have such a finely-tuned sense of priorities, Giles.
Semantics over desecration.” Buffy was getting a good head of steam going on
her outrage now.
“I think you are vastly misinterpreting my concerns, here.” Giles removed his
glasses, inspecting them self-consciously. “I completely understand that an
early death would render the need for an education moot.” He replaced his
glasses, giving Buffy a wry smile. “However, spending two years as your watcher
has filled me with faith that you have a good chance of being the longest-lived
Slayer ever on the books. If I did not believe that you would live long enough
to need your education, I would be a rotter and a fool to insist on it.”
“Oh.” Buffy sniffled a bit at that, deflating, then rushed over to hug Giles.
Gingerly, because he didn’t need more pain. “That is so sweet!” She stepped
back, face earnest. “But you know, if I didn’t go to school, I could totally
spend some of that extra time training. Then I’d probably live even longer!
So…”
Giles cut her off with a reproving look, though he was half-smiling. “However,
since I do expect you to live long enough to eventually be a self-sufficient
adult, I am afraid I must insist that you at the very least graduate high
school.”
“Rats.”
“So. Call your mother.” Giles handed her the phone. “Because while I am both
pleased and proud that you are so strong and capable, I would like your long
life as a slayer to not be spent sleeping on my couch. Contrary to popular
belief, I do have something of a life of my own.” He looked pointedly at Spike,
who was now flipping through the TV channels, finally settling on the WB and
some newish teen drama. “I would very much like it back.”
There was really no arguing with that double-whammy combination of compliments
and guilt-tripping; Buffy sullenly dialed her home number.
***
The sock was close, it could feel it; the pull was so strong now it was like a
fishing line, reeling the sock in. For a moment it wished it were a boot, just
for the iconic symbolism, but it had had several days to come to terms with its
sockitude, and other than the fact that its epic trip across town had taken
days and involved multiple close calls with dogs and one very close encounter
with a car – being run over was not pleasant, but the sock had nothing to
break, so it was just a little dirtier – it was feeling pretty good about
itself. Whatever the magic animating it was, it gave the sock some decent power
relative to its size; it could move small objects, climb curbs and steps, and
even leap a few feet (this discovery had been courtesy of a very curious, very
drooly Rottweiler).  It wasn’t sure how many days and nights it had traveled,
but it felt much like an epic knight of old, enduring wild beasts and the
elements (though the California summer was actually very pleasant, there was
always the chance of rain, and the sock had no umbrella) and grave, grave
danger to come at last to its final destination.
There.
Just half a block away, the sock saw a trio of figures stepping up from a
sunken courtyard. The two men were unimportant; it was the athletic girl with a
swirl of honey-blonde hair, gleaming in the light of the streetlamps, who
caught at the sock’s soul. She was what it had been seeking all along! Its
princess, its Holy Grail, its raison d’etre.
The sock fell in love at first sight. No, it had always loved her.
It inched faster and faster, hugging the edge of the sidewalk to remain unseen.
The girl and the men were getting into a little yellow car – a cheap, crappy
one, if the sock’s instinctive feeling of disdain was to be believed – and
arguing about something, though it couldn’t hear the words.
It was so close now. So close. The sock’s ribbing tensed in anticipation.
Ten feet. The car doors slammed.
Five. The crappy car puttered to life.
And then, just as the sock was close enough to see the blonde girl’s profile –
she looked unhappy, and the sock’s tender heart broke at the sight – the car
pulled away from the curb. The sock watched in dismay as the taillights receded
into the darkness, the pull of the girl, its one true love, getting farther and
farther away.
The sock had many epithets and curses in its vocabulary, but only one felt
right for this exact moment of weary disappointment.
Darn.
It laughed bitterly to itself and began making its slow, tortuous way in the
direction the car had gone.
***
Spike glared resentfully around the basement, taking in the washing machine,
the shelves of boxed storage, the bare concrete floor. And he had thought
sleeping in a sodding wheelchair while Angel boisterously fucked Dru in the
next room was degrading. It wasn’t the dust, or the faint smell of bleach, or
even the looming, vaguely disorganized shelves.
It was the fact that this dank cave of suburban mediocrity belonged to the
slayer.
She probably thought keeping him from the immolation that was his goddamn right
was a kindness, some sort of mercy, but making him live in her basement,
dependent on her charity deliveries of pig’s blood, forced to sit in solitude
while his mind replayed his devastating loss over and over – ah, that was a
torture worthy of Angel at his peak. He glowered at her as she set up a camp
cot against the wall, flaunting her juicy ass right in his face, as if he
weren’t any more threatening than a sodding hamster.
He wondered what she would do if he walked up behind her, cupped that sweet
ass, maybe pulled her hips right up against him, so she could feel just how big
his Big Bad was. Would she finally, mercifully stake him? Or just beat the crap
out of him and make him go on unliving his hell of an unlife? He suspected the
latter. Bitch had some sort of bug up her ass about their alliance, like it
made her somehow responsible for him, which in her twisted brain required her
to turn him into her pet.
There was a momentary flash in his head of a third option, a third way she
might react to his hands and his cock, but it was just too sick to contemplate,
even if it had been months since he had gotten off. Disgusting. He waved it
away.
“Are you sure he wouldn’t be more comfortable in the guest room?” Joyce was
standing on the stairs, arms piled high with fluffy pillows and blankets. She
had been awkward when they arrived at the house, but she was a true lady,
hospitality ingrained in her very soul, and she had managed to greet him
politely, even share a little inane small talk, and now here she was to try and
make his cave of despair cozy, even while Giles was impatiently clanking
Spike’s heavy chains right next to her.
“Walls aren’t sturdy enough,” Buffy said shortly. “He’d pull the chains right
out. And I don’t think we can cover up the windows well enough.”
Joyce shifted from one foot to another. “We could always bring the guest room
bed downstairs,” she suggested.
“Mom, he’s not going to be staying here long enough to rearrange the furniture.
There’s just something we need to take care of, super quick. Then he’ll be out
of our hair.” She stepped back from the cot, looking earnestly at Spike, as if
she actually cared what he thought. “This will be okay, right?”
He glared at her. Did she really think he was going to be pleased with this
little arrangement? Buffy met him glare for glare, eyes intense.
Joyce sighed and slipped past them, dropping the blankets and pillows on the
cot. “Let me go make some hot chocolate. Or did you want tea?” She smiled
tentatively.
“Hot chocolate would be just lovely,” Spike purred, eyes still locked on
Buffy’s. “Do you have any of those little marshmallows?”
Buffy looked like she was torn between wanting to roll her eyes and wanting to
win their little staring contest, but the contest won. “Sure, Mom. Thanks.”
Joyce gave Spike a little awkward smile and bustled up the stairs.
With an annoyed harrumph, Giles started the process of bolting chains to the
cinderblock wall; Spike immediately ceded the contest, glancing away from Buffy
in favor of watching Giles’s hands to see if he made any mistakes that could be
exploited for an escape once the sun was up. Buffy made a little huff, of
either victory or exasperation.
Tragically, it looked like Giles really knew his way around chain installation;
it didn’t take long before the manacles were hanging securely from the wall.
The chains were long enough that Spike would be able to lie down and walk
around some, but just too short for him to get to the storage shelves. Spike
would have wondered how Giles knew so much about bondage, if he hadn’t looked
in that box under Giles’s bed one of the times he snuck upstairs to steal the
good whiskey.
He would have to stop by and pick up a few toys once he had Dru back. He
thought she would be particularly fond of that one, might spend hours employing
it on Spike.
Now that would be something worth living for.
Buffy was still watching him when Giles made his tweedy way back up the stairs,
her eyes full of concern and compassion. It made Spike want to heave, and he
lashed out. “Got a fucking problem, Slayer?”
“Is that a real question?” Buffy said back, face shifting into a much-more-
welcome look of annoyance. “Because I know you know exactly what my problem
is.”
He wanted to punch her, wipe that bitchy look right off her face, and then it
occurred to him that he could punch her, that he wasn’t chained or restrained
in any way, so he decided to go with the flow and let his fist fly.
She blocked it easily. “What the hell, Spike?”
“You pissed me off,” Spike shrugged, trying a backhand.
Buffy blocked again, and let loose a kick of her own, sweeping Spike’s feet out
from under him; he bit his tongue, tasting blood in his mouth, and grinned,
lunging into battle. It felt wonderful, letting go at last.
Or at least it felt wonderful until Buffy seized him by the throat and pinned
him against the wall, right next to the chains, and it was just like Drusilla,
just like that last fight, and he found himself staring at Buffy and seeing
Dru, and then he couldn’t see anything because he was sodding crying again,
pinned like a sniveling bug and feeling the absence of his beautiful dark
princess like a black hole, and then Buffy let him fall to his new, pathetic
bed and sat beside him, wrapping her arms around him. It didn’t take long
before she was shaking with tears, too, because that was what they did now,
they cried together because it was better than crying alone.
They had a silent treaty, built by the habit of days now, that these moments
were somehow not part of their usual enmity, that their mutual grief was a flag
of truce; he nuzzled into the comfort of her pulse now without even thinking
about biting her, and she held him close without fear, both knowing that any
moment now, they would push each other away and things would be back to normal,
as if nothing at all had happened, and they would once again be reluctant,
temporary allies who hated each other with a fiery passion. Nothing they did in
these stolen seconds counted, not the glide of her hands across his back, not
the press of her hip against his as they sat side by side, not the way his open
mouth slid up her tear-damp throat, blindly seeking out her soft lips…
She gasped against him, but she didn’t pull away, and her lips tasted like salt
and despair, just what he needed most, and he drank it all in, pressing her
back among the heaped blankets, and her arms pulled him closer, and with his
eyes closed he could pretend that he was pretending he was kissing Drusilla,
though every sense screamed Buffy at him, because he should only want to kiss
Drusilla, he shouldn’t want this, and besides he knew she had to be pretending
she was kissing Angel, and the thought made him jealous, because it wasn’t
right, kissing someone else using Spike’s lips as a proxy, who did she think
she was? So he kissed her more urgently and ran his hands up her sides to cup
her breasts, rolling her hard nipples in his palms, and she whimpered against
his mouth, arching upwards…
“Hot chocolate’s ready!” Joyce said from the top of the stairs with forced
cheeriness, and even though she couldn’t see the cot from there, it brought
Spike back to himself and his eyes flew open to meet Buffy’s, and then they
were shoving away from each other, until they were sitting on opposite ends of
the cot, looking at the heaped shelves. Or at least that’s what Spike was
looking at, and he didn’t want to know if Buffy was looking at him, so he
resisted the urge to check.
“That didn’t happen,” Spike said finally, scrubbing the tears off his cheeks
with his fist. He felt like he should scrub off his mouth, too, but he
inexplicably didn’t want to. He could still taste her.
“No,” Buffy agreed in a quiet voice. “No, it didn’t.” Spike turned just enough
that he could watch her out of the corner of his eye as she pulled up the hem
of her shirt to dab at her cheeks.
“I hate you, Slayer,” he said suddenly, just in case she was getting ideas.
Buffy laughed with what sounded like genuine amusement. “I hate you too,
Spike.”
They headed up for their hot chocolate.
***
The sock made its way up the sunny sidewalk of 1630 Revello Drive, relief
coursing through its every fiber. It had taken several more days of dodging
traffic and animals and inquisitive demons, but it was finally here. It could
feel her inside, like a beacon of hope, and it couldn’t help but wriggle in
excitement as it slunk up the stairs to the porch.
It was so excited that it took a huge chance in the hope of getting inside,
gathering itself for a leap and aiming for the doorbell. It took a couple of
tries, but when it finally slithered up onto the porch railing and launched
itself like a cannon, it was able to press hard enough to ring the bell; when
it fell back to the porch floor, it huddled against the wall, pressing itself
behind the doorframe, so she couldn’t see it.
The door opened. “Hello?”
Her voice! It was like angels singing! The sock wanted to bask in her presence,
but it knew it didn’t have time; it quickly inched around the edge of the door,
hiding under a little table in the foyer. Once it finally thought it was well
camouflaged, it turned its attention to her.
She was peering outside, squinting a little to see in the sunlight, and the
sock swelled with adoration, because even looking confused and annoyed, she was
a vision of perfection, glowing in a red halter top and jeans. When she finally
shrugged and closed the door, the sock followed her back into the living room,
creeping cautiously behind the couch when she sat on it. It settled in, giddy
at the thought that it was finally here, it had finally found her.
It frowned to itself. Now what was it supposed to do?
“Who was that?” said a chirpy female voice.
“Must have been a prank,” she said dismissively. “If it were a couple hours
later I’d blame vampires, but sun won’t set for a while.” The couch squeaked a
bit, as if she were settling into a more comfortable position. “Anyhow, you
were telling me about, um, something?”
“Oh,” the other voice said sheepishly. “I forgot. It was something about
school.”
“In that case, don’t bother,” she said wryly. “Lucky me, Giles pulled some
strings behind the scenes, so I get to be back in class first thing Monday
morning, completely reinstated just in time for finals.”
“Ooh, I bet Snyder was mad.”
“He was livid. Even had a note from the mayor, who apparently has strong
opinions about troublemakers in the school system. But we won. I guess the
Watcher’s Council is good for something other than drinking tea and sending out
stuffy memos.”
“Well, I’ve missed you. It was weird getting out of the hospital and then
having to go to a no-Buffy school.”
His true love said something in reply, but the sock didn’t hear it, because it
was too thrilled. It knew her name. Buffy. Buffy. It took a moment to treasure
its new knowledge.
Though it was kind of a silly name for a goddess. Hmmm. It shrugged and went
back to eavesdropping.
“…I can’t believe he told you I said to kick Angel’s ass!” The other, less-
important voice dropped on that last word, like it didn’t feel comfortable
saying a bad word out loud.
“I know, right?” Buffy sighed. “Still, it’s probably just as well that the
spell didn’t work. It was bad enough stabbing Angel and sending him to hell
when he was evil. I can’t imagine how awful it would’ve been if he’d gotten his
soul back after it was already too late.”
“Awww.” There was a sound of rustling fabric that the sock assumed was some
sort of hugging. Which was not very exciting to eavesdrop on.
There was some sniffling, too. Then some flat-out sniffing. “Willow, do you
smell something gross?”
“Sorry, I have a bit of a cold. Can’t smell anything.”
“Oh.”
The hugging recommenced.
Suddenly the sock was overwhelmed with sadness. Buffy would never hug a sock,
no matter how much fabric softener had been used in the laundry. It loved her
completely, but she could never love it back. They were – the sock would have
sniffled if it had a nose – yarn-crossed lovers.
It knew then what it had to do. It had found its soulmate, and now it had to
dedicate itself to making her happy. Because as long as Buffy was happy
somewhere in the world, the sock would be content. For a moment the sock
pictured itself always by her side, flicking pebbles out of her path so she did
not stumble, flinging itself into puddles so that her feet would never get wet,
offering itself up as sacrifice to any dogs that might menace her… The more the
sock thought about it, the more it seemed like always being by his true love’s
side was going to be a lot of work. Ugh. It didn’t need to waste time with all
those little things, anyhow. What it needed was a big grand gesture, something
dramatic and impressive, so he could get all the happiness-making done right
away, maybe go off and take a vacation after. That seemed like the best plan.
Secure in its newfound mission, the sock curled up and listened more.
 “…so you’re doing okay?”
“Define ‘okay,’” Buffy said sadly, and the sock sighed at how miserable she
sounded. “I mean, look at my life, Willow. Or, well, you can’t because there’s
not even enough of a life to look at. School is awful, slaying is awful and
deadly, and I can’t even trust my mom now.”
Willow made a comforting noise.
“I mean, the only thing I have going for me now is my friends. You guys are
it.” She was silent for a few moments before going on. “And now Angel’s gone,
and I’m thinking, is it even worth it?”
“Buffy, you can’t be too hard on yourself. Sure, your boyfriend turned evil,
and tried to destroy the world, and you had to kill him yourself before that
happened, but that doesn’t mean you can’t ever find love!”
“Yes, but… but I’ve tried dating guys at school, and you saw how that worked
out. I mean, I feel like I should come with a warning label or something. Plus,
maybe there’s something wrong in my brain. Maybe I’ve got my wires crossed
somehow.”
“Buffy, of course not!”
“I mean, just look at my life so far. I feel like I need to be on one of those
lame daytime tell-all shows.” She laughed bitterly. “’Oh, hi, I’m Buffy! Normal
guys aren’t good enough for me, oh no, I can only fall in love with evil
vampires, because that’s totally the way to a fairy tale happy ending!’”
Behind the couch, the sock quivered in joy. This was its chance! Buffy had
given it the recipe to her perfect happiness, and now all it had to do was find
her someone she could fall in love with so she could live happily ever after.
It pondered her words carefully. So. No normal guys. That narrowed down the
field a lot, because by definition, most guys were basically normal, or it
wouldn’t be the norm. No, Buffy had been very clear: she could only fall in
love with evil vampires.
The sock would have to find her one.
It just hoped it wouldn’t be too much work.
There was a metallic clanging from downstairs; the sock and Willow both jumped
in shock. It peered around the corner at Buffy, who was just rolling her eyes.
“Speaking of evil vampires…” she said drily.
“You’ve got vampires in the basement?” Willow’s eyes were as round as moons.
The sock perked up its (figurative) ears. In the basement! How convenient!
“Not vampires, plural. Vampire, singular. It’s just Spike.”
“Spike’s in your basement?” Willow squealed.
“Long story,” Buffy shrugged. “The short version is, he’s chained up and spends
all his time crying, so not a big deal.” She stood. “He’s probably hungry. We
ran out of blood this morning, I had to run to the butcher’s.” She went into
the kitchen and opened the fridge; the sock heard the beeping of microwave
buttons a moment later. “You don’t have to stick around for feeding time,
Willow,” Buffy said over the hum of the microwave. “It’s kind of gross to
watch.”
“I bet.” Willow made a disgusted sound; the sock watched as she gathered up her
backpack and walked over to the kitchen doorway. “So, see you at the Bronze
tonight?”
“Not tonight,” Buffy sighed. “Mom has an opening at the gallery, and I promised
her I wouldn’t leave Spike in the house alone. He was really depressed
yesterday, and she’s afraid he’ll stake himself on one of her wooden spoons.”
“…Can you stake a vampire with a spoon? I’d think they were too, you know,
spoony.”
“He’s probably smart enough to break off the handle, Will.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah, I guess that would work then.” Willow had a frustrated sheepish
tone to her voice, the sound of someone who usually didn’t miss the obvious.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got the Spike situation under control.”
Willow headed for the door then; the sock waited until the door closed behind
her, then inched out along the wall, watching carefully for Buffy. The
microwave dinged, and Buffy muttered something about how it better be good
enough because she wasn’t getting her mom’s meat thermometer all blood-
contaminated and came out of the kitchen, a coffee mug in her hand.
She opened a door in the wall, right past where the sock was huddled, and
cheekily called down the stairs, “You rang?”
From the basement, the sock heard a grumpy male voice with an English accent –
East London? “Bloody right, I rang! You want me to waste away to a sodding
skeleton down here?”
As Buffy headed down the stairs, the sock crept after her, finding a spot at
the top where it could watch through the railing as she handed the mug of blood
to the bleach-blond vampire who was pacing at the limits of long black iron
chains attached to his wrists and ankles with heavy manacles. “Yes, I have been
taking care of you for more than a week just so that I can eventually have your
shriveled corpse in my basement,” Buffy said sarcastically, handing Spike his
mug. They both sat on the cot, stiffly, as he drank.
Finally, Buffy sighed. “How are you feeling today?”
“Loads better,” the vampire said in a tone of cheer so false it was practically
plastic. “I think I’m good to be on my own now.”
“God, Spike, learn how to lie some time,” Buffy said, rolling her eyes.
They sat silently, taking turns stealing sidelong glances at each other,
occasionally shifting minutely on the edge of the cot. The sock watched them
carefully; if it had possessed eyes, it would have narrowed them in
speculation. Each of their shifts brought them a tiny bit closer together,
until eventually their knees touched. Both of them studiously looked anywhere
but at each other, but their knees stayed in contact.
“Want to watch a movie?” Buffy said after a bit.
“Fuck, no,” Spike growled sullenly, subtly pressing his knee against hers. “Not
if you’re picking.”
“You can pick,” Buffy grudgingly conceded. “But I have veto power.”
Spike took another drink of his blood, looking off at the washing machine.
“Well, okay then.”
The sock wished it had eyes so that it could roll them, because there was so
much sexual tension in the air even a sock – a sock, with no sexuality of its
own whatsoever, not to mention a mouth – was practically salivating, and they
were wasting their time with small talk.
Buffy wanted a fairy-tale happy ending. She needed an evil vampire to fall in
love with. And here she had an evil vampire, that she apparently was attracted
to, chained in her basement, all primed for the loving. The sock had vowed to
make Buffy happy by whatever means necessary, but it definitely preferred
expending as little effort as possible, and as it looked Spike up and down, it
came to one inevitable conclusion:
He’ll do.
 
End Chapter 2
***** A Sock with a Mission *****
The sock thought it deserved a medal for its patience.
First off, it had watched and waited as Buffy and Spike debated what movie they
wanted to watch, when anybody with a brain could see they wanted to tumble onto
the tiny cot and get busy right then and there. Seriously, what was wrong with
them?
Then, when the sun finally went down and Buffy deemed the windowed living room
vampire-safe, they had sat at opposite ends of the couch, not even touching as
they watched some stupid movie with no romantic ambiance whatsoever, barely
even speaking.
And now Buffy was taking Spike back downstairs to chain him up again, and she
hadn’t even held his hand once!
The sock was willing to do its share of the work for the relationship, it
supposed, if it had to, but was it too much to expect them to meet it halfway?
Didn’t Buffy want true love with an evil vampire?
With all of that in mind, the sock decided that its first move was to get the
clueless couple in physical contact with each other. That was always a good
start for the snugglies. The girl would fall into her future-lover’s strong
arms; he would catch her, and they would both blush with unexpected lust,
before the man dove in confidently for a first, passionate kiss…
Well, other than the fact that Buffy was demonstrably stronger than Spike – she
had restrained him with one hand when he had tried to escape before the movie –
it was the perfect plan. So the sock followed them as they walked down the
stairs, waiting for a moment when Buffy looked shove-able.
When she was about halfway down, prodding Spike ahead of her, the sock made its
move, launching itself at Buffy’s back, hoping to knock her off balance and
into the vampire’s waiting arms so they could make with the happily-ever-after
smoochies.
Alas, the laws of physics cared not for the sock’s noble mission, and Buffy
barely even felt a tap on her back. The sock stuck there – having at least
worked up a good charge of static electricity while scooting across the carpet
– and desperately plotted its next move. Maybe it could lure Spike into Buffy’s
bed? Or set Spike up outside Buffy’s window with a boom box? That sort of thing
worked really well in movies… The sock was so lost in thought that it didn’t
notice that Buffy had noticed it.
She frowned, craning her neck to look over her shoulder. “Oh, ew!” She reached
back and plucked the sock off her back. “Spike, how did your grody sock end up
stuck to my shirt?” She held it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, nose
wrinkling in revulsion.
The sock felt its fragile heart crumble at its true love’s disdain. It was
true, it was dirty and disgusting and unworthy. It would never be worthy. It
dangled limply, discouraged.
Spike glared up at Buffy. “Not my sock.” He grinned ferally. “My socks are
black and sexy, like my unbeating heart.” He eyed the sock again. “Get all of
mine from Marks and Spencer, can’t beat the quality. That looks like sodding
Hanes.” His voice dripped with snobbery.
Buffy gave him a withering look. “Well, it’s not mine, and it’s not Mom’s.
You’re the only guy around. Ergo, you’re the obvious culprit.”
Spike snagged the sock, looking it over judiciously. “Looks like one of
Angel’s.” Buffy’s face crumpled; Spike didn’t even notice, face growing
blacker. “He liked to steal the white ones, then wear ‘em around out in the
garden, get the soles all black. Was sort of his thing.” Spike’s hand clenched
into a fist around the sock; it was suddenly very glad it had no bones, because
they would surely have broken. “Taking something pure and corrupting it.” His
eyes were suddenly bleak. “Like my precious… darling…”
His cavernous eyes met Buffy’s, tears welling up, and they collapsed weeping
into each other’s arms, sinking to the floor as they bawled.
Forgotten in their orgy of misery, the sock cautiously inched away and into the
basket of dirty laundry waiting by the washing machine, where it curled and
observed the couple as their wracking sobs gradually dissolved into
awkwardness, and finally sullen, snarky insults that ended with Buffy clapping
Spike’s manacles back on and stomping up the stairs while he flung himself on
his hard cot, muttering curses. Hmmm. There had been physical contact all
right, but even that bit at the end, where it had sworn they were going to kiss
each other from the way their cheeks brushed together, had fizzled away without
any progress whatsoever.
The sock hoped its interference hadn’t been the reason nothing happened,
ruining the almost-romantic mood with its dirty self. It was a tragic thing,
being sock-blocked.
Anyhow, it looked like they had a long way to go to their happy ending, the
sock sighed to itself. But that was all right. The Sock with a Soul was
burdened with glorious purpose, and it would carry out its mission, no matter
how long it took. Buffy and Spike would be together, someday. The sock vowed
it.
In the meantime, the sock had an important date with a bottle of bleach.
***
Buffy stood on the triangular patch of grass in front of the school, squinting
into the afternoon sun as she waited for Willow, Xander and Cordelia. Finals
were over, and she should by rights be happy, looking forward to a summer of
frolic and fun, but mostly she just felt tired.
She had finally resumed patrolling, though her heart wasn’t exactly in it, and
things were really slow. She supposed the whole thing with Acathla had sent a
lot of the locals running to slayer-free towns, though she knew eventually the
pull of the Hellmouth would summon them all back again. Lucky her. So she
wandered the empty cemeteries and sometimes sparred with the air and missed
Angel. Some nights she even missed having evil Angel around, because protecting
her loved ones at least gave her something to do, so she didn’t feel so empty.
And then every night after patrol, she came home to Spike.
He hadn’t kissed her again since the night he had moved into the basement,
which was of course right and proper and exactly what she wanted, but over the
past couple of weeks their pattern of fighting-then-crying had gotten, not just
familiar, but… well, she had caught herself walking faster on her way home from
patrol, heart beating fast in anticipation, and it was just weird. But it was
true that arguing with Spike helped her get to where she could let go of her
constant emotional control, let down the walls for a little while, and then the
crying part felt like it was slowly leaching poison out of her soul, and then
the hugging part just felt nice, so she guessed their nightly catharsis was
doing her good. She thought maybe it was doing him good as well; he hardly ever
tried to goad her into killing him anymore, and Mom said he was having a good
time with his evening TV shows, even yelling at the screen when Dawson or Pacey
did something he disapproved of, so she guessed they were both healing
together. Or simultaneously. Or whatever.
She wondered why he had kissed her. And then she wondered why he hadn’t since.
Stupid confusing vampire.
At least with school out, she and Spike could really dive into the research.
Giles didn’t know they were still working on how to get Angel and Drusilla
back; he thought she was just suddenly really dedicated to the cause and trying
to build up general demon knowledge – projecting his own interests onto Buffy,
of course, but she didn’t bother to correct his misconception. Especially once
she found out that “studious” slayers got all sorts of perks, like first pick
of the donuts. (She always left Giles a jelly, in subtle thanks. Of course,
sometimes Spike then mooched Giles’s jelly donut, but he had so few outlets for
his evil nowadays that she let it slide. Though she did suggest to Xander,
staunch procurer of the donuts, that the jelly-to-non-jelly donut ratio be
increased. It’s not like there was a national jelly shortage or anything. It
was a free country. They could all have jellies.)
Willow was finally making her way across the lawn, Oz in tow; she had that
cautious-but-brilliant grin on her face that meant she had totally aced all her
exams but wasn’t going to say anything until she found out how everyone else
had done, because she didn’t like to rub it in.
Buffy saved her the trouble of asking. “I think the best study-buddy ever has
earned her stripes,” she grinned. “Pretty sure I passed everything. Not bad for
a gal who was a wanted fugitive not so long ago.”
“I knew you’d be okay, Buffy. You’ve been hitting the books really hard
lately.” Willow smiled modestly. “I think I did all right too.” She leaned into
Oz a little and he gave her a little half-hug.
Buffy looked away quickly. “Have you seen Xander?”
Willow gave Oz a speaking look and his hand dropped away. “I think he went
somewhere with Cordelia.” Willow flushed slightly. “Um, on a date.”
“Oh.”
“So!” Willow’s voice was extra-cheery. “Did you want to go get some ice cream?
Celebrate our freedom from the books?”
Buffy laughed. “What is this ‘freedom’ of which you speak? The books still own
me every night. It’s just… different books. More ancient and demon-y.”
Willow frowned. “Is there another apocalypse? I thought things were slow.
Didn’t you say things were slow?”
“No, no apocalypse. Just… working on a thing,” Buffy said lamely.
“Can I help?” Willow’s voice was eager, like she was already suffering from
study-withdrawal and needed a quick fix.
“I guess,” Buffy said reluctantly. “Um, Spike’s been helping me out a lot.”
Willow’s face fell into lines of incredulity. “Buffy, you do realize you just
used the words ‘Spike’ and ‘helping’ in the same sentence, right? A sentence
without any negatives or noticeable irony?”
“I know.” Buffy sighed. “He knows a lot of demon languages, okay? And we’ve got
a deal.”
“And you trust him?” Willow was clearly horrified.
“No! No, not at all.” Buffy hastened to say, waving her hands in front of her.
“God, no! It’s just that in this particular case, we’ve got a… a mutual goal,
that he wants as much as I do. I don’t trust him, not one bit, but he’s smart
enough to do what’s in his own best interest. Right now, that’s helping me
research.”
Willow narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “And what happens when you achieve your
‘mutual goal?’”
He has lots of sex while I never have sex again, was Buffy’s first thought,
which she immediately stuffed to the back of her brain, because it was disloyal
to Angel and gross besides; out loud she said, “Life is going to be good again.
You’ll see.”
***
Unlife was never going to be good again. He was sure of it.
Spike glowered at the book in front of him, as if by force of will alone he
could convince the tiny, handwritten script to rearrange itself into an answer
he liked better, but the gothic lettering stood firm in its resolve to thwart
Spike, like a flourished, illuminated “FUCK YOU!” right in the middle of the
vellum page, accents laboriously picked out in gold leaf.
He slammed the book shut. Another dead end. Weeks, weeks they had spent sitting
in the depressing library, every single night, reading and taking notes and
conferring in whispers while the bloody watcher hovered around looking smug.
And they still had chuff-all to show for it. Not even a bloody hint of a clue.
Leaving aside the antique relics, it was bloody infuriating that the modern
publishing industry, which constantly churned out useless shite like self-help
books and political memoirs and fucking Garfield compilations, couldn’t see its
way clear to meeting Spike’s very real, very pressing need. Why the fuck had
nobody put out a bloody “Dimensional Travel for Dummies” book? That book would
sell a million fucking copies in its first week. Spike would write a fucking
blurb for the back cover, if it helped him get Dru back, and then the infamous
name “William the Bloody” would sell another million fucking copies. This was a
real failing of the modern world, and if he weren’t so determined to walk into
the sun, he would do something about it.
The slayer was sitting across from him, eyebrows knit as she pretended to be
able to understand Latin, and he turned his glare to her, jaw set. God, he
hated her. All that fucking compassion and full-of-herself goodness and the way
she fawned over fucking undeserving Angel and her hair and her eyes and her
soft, soft lips and that incredible noise she had made in the back of her
throat when… Well, he couldn’t wait until he had Dru back and could get the
fuck out of this bloody miserable sunny town and get back to fighting and
fucking and savoring the blood of the innocent.
Buffy bit her plush lip in concentration, and he barely managed not to groan as
his cock twitched in response.
God, he hated her.
***
The sock – now sparkling clean, thanks to multiple enjoyable trips through the
Summers washing machine – watched from the shadows of Buffy’s backpack as yet
again Buffy and Spike failed to take advantage of the privacy of the book
stacks, or even to play footsie under the huge oak table. Did it have to do
everything itself?
Stealthily it wriggled under the table, keeping an eye out for the old guy who
was puttering around being an implicit obstacle to the hot monkey-loving. There
they were, four legs, close enough to touch and yet, inexplicably, not
touching.
That situation just couldn’t go on, not if the sock had anything to say about
it.
Well, not that it could say anything, but it was getting pretty good at
actions, which of course spoke louder than words, so in a metaphorical sense it
was totally saying all sorts of profound things, and… The sock shook itself. No
time to get distracted here. It was time for action.
It crept silently up the outside of Spike’s heavy boot, then carefully
stretched itself out so that it could stroke the outsides of Buffy and Spike’s
legs at the same moment.
Both legs jerked gratifyingly, then relaxed again, slightly closer to each
other. The sock stretched out again, trying for a more leisurely, deliberate-
seeming contact.
Whoops! This time when they jerked, Spike’s booted foot landed on top of
Buffy’s.
“Ow! Spike, did you kick me?” Buffy’s boot landed squarely on Spike’s shin in
retaliation; the sock ducked hastily out of the way, wriggling back towards
Buffy’s backpack, where it could hide safely under Buffy’s History book. Oh,
darnit. The old guy was standing right in his path. The sock huddled nervously
by the table leg.
“Fuck! I didn’t do a bloody thing, Slayer!”
There was the sound of a book slapping shut above the table; Buffy stood up,
legs stiff with outrage. “That’s it, Spike.  Why are you being such an asshole
tonight?”
The old guy spoke up, voice resigned. “If you’re going to argue, do it
elsewhere, please. Some of us have actual meaningful research to do.”
“Fine!” The sock peered around the edge of the table as Buffy stomped around
its perimeter, pulling Spike to his feet.
“Oi!” Spike protested as she dragged him off into the stacks. The sock followed
cautiously.
By the time it caught up to them, Buffy had Spike pinned up against one of the
shelves, in a little dim alcove. “Spike, your attitude is not helping!” Buffy
was railing, shaking him a little.
“Fuck you,” Spike growled back. “At least I can read more than one language.
Have you even made it through one sentence of that book you’re working on?”
Oddly, he didn’t try to break free. The sock looked at him more closely. Oh HO.
Someone liked being shoved around. The sock rubbed its ribbing together in
anticipation.
“I’m doing just fine!” Buffy sniffed. “I can recognize the word ‘Acathla’ and
that’s all that matters at this point. Finding places where he’s mentioned.”
She kept her voice low, glancing off to the side, as if to make sure nobody was
listening. Of course, she totally missed the sock, down at floor level,
watching with bated breath. Not that it breathed.
Spike grinned. “Miffed that I’ve got a better education than you, eh, Slayer?”
Buffy shook him again, pressing her body right up against his. “I’m not
miffed,” she said angrily. “Whatever that is.”
Spike puffed out his chest, trying to seem casual about it, though the sock
didn’t miss the way his eyes flared when he came into contact with Buffy’s
breasts, or the way she leaned into that contact. This was very promising!
“Miffed. Pissed off. Irate. Infuriated. Enraged. In…”
Buffy interrupted him. “Oh, I’m that, all right. I’m really, really all of
that.” She slid her body against his again, gasping.
Spike’s nostrils flared and his eyes fell to her lips, and her eyes started to
flutter closed, and the sock watched intensely, wishing it had some popcorn and
also that it was able to eat popcorn because this was it, this was the moment,
they were going to kiss and fall in love right here in the book stacks, and
they were so, so close…
And a book that had been teetering on the shelf above them fell and hit Spike
on the head, and then bounced onto Buffy’s head, and they both fell back in
pain, glaring at each other as if the book had been a deliberate assault.
As they rubbed their heads and glared at each other and muttered uncomfortably,
the sock sighed and started to make its way back to Buffy’s backpack. It should
have known things wouldn’t work out so easily.
Making Buffy happy was hard.
As it wriggled beneath Buffy’s History textbook – as safe a place as any, since
in weeks she had never removed it from her bag once – it promised itself
another ride through the whites cycle, as reward for all its hard work today.
The washing machine had turned out to be a lovely experience, glorious hot
soapy water and then the soothing warm tumble of the dryer, accompanied by the
delightful aromatherapy of the fabric softener sheet, and then afterwards it
was so fluffy and white and warm, it could just drift off to sleep until the
next day, ready to take up its noble mission again.
It dozed off, secure in the knowledge that it was on the right track.
***
Buffy couldn’t focus on the stupid books after all of that, whatever it had
been, so she called it a night before ten, dragging a sullen Spike home and
wheedling her mom into making more hot chocolate. Spike was morose again,
poking disconsolately at his mini-marshmallows as they dissolved, and she was
too shaken to try to snap him out of it tonight. Especially since he kept
giving her dirty looks out of the corner of his eye, like something was her
fault, and that was totally unfair, because she was totally not responsible for
whatever that was that had happened.
What the hell had happened?
But anyhow, after her mom had finished up the laundry and drunk a glass of wine
and headed up to bed, Buffy nudged Spike with her elbow and jerked her head
towards the basement, and he sighed and rinsed his mug out in the sink – Joyce
had made it a condition of her continued provision of hot chocolate – and
trudged towards the stairs.
When they got downstairs, though, Buffy felt uncertain again. Like she didn’t
want to leave him alone in the darkness, but at the same time, she didn’t want
to stay. She busied herself pulling the dry laundry out of the dryer and piling
it loosely in a basket to fold later, while Spike wandered the perimeter of the
room, lip curling as he looked at her old box of cheerleading trophies, the
dusty toolbox, the plastic bins of blankets.
After a bit, Buffy turned and realized he was standing just a few feet away,
eyes shadowed, watching her.
“What?” she said defensively.
“What are we going to do?’ Spike’s voice was low, uncertain.
“I don’t know. Maybe get in a good cry before bed?” Buffy’s voice was light,
but she did kind of want to cry, though she wasn’t even thinking about Angel
right now, and she really wanted Spike to cry with her. She needed him to…
“No, not tonight, I mean…What if we can’t do it? Get them back.”
“I haven’t really thought about it.” She had, but she didn’t like the thoughts
that came up, so she preferred to pretend she hadn’t thought them.
“Stake me.” His voice was urgent, eyes wild.
“No! I’m not going to…”
“Look, I’ve been playing along with your little save-Spike project, haven’t I?
Because you promised I’d have Dru back. If we can’t get her back… I’m done.”
“I won’t stake you. God, Spike, how can you even ask me…”
“It has to be you.”
“No.”
“Promise me.”
“No way.”
He punched her in the jaw then; she was so surprised that she didn’t even try
to block it, slamming into the shelves behind her. A box of Christmas
decorations fell to the ground with a tinkle of broken glass. “Promise me,” he
muttered through gritted teeth. “Promise me you’ll stake me.”
She punched him right back. “I am not going to stake you, Spike.”
He growled in response, leaping at her, and they fought bitterly on the
concrete floor, leaving a good dent in the front of the dryer and knocking some
old paint cans down. Finally Buffy had the upper hand, pinning Spike down to
the floor, and they glared at each other for a long moment, eyes hot. She
waited for the inevitable dissolve into tears, like always, wanted it, because
she needed… she needed…
Spike’s hand crashed into her hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her down,
and then he was kissing her angrily, and she melted right into him, sliding her
body all over his on the floor, and it felt right, better than the crying,
better than anything ever, his cool, insistent tongue and his hard, angry lips
and his fingers, gentle and encouraging… She rolled onto her back, pulling him
on top of her, loving his weight…
…Which was suddenly gone, as he pushed away from her. “No,” he said brokenly.
“This is wrong. It’s wrong.”
He turned his back on her, stalking over to his cot and clapping his manacles
on himself. “If we don’t get Dru back, you’re going to stake me,” he said
harshly. He flung himself down on the cot, facing the wall, back rigid and
uncompromising.
Buffy stood up shakily, nodding. “Okay,” she said softly, then turned and ran
up the stairs.
The sock, sleeping happily at the back of the basket of clean whites, didn’t
see a thing.
 
End Chapter 3
 
 
***** A Sock with a Scheme *****
A month later, the sock was still baffled. What on earth had happened?
Everything it knew about human relationships told it that Spike and Buffy had
been mere inches away from The Kiss of True Love that night in the stacks. (Not
to mention other, more intimate acts of True Love that it was too embarrassed
to even think about, though it had been looking forward to watching.) And then
the very next morning… nothing.
Buffy had started treating Spike with the cold disdain usually reserved for
door-to-door salesmen, while Spike had withdrawn into a bitter silence, only
coming up from his basement for research sessions at the library – which he
spent sitting at his own tiny table in the corner, communicating through sharp
negative shakes of his head. Buffy delivered mugs of blood to the basement
regularly, but silently. Spike refused offerings of hot chocolate.
And every night, the two wept bitterly in their separate beds.
The sock had to do something. It had invested far too much time and effort (two
whole months! Miles of travel!) into this particular relationship to start
looking for another attractive evil vampire for Buffy now. Buffy was just going
to have to suck it up and start getting along with Spike again.
The sock had some excellent ideas. It was time to put them into action.
***
Buffy felt stuck.
It wasn’t just the research, which continued to go nowhere, though she was
spending more time now with her nose in books than she had ever spent on
ordinary school. (Giles was ecstatic.) She had been prepared for the project to
take forever, since she couldn’t let Giles or Willow in on the real goal of her
studies, not until the very last minute. She had even been prepared for
failure, intellectually at least. She knew trying to get Angel back was a long
shot, she had known from the beginning; that was why she’d invited Spike in on
it, because it would have been impossible alone, and a partner brought the odds
up to merely improbable.
She just didn’t know how to move forward. She was mired down in her grief, like
quicksand. The more she struggled against it, the faster she sank.
She had tried to find someone to talk to about it, but even though she had
mostly forgiven her mom, she still didn’t trust her, not enough to talk about
Angel, not enough to share her loss. Especially when she hadn’t liked Buffy
being with Angel in the first place. Willow was willing to talk, and completely
sympathetic, but somehow she always managed to bring things around to the spell
again, how amazing it had been, how powerful Willow had felt, and Buffy felt
like a real jerk, trying to make it about herself after that, so she just fell
silent, nodding and smiling and empty. She couldn’t talk about Angel to Giles,
not after what evil-Angel had done to him, not after Miss Calendar, and Xander
was even worse, because – as he was fond of pointing out – he hadn’t liked
Angel even before he lost his soul. Cordelia… Buffy sometimes thought Cordelia
might listen, which was weird, because Cordy was as self-centered as they came,
but part of her self-centeredness revolved around an image of herself as a Good
Friend, and she was a lot less awful than she used to be – but of course she
was dating Xander, and that meant she would probably talk to Xander, because
Cordelia had absolutely zero filter between her brain and her mouth, and so it
was just like talking to Xander directly, so no.
The only person she could possibly talk to was Spike. And he wouldn’t speak to
her at all.
It was all because she didn’t want to stake him, and how messed up was that?
That he was cutting her off when they needed each other, just because she
didn’t want to kill him in cold blood? She had come to terms with the fact that
whenever she staked a vampire, she was ending the existence of a sentient
being, because she had to. That was her job. And she had tried to stake Spike
at least a dozen times, back when he didn’t want to be staked, when he was
trying to kill her right back. Why was the thought of staking him now, when he
was begging for it, so awful?
Because they were allies.
Because he had held her while she cried.
Because she had held him while he cried.
Because her mom had fixed him hot chocolate.
Because she knew now that he liked mini-marshmallows in his hot chocolate. And
hot wings and onion rings and chili dogs and those extra-spicy homemade tamales
you could sometimes buy from little old Mexican ladies in the grocery store
parking lot. Because he liked food, more than anyone she had ever known, even
though he didn’t need it.
Because he had kissed her.
Because she kind of wanted him to kiss her again.
Because she really wanted…
Oh, god, she was demented.
She watched his evening mug of blood spinning in the microwave, going around
and around and around, and she wondered if he would ignore her again tonight,
and it hurt, because she knew, she knew he was going through the same thing she
was, and he had even fewer people to talk to than she did, and it wasn’t fair
that he wouldn’t talk to her anymore.
She cupped the warm mug in her hands and brought it down the basement stairs,
watching out of the corner of her eye as he sighed and sat up and waited for
her, looking off into the corner, deliberately not looking at her, and suddenly
she was furious, incandescent with rage, and she serenely set the mug of blood
on top of the dryer, walked over to him, and slapped him.
The force of her blow knocked his head to the side, and he kept it there,
tilting his head just enough to glare up at her. “Got a problem, Slayer?” His
voice was even, cold, and that just enraged her more.
“Get up and fight me,” she bit out, fists clenching.
“Why?” His voice was calmly amused, and she grabbed him by the front of his
stupid black T-shirt and dragged him to his feet.
“Because,” she said, and threw him across the room.
He rolled to his feet, bouncing a bit, grinning, and she grinned back, because
this was what she needed, and when he threw a sharp punch at her ribcage, she
blocked it and countered with a jab at his jaw. That rocked him back on his
heels, and he growled something incoherent, exploding with a powerful backhand;
Buffy ducked – his hand passed through her hair – and took his legs out with a
leg sweep, but he had been expecting it, rolling right up to launch like a
cannonball at her stomach, and they crashed together into the side of the
stairs. Buffy shook him off and flipped to her feet while he rose malevolently
into a deep crouch, and for a moment they just looked at each other, teeth
bared, and then they both attacked at the same moment, and neither of them
connected, but they were connecting now, they were together, and as they
whirled and kicked and punched their eyes met again, and suddenly Buffy was
crying, she couldn’t see, and Spike caught her and eased her down until they
were sitting on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped around each other, and he was
crying too, cold tears seeping into the fabric of her shirt as his hands
bunched fabric at her waist.
This time, she was the one to turn her tear-streaked face to his, lips seeking,
hands planted firmly on his wet cheeks. He started to pull away, and she urged
him back, whispering gently, “It’s okay. It doesn't count. It’s just right now.
Kiss me,” and he groaned and sank his hands into her hair and kissed her back,
and she cried harder, cried and cried, like a dam had broken inside her. “Kiss
me, Spike,” she murmured against his lips. “Kiss me.” And he did.
He kissed her lips, sweet tender sips of kisses, and kissed her overflowing
eyes, and kissed the tears off her cheeks, and kissed the very center of her
forehead, and dipped his head down and kissed her right there, where her pulse
thrummed in her throat, and then at last her lips again, lazy and open-mouthed
and comforting, and Buffy kissed him back, anywhere she could reach, even silly
places like the top of his ear and his temple and his hair and his nose.
When his lips brushed against hers again, she said, “You’re an asshole.”
He laughed against her, licking her chin. “Yeah. So?”
She caught his lip between her teeth. “Don’t be an asshole.”
He was shaking, hands trembling against her waist. “Fuck you.” He ran his blunt
teeth down her throat, and she clenched her hands in his hair.
There were a dozen things she could say to that, innuendos and insults and
flat-out invitations, but she wasn’t ready, she was terrified, so she just
kissed him again, her thumb at the corner of his mouth. He turned his head to
kiss her thumb, gently, then sucked it into his mouth, and she just watched,
breathless, as he caught it between his teeth.
“None of this counts,” she whispered.
He nodded, nipping delicately at her wrist.
“This is just for right now,” she insisted.
He kissed the inside of her elbow, dark eyes meeting hers briefly.
“I hate you,” she moaned.
“I hate you too,” he murmured into the hollow of her throat.
“Good,” she muttered. “Kiss me more.”
He obliged.
***
The sock had outdone itself.
Last night, instead of watching Spike spend another miserable evening alone,
the sock had slithered up to Joyce’s room, waiting until she was fast asleep
before booting up her computer.
The internet was awesome.
It hadn’t taken long for the sock to figure out search engines, and even less
time after that to do what it needed to do. Inputting the delivery address and
Joyce’s credit card information was nothing; the sock had grown nimble through
weeks of navigating the Summers residence. It had taken care of other
preparations a few days before, when Joyce had dragged Buffy to the mall for
some back-to-school shopping.  Tonight, Joyce had another opening at the
gallery, a wine and cheese affair that she expected to run late. She would be
gone for hours.
The sock was pretty sure it wouldn’t need more than thirty minutes to bring its
plans to fruition.
The shoes were off, now. The sock was serious. It was going to get Buffy and
Spike together if it killed it.
And it was a sock. Socks were pretty darn hard to kill.
***
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Buffy’s mom had plenty of concern in her voice,
but she was checking her earrings in the hall mirror as she spoke, and was
obviously not planning on delaying her departure, even if Buffy suddenly came
down with the grippe.
Buffy had no idea what “the grippe” was, but it sounded really dramatic and
deadly.
“I’ll be fine,” Buffy insisted, giving her mom a quick hug. “You go eat your
overpriced cheese.”
“Overpriced is right,” Joyce said, rolling her eyes. “If I’d had time to make
up the hors d’oeuvres myself, I would have saved a fortune.”
“Yes, but you would have gotten cheese on your classy black dress,” Buffy
pointed out.
“There is that.” Joyce smiled gratefully at Buffy. “Are you sure you don’t need
anything?”
“I’m fine. Really.” Buffy sighed. “I’ll order a pizza for dinner, watch some
martial arts movie with Spike, and get to bed at a decent hour. Promise.”
Joyce looked at her shrewdly. “Martial arts?”
Buffy shrugged. “That, or horror. Spike likes the decapitations.”
Joyce shuddered dramatically. “Girls and their boyfriends…”
They both froze at that.
“Spike is not my boyfriend,” Buffy finally said, cautiously.
“I know, dear,” Joyce said quickly. “It was just, you know, Friday, and movie,
and…”
“I get it,” Buffy smiled, reassuringly. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
Joyce fussed for a bit more, but she had a business to run, and soon she was
backing her SUV out of the driveway.
Buffy sighed. She wished she were spending Friday night with a boyfriend, like
a normal girl, instead of with an evil vampire who was really incredibly good
at kissing, or would be if the kissing part had happened in the real world,
instead of the grief-coping-timeout world. But at least in the real world he
was talking to her again, and things were back to as normal as she was ever
going to get.
Still, it was Friday night. She zipped up the stairs to change into something…
not more comfortable. Just different. Different was good.
Different, and maybe a little bit sexy.
Something red.
Spike liked red.
***
The sock waited until Buffy was upstairs before putting the final stages of its
plans into effect.
It flicked the lights off with a casual twitch of its heel.
Huddled around the lighter it had liberated from a nearby gas station, it
cautiously flicked the wheel until a flame burst forth, then carefully lit the
scented candles scattered about the room. That was the dangerous part, since
the sock itself was highly flammable; although it had taken the precaution of
dampening itself in the sink ahead of time, it still heaved a sigh of relief
when the room was moodily candlelit.
It wriggled over to the VCR. It knew that for Movie Night Romance, the choice
of movie was key, so it had decided ahead of time on “Dirty Dancing,” which was
both sexy and socially aware. Of course, once it had made it to the mall –
having hitched a ride on the bumper of Buffy’s mom’s SUV – it had decided the
Blockbuster on the corner was just too far for it to travel, and had settled
for the closer, bunker-like business with the “XXX VIDEOS” neon sign on its
stucco side. The sock had no idea what XXX meant, but once it wriggled its way
inside, it had had no problem finding the shelves of videos, and conveniently
“Dirty Dancing” was right there on the bottom shelf. Well, the box said
“Dirtier Dancing,” but given the sock’s general physical limitations, it
figured an unauthorized sequel was good enough. It had dragged the video right
out the door and tucked it behind the license plate for transportation back to
Revello Drive. Now, it tenderly tucked the video into the VCR, just enough that
the slightest push would start the movie playing, and wriggled right under the
VCR, so it could give said push at the appropriate moment.
The sock took a moment to regard the scene it had arranged. Perfect. All that
remained were the final deliveries, and the stage would be set.
Buffy didn’t stand a chance.
She was going to fall in love with an evil vampire tonight.
***
Buffy came down the stairs to a dim, candle-lit living room and frowned for a
moment, but she knew vampires had weird ideas about nights out, so she shrugged
and opened the door to the basement.
“Spike, I’m going to start the movie in a minute,” she yelled. “Get your ass up
here!”
The doorbell rang and she frowned again, because she hadn’t gotten around to
ordering the pizza yet. She opened the door to… a man in a tuxedo?
“Living room or dining room?” he sniffed, in a way that indicated he made more
in tips each day than her yearly allowance.
“Um, living room?” Buffy said tentatively.
The man snapped his fingers, and a trio of tuxedoed waitstaff bustled in,
arranging a pair of covered plates with wineglasses and an assortment of bread
on the coffee table. Buffy gaped at them as they fussed over the china and
arranged the folded cloth napkins just so.
When they bustled out, the tuxedoed man handed her a note and bowed
obsequiously. “Bon appetit!” he declared, and was gone.
Buffy looked at the note, which had “Romantic Dinner Solutions” printed along
the top; it noted that a bin had been placed outside their door for discreet
place setting pickup the next day, and had a circled total cost at the bottom
that made Buffy’s eyes bug out. The name on the invoice was Joyce Summers.
Buffy had no idea what she was supposed to think. Was her mom trying to tell
her something?
Spike suddenly appeared at her side. “Feeling posh tonight?” he murmured. His
voice ran up her spine like an electrical shock.
“It’s just movie night,” she replied brusquely, stomping over to sit on the
couch. Spike shrugged and took a seat at the opposite end.
The covered dishes turned out to contain oysters on the half-shell, which Buffy
had never eaten before in her life; she stared at the shells helplessly.
At his end of the couch, Spike made an approving noise and picked one up; Buffy
watched him out of the corner of her eye as he tipped it right into his mouth.
Was that how you were supposed to eat them? Or was that just a Spike thing? She
picked up a piece of bread and started shredding it.
Spike picked up another shell and paused, looking at her speculatively. “Are
you going to eat yours?” he said in a hopeful tone of voice.
“Of course I am!” Buffy said bravely. “I just…”
She watched as Spike sucked up the contents of his second oyster shell. Oh,
god.
Needing something to distract herself from what Spike had just done with his
lips, she picked up one of her own oysters, looking at it dubiously.
Spike laughed. “Need help, love?”
Buffy rolled her eyes, hoping she looked like she ate expensive seafood all the
time. “No!” Buffy put the oyster to her lips and sucked it up, trying to
emulate Spike. Which she realized moments later was possibly a bad idea,
because picturing his lips and trying to match her lips to his and then feeling
the oyster sliding into her mouth was somehow more carnal than just kissing
him. And then she looked at his mouth and wanted to kiss him. Even without the
fighting-and-crying buildup.
They weren’t allowed to do that, were they? She didn’t think so. They needed to
be under the flag of a crying-truce to kiss. Like last night.
That had been a really good cry.
She looked away from Spike and ate another oyster.
***
The sock watched avidly from under the VCR. Phase One of its cunning plan was
going very well; Spike and Buffy had eaten the Expensive Aphrodisiac Meal and
were giving each other surreptitious glances that were obvious signs of
heightened physical awareness.
Time for Phase Two.
The sock cautiously extended its cuff and pushed the videotape the rest of the
way into the VCR.
***
Buffy jumped as the TV came to life and the familiar opening chorus of “Time of
my Life” blared out. “Oh. Movie.”
Spike frowned. “Did you sit on the remote?”
“I must have.” Buffy watched as the camera on-screen panned across a wide shot
of a family camp in the woods, then glanced over at Spike. “This movie okay? I
don’t think it has any decapitations…”
With a shrug, Spike settled deeper into his corner of the couch. “It’s all
right.” He sounded secretly pleased; Buffy supposed that if Dawson’s Creek was
his favorite show, Dirty Dancing wasn’t too far off his tastes.
“I usually cry when I watch this movie,” she said suddenly, looking off towards
the dining room.
“Is that a fact?” Spike’s voice was dry.
“Just letting you know. In advance. There might be crying.” She looked back at
him, shyly. He was regarding her speculatively, fingers twitching.
“Huh.”
“So, um, truce?”
“Thought we already had a truce.”
“No. Like… like when we’re crying. A crying truce.” She felt herself turning
red. “The kind where nothing counts.”
“Ohhhhh.” Spike dragged it out, grinning at her evilly. “You want to cry, is
what you’re saying.”
Buffy stuck her chin out belligerently. “This is a very emotional movie for me.
Got a problem with that?”
He looked away suddenly towards the TV. “No, no problem.” He frowned. “Huh.
Thought there was a whole bit with a watermelon before we got to this.”
Buffy didn’t comment on the fact that Spike actually knew “Dirty Dancing” well
enough to spot a missing scene; she looked over at the screen. It was the dance
studio, and Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey were crawling towards each other
on their hands and knees.
She looked again. “I don’t think that’s Patrick Swayze,” Buffy said doubtfully,
tilting her head and squinting. The music wasn’t right, either. Wasn’t this
supposed to be the cutesy “C’Mere Loverboy” scene? There was something jazzy
and seventies going on instead.
The woman on-screen suddenly ripped open her blouse, exposing huge, bouncy
breasts. Spike sat up abruptly, laughing. “Fuck.”
Buffy squeaked, pulling her feet up under her. “That’s definitely not Jennifer
Grey.”
The soundtrack shifted to the traditional bow-chicka-wow-wow as not-Jennifer-
Grey pulled not-Patrick-Swayze right into her ample bosom, moaning
dramatically.
Spike grinned over at her. “You usually cry during this movie, do you?”
Buffy threw a pillow at him and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, god. Where
did this even come from?” She should get up and stop the tape – God, did it
belong to her mother? – but she kept on watching through her fingers, secretly
fascinated. Not-Patrick-Swayze was doing something really interesting with his
tongue, and she suddenly pictured it being Spike’s tongue and her own
(considerably-less-ample) breasts, and the thought froze her in place.
She was suddenly glad she had flown the flag of the this-doesn’t-count truce
well in advance, because watching porn with Spike definitely was not an
experience that belonged in the real world. Especially since he was regarding
it with the same casual look on his face as he wore when watching his prime-
time dramas and soaps. She half-expected him to start offering the on-screen
couple unsolicited relationship advice.
When not-Swayze’s pants came off, her mouth fell open. She risked a glance over
at Spike, thinking he had to be shocked too, but instead he looked a trifle
smug. Thoughts of just why that might be swirled naughtily around in her head,
and she whipped her gaze back to the TV screen, where not-Jennifer was starting
to show that she did, indeed, have dance training of some sort.
A few minutes later, Buffy giggled nervously as the couple on screen merged in
a pretzel configuration. “Oh, I don’t think that’s even physically possible.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Course it is.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“And I’m saying it is.” When Buffy gave him a disbelieving glance, Spike sighed
dramatically. “Here, let me show you.” He tugged abruptly at her legs and arms;
Buffy squeaked as Spike positioned her all pretzel-like, settling himself
comfortably in the middle of it all. ”See?”
Buffy looked at Spike’s face, suddenly very close to hers, and flushed bright
red. He stared at her in sudden shocked realization before they each shoved at
the other, disentangling their limbs. They quickly retreated to their separate
sides of the couch, eyes glued to the heaving flesh-pretzel on the screen.
Buffy’s mind was racing, along with her breath and her heartbeat and every inch
of her body.
This doesn’t count.
She stole a sidelong glance at Spike, who was watching the movie with such
deliberate focus that she knew he was as aware of her as she was of him. She
knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was turned on right now; even through
two pairs of jeans his erection had been obvious, especially when he had ground
it right up against her. She wondered suddenly if it was from watching not-
Jennifer-Grey, or if it was her.
She wanted to ask.
Truce.
The couple on the screen shifted positions, and Buffy took a deep breath.
“I don’t think that one’s possible, either,” she said softly, watching Spike.
He turned his head slightly, regarding her through his eyelashes. “You don’t,
do you?”
Buffy shook her head.
“Pretty sure it is, pet.”
“Prove it.”
***
The sock glanced out from where it had been grooving along with the music, and
sighed. How clueless could those two get? Here it had set up the perfect date,
and instead of kissing, they were doing yoga.
Clearly it was going to have to bring out the big guns next time.
It wondered how hard it would be to get a copy of “Titanic”…
***
Twenty-three positions later, Buffy was shaking, and she could see that Spike
was, too, even though they were both still fully clothed. Neither of them had
broken the polite fiction that they were merely having an intellectual
discussion regarding the realism of the patently-unrealistic movie, keeping
their actual words neutral and noncommittal. Like right now.
Buffy let her head fall back against the arm of the couch, biting her lip.
“No,” she said conversationally. “I don’t think this is it. See, her toes are
pointed at a different angle. Maybe sixty degrees?”
Spike laughed shakily, pressing his thumbs into the backs of her knees,
shifting her thighs around his hips. “Like this?” He gave an experimental
thrust against her, denim growling against denim. “This angle would account for
that sound she’s making.”
Buffy pulsed against him. “Almost. That’s, um, sixty-five degrees.” Spike
shifted her again, with a bit more grinding. “Oh, too far, that’s fifty-eight.”
Another shift and thrust. Buffy couldn’t think of another number in the
vicinity of sixty, so she nodded reluctantly. “Ok, I think that’s it.”
“You sure?” Spike ground against her again. “So, what’s the verdict?”
“You’re right. It’s possible,” Buffy said breathily. Also amazing.
Spike politely folded Buffy’s limbs back to her side of the couch, and they
both resumed watching the movie. “So,” Spike said after a bit. “How many was
that?”
“Twenty-four. With twenty-two possible, one definitely not possible, and one
that might be possible but we don’t have room in here to do a lift.”
Spike shrugged. “Could go outside.”
“I am pretty sure the neighbors would complain.”
“Pity, that.”
“Time of your Life” was playing again, and Buffy was suddenly sad, because it
looked like the film was winding down, and in the meantime she was all wound
up, and when the movie was over technically so was their truce, and they hadn’t
kissed once, hadn’t done a lot of things she really wanted to do. Meanwhile,
the couple on the screen seemed to be done with the acrobatics and were into
the romantic end game.
Well, romantic end game would do.
Buffy looked at Spike sidelong, daring. “Ok, now I know that one’s not
possible.”
Spike leaned towards her, eyes dark, not even looking at the screen now.
“That’s the missionary position, love. As basic as they come.”
Buffy sank a little lower into the couch. “Show me anyway.” Her voice was the
barest whisper.
He oozed over her, tenderly pulling her down until she was flat on her back, a
pillow under her head, and lay flat on top of her, tugging her thighs out on
either side of his hips, his elbows to either side of her head. “See?
Possible.”
Buffy looked up at him, breathing hard. “Why do they call it the missionary
position?”
“Dunno.” He slid his body against hers minutely. “Does it make you feel like
converting?”
“Converting to what?” Buffy shifted beneath him, licking her lips.
Spike shrugged, but didn’t answer, instead sliding his hand down the outside of
her thigh to the bend of her knee. “Technically, missionary position includes
anything where the man’s on top and you’re face to face.” He had adopted the
pedantic tone of a lecturer, though there was a slight betraying quiver under
it all. He leaned down and brushed his nose against hers. “But there’s lots of
variations.” He tugged at her knees, urging her legs up to wrap around his
waist. “This one gives you a lot of control, can use your thighs to make it
harder or faster.” He tucked his arms inside her legs, hooking his thumbs under
her knees and sliding them up to his shoulders. “Can get a bit deeper like
this. Not my favorite, though, having your legs all in the way.” He took her by
the knees again, pushing them towards her shoulders and a little bit outwards.
”This is a lovely way to fuck. All open and unfurled, like a flower.” He rolled
against her, delicious hard friction, and nuzzled in against her throat. “Bet
you’d scream,” he whispered into her pulse, and that was it for her, she was
done, and she clutched his hair and dragged him up to her mouth and kissed him,
winding her arms and legs all around him in a close approximation of Position
Number Twelve.
Spike groaned and kissed her back, running his hands all over her thighs and
ass, and she reached down and grabbed his hands, pushing them up under her soft
red shirt, and he laughed against her lips and obligingly cupped her breasts,
thumbs rubbing her nipples through the lace of her bra.
He sat back and looked down at her, all angled shadows in the candlelight, and
then he pushed her shirt up until it bunched at her armpits and flicked open
the front opening of her bra and spread it wide, eyes flaring.
Buffy looked up at him shyly. “They’re not very big,” she said hesitantly.
Spike shrugged and curved his big hands around her breasts, eyes unfocused.
“Feel all right to me,” he breathed, and then he was bending down and his
tongue curled around one nipple and she made a noise like she’d never heard
before, because it was wonderful, and then she heard her mom’s keys jingling at
the door.
She shoved Spike back to his side of the couch, hastily doing up her bra and
tugging her shirt into place and sitting up on her end of the couch, trying to
look bored and not at all like she had been watching porn and kissing Spike.
He, in turn, was suddenly very interested in the TV Guide that had been on the
end table.
While they had been kissing, the video had ended and rewound; the TV was
showing nothing but static.
Truce over.
Damn.
***
The sock woke up at the sound of the door opening. Whoa, had it fallen asleep?
It had really worn itself out, lighting all those candles… It glared at Buffy
and Spike, who were still sitting on opposite ends of the couch. Not snuggling,
like they should have been doing. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner!” Those words
had been scientifically provento melt even the hardest of hearts. Didn’t Buffy
and Spike have any romance in their souls?
Oh, wait, it knew the answer to that one. Spike didn’t even have a soul. Maybe
that was the problem.
Anyhow, the sock was disappointed. All that hard work, wasted and
unappreciated. Not even one tiny smooch. Did it have to handcuff them together?
The sock started to ponder the logistics of the manacles downstairs…
Joyce’s keys jingled onto the table by the door. “Buffy, what is going on?”
Buffy looked up at her mom, confused. “What’s going… I thought you were the one
who set this up?”
Joyce flipped on the light switch. “Why would I light candles all over the
living room?” She made a sound of dismay. “And without any sort of holder… The
wax better not have ruined the finish of that table, young lady.”
“And how was the gallery, Joyce?” Spike’s voice was deliberately bright as he
walked around the coffee table to block Joyce’s view of the television.
Joyce peered past him. “Are those oyster shells? And wine?”
Buffy stood up next to Spike, frowning. “Mom, don’t have a cow. You’re the one
that ordered us dinner.”
Joyce folded her arms. “I didn’t order anything! Especially not oysters!”
“No, mom, look, they brought a receipt…” Buffy handed her mother a printed
sheet of paper.
Joyce let out a little shriek. “Oh my god. Buffy, this meal is coming out of
your allowance.”
“Mom, I didn’t order it! I just opened the door and they brought it in!” Buffy
wrung her hands. “You can’t take it out of my allowance! That’s, like, months
of allowance! Almost a year!”
“Well, I can’t imagine who else might have…” She trailed off and she and Buffy
both turned to look at Spike.
He drew himself up in offense. “What, someone makes illicit use of a credit
card and you automatically blame the evil vampire in the household? That’s
evil-discrimination, that is.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Though in most
cases, probably a good guess. But not this time.”
As the argument continued, the sock casually tugged the videotape out of the
VCR and slid it and its box under the TV stand. No sense leaving more evidence
around.
It wondered if it was too late to cancel the order of boutique laundry
detergent currently on its way from France. It had tried so hard to resist, but
the ad had been very persuasive, with that very attractive stocking lounging
like a French postcard, and of course the sock had been starting to feel a
little dry at the heel. It had been the sock’s planned reward for a job well
done.
It shrugged. Eh. That could come out of Buffy’s allowance, too.
She owed it one, after all its hard work on her behalf.
The sock went back to sleep.
 
End Chapter 4
 
***** A Sock at a Loss *****
The summer had settled into a beautiful rhythm; Buffy didn’t want it to end.
Buffy would sleep late, hearing her mother’s preparations for work vaguely as
she slept on, eventually getting up for a shower just before lunchtime. She
would fix herself a sandwich or a salad and heat up a mug of blood for Spike
and bring it downstairs, where she would unchain him and they would sit on the
edge of the bed, consuming their meals silently but companionably. Then they
would race to the nearest sewer entrance and take the underground path to the
school library, entering through the stacks.
Giles was usually waiting there – he was old and liked to get up early – and
they would settle in to research. After much eye-rolling and a few sarcastic
jibes, Giles had agreed to move one of the good tables out of the direct
sunlight from the windows so that Buffy and Spike could work together until
dark. Sometimes Willow helped, sometimes Xander and Cordelia showed up, but
mostly it was just Buffy and Spike.
Sometimes she would kiss him in the shadows of the stacks. When she couldn’t
wait.
They would walk home so that Buffy could have dinner with her mom – Spike
joined in most nights, for lack of anything better to do – and then they would
head out on patrol. Spike had bitched about how bored he was at one point,
especially since most of his shows were in summer reruns, and one night she had
offered to take him with her, as long as he didn’t double-cross her. Much to
her surprise, he had not only not stabbed her in the back, he had saved her
bacon when a smarter-than-usual vamp had tried to sneak up in her blind spot.
She still didn’t trust him, not completely, but he at least seemed to be taking
their alliance seriously, and so they patrolled together, and it was… nice. She
didn’t feel like she had to protect him, like when the other Scoobies helped
out. It was really nice.
Then they would come home, wait for Joyce to go to bed, and make out to the
swish-and-hum of the washing machine.
They had rules, of course. Lines that couldn’t be crossed. Bridges too far. All
of their rules were unspoken, though, negotiated in a subtle dance of
exploratory forays and gentle refusals, gradually settling into a comfortable
equilibrium.
Kissing was a given, and after a while they had determined that anything above
the waist was fair game for the kissage, which was fine by Buffy, because as
far as she was concerned Spike’s lips needed to be on her breasts as often as
possible. He had a fantastically talented tongue. (She sometimes wondered what
his tongue would feel like on other parts of her, to the point of elaborate
imaginings when she was back in her own bed, but he had never tried to dip
lower than her waist, and she was too shy to ask.)
Shirts were disposable – Spike had A Thing for the reveal, and Buffy loved the
look in his eyes every time she pulled her shirt over her head – but pants
stayed on. At least, Spike’s did. Buffy had tested this one a few times, trying
jeans and slacks and skirts of different lengths, and Spike always managed to
get his hands right where she wanted them – he had sworn for a minute straight
the time she had worn a miniskirt with no panties – but the second she laid a
hand on his belt buckle, he always gently lifted it away. “Dru,” he’d said
once, and she had understood.
He had elaborated one night, when they were lying side-by-side on his cot,
gasping and dizzy after he had done something indescribable with his fingers
that had literally made her scream – she had always thought that was just a
hyperbolic expression, but apparently not. Good thing they were in the
basement.
“Vampires aren’t usually faithful,” he’d said quietly, stroking her bicep
absently. “Part of the deal, when you’re turned. You don’t care anymore for the
strictures of society, the trappings of civilization. Fidelity. Relationships.
Family bonds.” He had fallen silent then for a moment, pulling her a little
closer before continuing. “Dru has even fewer ties to the world than most.
Angel took them all away, killed her family and her friends, and then when she
ran away to a convent, he slaughtered them all, every one of them. He drove her
mad. So she just goes where the demon leads her, yeah?”
Buffy had nodded against his bare chest.
“She loves me,” Spike had said, voice determined. “She loves me, but she
doesn’t know how to stay true. So I always stayed true for the both of us.” He
shrugged, settling his arm around Buffy more securely. “She probably doesn’t
even care, yeah? Dunno if she even notices. But there are things I always save
for Dru, because it matters to me.”
Buffy had curled into him then, wrapping her arms around his waist, squeezing
tight, because that was really sweet, even if it wasn’t about her, and she
guessed it shouldn’t matter that it wasn’t about her, because she was totally
in love with Angel.
Except…
She couldn’t ever do this with Angel. Couldn’t lie half-naked in bed talking,
couldn’t risk that whatever they were doing was close enough to Perfect
Happiness that she would turn him evil again, couldn’t risk her friends and
family and the world again. When she finally got Angel back, body and soul, she
might as well be entering a convent. And it would be worth it, of course it
would be worth it, she loved him with a perfect forever love, but… there wasn’t
any point in saving anything for him, because he wouldn’t be able to accept it.
As far as sex was concerned, this was all she would ever have.
The next night, she had locked Spike into his manacles and then stood just out
of reach, silently stripping off every article of clothing until she was
completely naked, watching his eager eyes the whole time, and then stepped
forward into his embrace.
She wasn’t saving anything.
She was going to spend it all.
***
The sock was running out of ideas.
Every night, it slipped into the washing machine for a bath, wondering just
where it was going wrong. It swirled around through the rinse cycle, trying to
come up with new and improved cunning plans to make the love magic happen. But
no matter what it tried, every day Buffy and Spike just ate and researched and
patrolled. Like they didn’t even notice the UST between them. Like they didn’t
even want to be happy.
What was up with that?
The sock had been trying, it really had. It had tried so hard.
It had waited until they were in the same room and then locked them in,
multiple times, but as it turned out it was hard to find a door in the modern
world that actually locked from the outside, and they always just shrugged and
unlocked the door and left. The sock kept hoping against hope that they would
encounter a walk-in freezer, or a bank vault, something with a lock on the
outside, but no such luck.
The sock had made an attempt at writing poetry that it could pretend was a
secret love note from one to the other, but it had quickly learned two things:
one, that its handwriting was atrocious, looking more like the scrawl of a
kindergartener than a grownup, and two, that poetry was really hard to write.
Even when it snuck into Joyce’s room and tried to type something up on the
computer, it got all caught up in trying to find rhymes, and worrying about
meter, and the eventual results were unmistakably bad. It debated using one of
its less-mediocre completed works at one point, reasoning that neither Buffy
nor Spike seemed like they would be much good at the wordsmithing anyhow and it
was the emotion behind the poem that really mattered, but in the end, it was
just too ashamed.
It had tried setting the mood, lugging a boom box down to the basement –
thathad taken hours – and popping in a CD of high-quality love ballads, but
Spike had quickly demonstrated a complete lack of musical taste, pulling the
“Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits” CD out and breaking it in half. (The sock had
pouted for a couple of days after that, because Spike hadn’t even waited for
“Mandy” to come on, the Philistine.)
It had even spent a few days avidly watching the Weather Channel, hoping for a
rainy day that it could somehow exploit, figuring out a way to get the couple
stranded under an awning or something, or at least force them to share an
umbrella, but Sunnydale was having a very sunny summer, so that was a no go as
well.
Seriously, how had the human race not died out long before this, with it being
so hard to get two people who so obviously wanted each other to kiss already?
Not that Spike and Buffy could procreate, the sock amended grumpily, but the
principle was the same.
The sock was at a complete loss. It had resorted to watching soap operas over
Spike’s shoulder, desperately trying to glean strategies and scenarios for
inspiring the loving, but nothing seemed quite right.
It had even, on a particularly desperate night, hitched a ride in the pocket of
Spike’s duster when they went on patrol, hoping to scout out another evil
vampire lover for Buffy, since Spike obviously wasn’t working out, but every
time they had come across a likely prospect, either Buffy or Spike had staked
it before the sock could do a thing.
How was the sock supposed to find Buffy hot vampire love if she kept killing
all the vampires?
Now it tumbled in the dryer, its thoughts turning over and over in its head.
(Oh, hey, was that a scream? It listened for a moment more, then shrugged. Must
have been its imagination.) There had to be a way. The sock was going to find a
way, no matter how stubbornly they resisted.
It had to make Spike and Buffy admit that they wanted each other.
***
Spike wanted Buffy so much that it hurt.
She was standing in a shaft of sunlight in the center of the library, chatting
with Giles, her hair glowing gold, and he imagined pulling her off into the
stacks, running his hands all over her sun-warmed skin, kneeling down to devour
her glorious wet quim, letting her eager hands unfasten his belt and his button
and his zipper and release his desperate cock so he could wrap her legs around
his waist and drive home, deep into her heat, fuck her against the bookshelves,
hard and fast, then slow and tender, any way she wanted it…
Dru, he reminded himself. Get Dru back and you can fuck for weeks on end, fuck
and feast and god, what must it feel like, being inside Buffy, feeling her come
around you, the scent of her hair and the beat of her heart and all that life…
He shook his head, sharply. This was all pointless. He loved Dru, his wicked
princess, his dark queen. It was just the deprivation that was getting to him,
the fact that he hadn’t been inside her for so long, since the wheelchair, and
Buffy was here, and willing to kiss him, offering herself up like a virgin
sacrifice.
Well, not a virgin – they both knew that – but that wasn’t really his thing
anyhow, he liked a woman who knew what she wanted, and god did Buffy know what
she wanted, hot and demanding and willing and open, just shy enough to be
alluring, with so much passion that Spike felt like he was going to burn to ash
every time he touched her. She wanted him to fuck her, she had presented
herself on a fucking platter night after night, until he felt like a cad for
turning her away, and then she didn’t even run away, she stayed and took what
he could spare her and curled up against him, talking about hopes and dreams
and life and school, sharing her grief. She let him talk about Drusilla, let
him cry into her naked bosom, stroked his hair as he wept. He didn’t even mind
when she talked about Angel, even though she obviously had no idea what he was
really like, because there was something sweet and adorable about her youthful
devotion, something pure, and he liked the idea of it. He remembered being in
love like that. It hadn’t ended well, but he remembered the feeling, how sweet
it was, and it made him want to weep again, even as it made him want to fuck
her and fuck her until she forgot all about Angel and pure first love and
everything, until all she saw was Spike.
Watching her now, glowing in the sun, he wondered if Dru would even care. If
she would even notice.
He reluctantly tore his eyes away from Buffy, because he had a good feeling
about this book, he was sure it was the one. Giles had dismissed it because he
couldn’t read it – it was in a rather obscure dialect of Fyarl, written
phonetically using the writing system of another demon clan entirely since
Fyarl demons generally didn’t write anything, and Spike was only able to read
it because the Fyarl bodyguards he had once hired had happened to speak this
particular variant, and he was good at sounding shit out.
He had found a passage that referred to Acathla, and he considered calling
Buffy over, so he could inhale the scent of her hair as she bent over to look
at the text she couldn’t read, but as he read on, he felt suddenly cold.
Once again, Spike was staring at a page that held an answer he didn’t want to
know.
The problem was, it was just the answer he had been looking for all this time.
He had found it.
He took a deep breath, let it out gradually, and slowly closed the book.
 
End Chapter 5
***** A Sock Changes Course *****
Chapter Notes
     So, this fic is DONE at 10 chapters and about 50K words. I will be
     posting a chapter a day - real life permitting - until it is all up
     here. If you can't wait, you can read the whole thing (though not
     completely betaed) at the Seasonal Spuffy livejournal community.
The next day, Spike helped himself to one of the many blank journals the
watcher had stored under the circulation desk, nonchalantly retrieving the
Fyarl book from the lower shelf where he had tucked it the night before.
He had spent a goodly portion of the past twenty-four hours rationalizing his
decision not to tell Buffy about the lead he had found. His official reason,
the one he told himself was the true reason, was that he didn’t trust Buffy not
to double-cross him, and in fact wanted to keep his options open for double-
crossing her, because he was evil and that’s what he did. Double-cross and
backstab and throw a spanner in the works for the white hats’ plans.
He knew it was a lie, but lying was also what he did, because he was evil, so
he figured that was all right.
He also told himself that it was because he didn’t want to risk Buffy pulling
back from their delicious late-night affair on account of progress on the
retrieving-Angel front, and that one was true in a way, because he hadn’t had
his fill of Buffy yet, he wanted more – though he was beginning to think he was
lying again when he reassured himself that he would be sated at some point,
ready to cast her aside and go back to his dark princess. He was starting to
suspect that he would never get enough of Buffy, that he would never be sated,
but of course things would have to end at some point. When he had Dru back. He
told himself that Dru would be enough.
There was another reason – he didn’t like it, because it hinted at softness –
but he reluctantly had to admit to himself that he didn’t want get Buffy’s
hopes up, just in case it didn’t pan out. As he knew well, disappointment was
easier to bear if it was a steady slide downward, not a rollercoaster of
possibilities and hopes. If it turned out to be a false lead, she would never
have to know.
He told himself that this was the secret reason his self-deception was covering
up, because he already knew there were bits of him that were soft, that he had
a tender side, so it wasn’t especially shattering to his sense of self. He was
a lover, at heart; he liked pampering his woman, and for the moment at least,
Buffy was his woman, and thus a little tenderness was called for. He was man
enough to admit it.
The other other reason, his first thought upon reading the passage in question,
the thought he had only thought once before shoving it under the mish-mash of
lies and rationalizations and half-truths… That one he wouldn’t even think
about again, because it couldn’t really be true. It was sick and twisted and
wrong, and a betrayal so deep he could never forgive himself.
He was worried that the vague clues in the Fyarl book wouldn’t deliver, yeah,
that they would just lead him to another dead end. That, he could accept. He
could accept failure. He could handle self-doubt.
But that thought. The one he couldn’t admit had even existed. Now, watching
Buffy as she frowned at another page of cramped Latin, her face a mix of
despair and determination, it floated up again, unbidden.
Spike wasn’t sure he wanted to succeed.
It was strange, not knowing what he wanted. Unexpected. He hadn’t been
uncertain of his desires since the moment he had awakened with a lust for blood
and adoration of Dru, and this idea that he might have to choose, to make any
sort of decision… it didn’t feel right.
Of course he was going to choose to get Dru back. Of course he was. He knew
what his decision would be, because it couldn’t be anything else.
But telling Buffy… that was actually deciding. And he wasn’t ready to decide.
And that, that was a truth he couldn’t face. No matter how true he feared it
was.
He determinedly opened the notebook and started to write.
***
The sock curled atop the dryer in dejection. Things were not going well at all.
Buffy and Spike were spending all their time reading books and making notes,
which was boring; the sock had thus far failed to get any smoochies going,
which was depressing; and worst of all, Joyce had gone off to visit her sister,
and had not started the laundry before she left. The sock had grown accustomed
to its nightly spa treatment, and so was settling in for a good sulk when Buffy
and Spike came downstairs, all set to lock Spike up for the night.
Except she didn’t lock him up.
A second later, the sock wished it had eyes, so that they could bug out at what
it was witnessing.
A few seconds after that, it wished it had eyes so that it could avert them.
Wow.
Wow.
The sock suddenly realized that it was a goshdarn matchmaking genius, because
this was a whole lot more advanced than it had even been trying for, and from
the sound of things, Buffy was really, really, really happy. Obviously one of
the sock’s clever schemes had planted a seed that just now was bearing fruit.
It twitched its cuff around to pat itself on the back. Go sock!
It wondered what it should do now that Buffy and Spike had achieved official
happily-ever-after coupledom. It rather thought tai chi might be interesting.
It should head upstairs, see if Joyce had a videotape….
Oh, who was it kidding? It stayed right there and settled in to watch.
After a while – a long while, as apparently both Spike and Buffy had been
eating their Wheaties – they finally subsided onto Spike’s cot in a sweaty,
disheveled mess of mostly-nakedness. The sock frowned a bit. It didn’t have any
actual human experience to go by, but it was fairly certain that there was
supposed to be more to the process. Shouldn’t the mostly-nakedness be all-
nakedness? Suddenly concerned, it slithered down the side of the dryer and
crept closer, to hear what they were saying.
Buffy was tracing shapes on Spike’s bare chest. “I didn’t find anything today.”
Spike shrugged. “Can look again tomorrow.”
Buffy was silent for a while, curled in to Spike’s side. “I’m sorry,” she
whispered finally.
The sock crept closer. This was not good. Buffy sounded sad.
“What’s to be sorry for, love?” Spike laughed softly.
“I just… I thought we’d have them back by now.”
Them? Who were they?
The sock was quivering with curiosity, but it had to wait because Spike had
tugged Buffy up for some more kisses. Which was kind of infuriating. Here they
had been not kissing the whole time that the sock had been working its heel off
trying to get them to kiss, and now that it wanted them to stop kissing so it
could find out what was going on, they were all with the tongues and stuff. It
just wasn’t fair.
“Not to worry, love,” Spike finally said, shifting around so he was spooned up
to Buffy’s back, hands idly stroking down her body. “We’ll find a way, any day
now.”
The sock fumed. That was not informative.
Buffy wriggled closer to Spike. “Do you think they’re all right? I mean, it’s a
hell dimension. There’s got to be all sorts of… hell stuff.”
Spike laughed bitterly, pressing a line of kisses along Buffy’s shoulder. “I’m
sure they’re fine, pet. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re running the place by
now. Dru’s got a way about her, tends to attract fanatical minions. And Angel…”
He trailed off, his expression hardening. “I’m sure he’s getting by. Might be a
tad irate they don’t have his brand of hair gel.” He ran a tickling hand along
Buffy’s bare stomach, making her giggle against her will.
She gave him a wry glance over her shoulder. “You know, you use more hair gel
than he does.”
Spike pressed his forehead against the back of her neck, silent for a moment.
“Dru liked it,” he said finally, a hint of bitter laughter behind it. “She
liked me to use the same brand, even. The scent… reminded her of him.”
Buffy turned in his arms, placing a tender kiss on his forehead. “I’m sorry,”
she whispered, tousling his gelled hair so it fell in curls over his forehead.
“You’re sorry a lot tonight, pet,” Spike said gruffly, hiking her leg up over
his hip. “Don’t have to apologize to me for a sodding thing.” He ground against
her significantly.
“I’m not apologizing for me,” Buffy said with a sad smile. “I’m apologizing for
her. Because she can’t.”
Spike stared at her for a moment, frozen, and then groaned, rolling her on top
of him. The sock quickly realized they didn’t intend to talk again any time
soon.
Well. The sock still didn’t completely understand what was going on, but it
seemed to recall this Angel and Drew coming up in conversation back when most
of the conversation between Buffy and Spike consisted of crying, so it was
pretty clear that they were exes that the couple were still inexplicably hung
up on – despite all the interesting things they were doing right at this very
moment – and all the boring research was trying to get them to come back. How
annoying.
The sock especially didn’t like the sound of this Angel fellow. He seemed like
a cad. Even the name was the sleazy sort of thing a gigolo might adopt to seem
mysterious, right up there with Fabio and Misha. And apparently Angel had been
two-timing Buffy with this Drew person! (The sock had thought “Drew” was
usually short for “Andrew” but Spike had been talking about “her” so things
were a little ambiguous there. Then again, the sock was hardly one to talk
about ambiguous sexuality.) In any case, Buffy deserved better.
No, the sock was having none of this Angelbusiness. It had put a huge amount of
work into getting this kissing going between Buffy and Spike – it was trying
very hard to ignore all the other stuff going on right now, though it was
difficult when they were both being so loud – and it was darn well not going to
let some interloper ex-boyfriend come back and screw things up now.
The sock would just have to nip this research thing in the bud.
***
School was starting up again. It wasn’t fair.
Buffy was supposed to have Angel back by now, everything was supposed to be
back to normal, but nothing at all was normal, and being back in the crowded
halls lined with lockers while everyone around her lived out their normal high-
school-student lives… It was surreal, that was the word, how she looked and
walked and even talked just like one of them, but she wasn’t really, not
anymore.
Dating Angel – if you could call it that – had seemed like just an extension of
her high school life, like he was just one of the jocks walking down the hall.
The sort of relationship you giggled about in the girls’ room, where you wrote
your names together in a heart on the cover of your notebooks, gazed out the
window imagining his eyes and wondering if he would take you to Prom.
Now when she pictured Angel’s eyes they were full of hatred and malice, and
when she gazed out the window she wasn’t thinking about him anyhow. Well,
sometimes, in an abstract way, but mostly she was just thinking about Spike.
He was kind of memorable.
It was weird, though. She had loved Angel so much. She still did. But now, it
didn’t even seem completely real. Like it had happened in a fairy tale, to
someone else. Everything about Angel had been dreamy and idealized, like she
was floating up in clouds. Whereas Spike felt real. Solid. Earthy.
It didn’t feel right to compare them somehow, because Angel was her boyfriend
and Spike was… not her boyfriend. She told herself it wasn’t fair to Spike.
She secretly felt it wasn’t fair to Angel.
It wasn’t Angel’s fault – or maybe it was his fault, but she wasn’t holding it
against him – that they had only had one night of love before he had gone evil,
that they hadn’t ever made it past the awkward bits. Which had been nice, even
with the awkwardness. Maybe even because of the awkwardness. Sweet and tender
and passionate, and not at all like she had heard first times were supposed to
be.  People made it sound like it was some huge painful ordeal, but really, it
had been good, almost the entire time, and she was pretty sure she had had an
orgasm there at the end, her first, and she was sure if they had ever had a
second time, it would have been even better. He had treated her like she was
made of glass, like a precious work of art, like a delicate flower.
Spike treated her like a woman. She liked it.
The first time she had joined him in his basement after the freaky porn
incident – they still didn’t know how any of it had happened, and the videotape
had vanished into thin air – she had been prepared to sniffle a bit, to give
them an excuse to cuddle, but as soon as she had looked at him and he had
looked at her, they had tossed the pretense aside.
“Need something, pet?” he had said offhandedly, hands trembling as he pulled
her down beside him.
“Yes,” was all she had said back before kissing him.
And that had been that. They had fallen into kissing as inevitably as they had
previously fallen into tears, and – maybe because they had already exposed so
much of themselves in their nights of shared grief –they didn’t hide behind
anything in bed either. They were both broken, shattered, but somehow when they
came together they managed to fit their broken pieces into a beautiful mosaic,
and it was right.
Not right in a lot of ways, she knew. Not right forever. But right for right
now.
And being back in school just felt wrong.
It was good to hang out with the Scoobies, though – they had almost all their
classes together again – and that kind of made up for the wrongness.
At least until they talked at lunch.
“So, how’s your evil boyfriend?” Xander opened with, and Buffy’s mouth fell
open, because even though she knew Xander hated Angel, that was a pretty cruel
way to start the conversation.
“Still in a hell dimension, last I checked,” Buffy snapped back. “God, what is
wrongwith you?”
Xander looked confused. “You mean he’s not in the library taking evil notes on
evil books?”
“Wait, what?” Now Buffy was confused. “Why would Angel be in the library?”
Willow put a hand on Buffy’s arm. “He doesn’t mean Angel, Buffy. He means
Spike.”
“Spike?” Buffy took a quick drink of her Diet Coke. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh, so he’s just a former enemy that you research with and patrol with and
spend every waking hour with and keep locked away in your basement.” Willow had
a teasing smile on her face, which was really wiggy.
“Yeah, that’s basically it,” Buffy said cheerily, not seeing any need to bring
up the kissing and nakedness and everything-sexual-except-sex parts.
“Aw, man, Buffy, you thought I meant Angel? I’m a jerk, but I’m not that much
of a jerk.” Xander had finally caught on to the first part of their
conversation and had a look of panic on his face.
“It’s okay, I got it now,” Buffy reassured him.
“But Spike is in the library?” Cordelia had an impatient look on her face.
“He should be. Giles was going to tell Snyder that Spike was his research
assistant, so he could keep working on my project.” Upon learning that Spike
was reasonably conversant in several demon languages – “enough to give orders
and order takeout,” Spike had scoffed – Giles had in fact commandeered the
vampire to help with a project or two of his own. Spike had looked supremely
pissed at the request, but after a glance at Buffy had sullenly agreed. Giles
had confessed to Buffy later that he occasionally slipped Spike a passage that
he had a good translation of already, as a test, and he was fairly confident
the vampire was both translating to the best of his abilities and possessed of
abilities beyond what he claimed. Which was unexpected, but Buffy had asked him
about it later that night, in bed, and Spike had shrugged and pointed out that
the watcher was paying him by the word, and since Buffy wouldn’t let him steal
things it was the only way to stay in cigarettes and booze, and then he’d
looked at her in a way that said he was really indulging the watcher for her,
and she had left it at that.
“So, do we ever get to find out what this ‘project’ is? Maybe when you glue
some charts to a posterboard and put it out with the model volcanoes and
plants-listening-to-Mozart?”
“Yeah, of course. If it ever goes anywhere. Right now it’s mostly just dead
ends and depression.” Buffy sighed. “Good thing school is back in session, so I
can also have six fun classes to feel useless and maudlin about.” She looked at
her tray of cafeteria food, which suddenly looked about as appetizing as, well,
cafeteria food. “I should go see how things are going.”
“I’ll come along,” Willow piped up, sliding her uneaten pudding onto Oz’s tray.
“Maybe I can find something to help with.”
“Sure,” Buffy shrugged, though she was inwardly disappointed, because she
couldn’t smooch Spike with Willow watching. She had missed him during her
morning classes.
They had almost made it to the library talking about inconsequential things,
when Willow grinned at her again, voice teasing. “So, I promise not to notice
if you decide to sneak into the stacks with your latest vamp boyfriend.”
Buffy turned bright red, because that was exactly what she had been planning on
doing. “Oh my god. How many times do I have to say it? Spike is not my
boyfriend!”
And then they went through the swinging library doors and Spike was there,
sitting at a shadowed table, glaring at her under dark eyebrows, and she
realized that of course he had heard her, because that was how these things
worked, especially with a sharp-eared vampire involved, but then she didn’t
care, because she had missed him all day, and there he was at last, and she
could feel her face breaking out in a goofy grin.
After a second more of glaring, and a brief flash of surprise, he grinned back.
***
After the final bell, Spike tucked his private notebook and the books he had
been working with back on their bottom shelf and replaced them with one of the
useless things Giles was having him translate, because after that crack at
lunch, he was fairly certain that the slayer didn’t deserve to get her “real,”
soul-having boyfriend back, and was considering the possibilities of just
snagging Dru and heading for the hills. Not seriously, of course, but he was
still a little pissed.
It all fell away when she ran in the door, greeting him with a brilliant smile.
Giles had stepped out for a faculty conference of some sort, and Spike was the
only one in the library, so he stood to greet her. “About time, Slayer. Was
beginning to think you’d run home without me.”
“Would I do that?” Buffy said, batting her eyelashes, and he laughed, because
of course she would, except at the same time he knew she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t
leave him behind.
“Ready to get down to business?” Spike said, letting his voice ring with a bit
of innuendo, because really, he wouldn’t mind getting busy.
Buffy glanced over her shoulder. “Nobody’s here. Kiss me.” Spike not only
kissed her, he slid his hands under the hem of her skirt. She was wearing
panties today, but that was all right; he rubbed them against her, sliding her
into the corner of the book cage as he did so, where nobody could see if they
came in to the library, not before Spike could hear them. Fuck, she was already
wet, like she’d been thinking about him all afternoon. Buffy tilted her hips to
give him better access, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “God,” she
whispered, as his fingers stroked her knowingly. “God.”
“So I’m not your boyfriend?” Spike said conversationally as she gasped into his
shirt.
“No,” Buffy whispered between gasps. “You’re not my boyfriend.”
Spike stroked harder, twisting his fingers in the fabric of her panties. “What
am I?” he insisted, suddenly terrified that he was nothing. He was used to
being nothing to Dru, but he felt sick at the thought that he was nothing to
Buffy, too.
Buffy tilted her head up then, kissed him, tongue sliding lazily against his.
He stroked her deeper, just the way he knew she liked it, and she threw her
head back as she came, barely managing to stifle her cry. That’s all right,
Spike thought tenderly. I’ll make you scream again tonight, when nobody can
hear. You can scream as much as you want. Tell me. “What am I?” he asked again.
She returned to herself slowly, eyes focusing on his chin as she blushed. “What
do you want to be?” she asked in a low voice, sliding a hand up the front of
his jeans, eyes hot.
Boyfriend. Lover. Everything. “What am I to you?” he whispered into her ear,
sliding his cheek against hers, cajoling. She kept stroking him through his
jeans, and he leaned in to it, though it was right up to the edge of the limits
he had drawn, the point at which Buffy had to give way to Dru. She could touch
and caress and bring him off, through the stiff denim, he just couldn’t have
her skin against his and still convince himself that he was staying true. It
was awful, this self-restraint business, not at all in his nature, but he owed
it to Drusilla, owed her that much at least.
He suspected that the moment he felt Buffy’s warmth on his cock, no barriers in
between, he would never be able to give it up.
“Tell me what I am to you,” he repeated, putting his hand over hers,
encouraging her.
She quivered. “There isn’t a word,” she whispered into his neck. “I don’t know
a word for what you are.”
“But not a boyfriend.”
“Not a boyfriend,” she confirmed, voice thready with desire. “You’re… more.”
That wasn’t an answer, not really, but it felt all right, comforting, and he
pressed her close for another kiss, slow and sweet, as he came with a jerk
under her clever hand. He tenderly lifted her hand off the denim and pressed
his lips to each knuckle, raising an eyebrow at her smile of smug satisfaction.
God, she was beautiful. Beautiful and saucy and sweet. He kissed her smile
away.
“We should research,” she said after a bit, though she pressed a kiss to his
neck after, like she wasn’t quite done yet.
“Yeah, we should.” Spike grinned at her. “Do I look like a man who does what I
should do?” He kissed her again, hard this time, just to show her.
She shoved him away and grinned right back. “Never. But it’s time to go
research.”
“All right,” Spike said indulgently, like he was doing her a favor, though he
did actually want to get back to work. He had made progress on his translation,
wanted to double-check something in the watcher’s notes while he was gone. He
kissed her one last time and went to the door of the book cage.
It was locked.
From the outside.
With a padlock.
“What the bleeding hell…?”
***
Outside the book cage, watching from the safety of Buffy’s backpack, the sock
congratulated itself on a job well done. They wouldn’t be able to do any
research at all until someone came along with a key. Which might be hours.
As it watched, Buffy came over to the door, frowning, then gave it a swift
punch near the lock. The hasp of the lock snapped. “That’s weird,” she said,
looking at the broken padlock. She tossed it aside with a shrug. “So,
research?” They headed towards the tables.
Curses, foiled again, the sock muttered to itself.
It was going to need a bigger lock.
 
End Chapter 6
***** A Sock on a Rampage *****
Spike looked down at the page of writing in front of him. He didn’t know what
to do.
The Fyarl book had, as it turned out, been a collection of oral histories and
legends and prophecies that a particular tribe of the demons had recorded over
the course of their mercenary travels, gleaned from the various demon races
they had encountered. They were a mixed bag, ranging from the typical epics and
hero-journeys (bloodier than their counterparts in human culture) to what Spike
would swear was a several-generations-modified version of “Pee-Wee’s Big
Adventure.”
Right smack in the middle was the prophecy that had caught Spike’s eye,
entitled “The Bride of Acathla.”
He had wondered, when he started translating the passage, whether the “bride”
was meant to refer to Buffy, or Drusilla, or some other nameless woman lost to
history, but his confusion was quickly cleared up, because he could only
imagine one woman in the history of the universe, one brilliant, shining
paragon, that could conceivably be described as a “Mad Tyrant God-Queen.”
That’s my Dru, he thought with wry pride, stroking the words on the paper.
The Mad Tyrant God-Queen, according to the prophecy, would one day come to her
people, ushering in generation after generation of conflict and bacchanalian
extravagance. She had hair like the night and a face like carved bone. Her eyes
shone with the light of her visions, and her visions brought her people to
glory and despair. She would reign over the dimension with joy and whimsy and
torture and effulgent songs, blood dripping down her white arms, for millennia.
Spike wasn’t quite sure of that last word. It might actually be “eternity.”
Interestingly, there was no mention of Angel – not a paramour, not a rival, not
a God-King. Spike didn’t know whether that meant he had died, or left, or
perhaps just wasn’t exciting enough for the prophecy to mention. (He suspected
the last one, Angel being about as interesting as mashed potatoes.) What was
most important, though, was not the prophecy itself. It was the provenance.
He now had the name of the dimension, and the names of three different demon
breeds that came from it.
And he recognized them.
He looked at the notebook again, the jagged block-printing, a rejection of the
copperplate penmanship of his human self. He still didn’t have the answer, not
the complete answer, not the words and the ritual and the magickal components
necessary to get Dru back, but he knew he would soon. He was one-hundred-
percent certain that he would succeed.
He still wasn’t ready.
Last night, Joyce had asked him what kind of wine he would want to drink with
Christmas dinner. (He had suggested the Zinfandel she had served at
Thanksgiving.) Buffy had been artlessly feeling him out on his likes and needs,
leading him to believe she was planning on buying him a present. (He had tried
to hint that sending Joyce away for a spa weekend would be a lovely present for
them both, but also had mentioned in passing that his favorite Sex Pistols CD
had been destroyed when the factory burned.) He was disgustingly domestic and
settled, and he despised and craved it at the same time.
Buffy hadn’t locked him up for longer than he could remember, had even fallen
asleep in his arms a few times, and all he had done was pull her closer, kiss
her forehead, and slide his hand down to cradle her sweet quim as they slept.
Together.
What was wrong with him?
He didn’t need Buffy anymore. He had what he needed, the name and the breeds
and the prophecy, and it would be the work of minutes to knock out the Watcher,
take the books he required, and be on his merry way. He could wait and ambush
the slayer, drain her dry before he left, then find a safe place to bring back
his Mad Tyrant God-Queen, let her rule him for millennia or eternity or
whatever the word really meant. Angel could rot in the hell he had opened for
himself while Spike and Dru returned to their blissful unlife of blood and sex
and murder. Logically, Spike couldn’t see a downside, not one.
But he closed the notebook, gently, so as not to attract the watcher’s
attention – he was fussing about with some correspondence – and tucked it away
on its shelf. He could kill Giles later. After he’d had his holiday wine.
Perhaps rung in the New Year – Buffy had said something about the Bronze, and
dancing, and he had been thinking how delicious it would be to bring her off in
that little alcove behind the stairs, or maybe up on the catwalk.
He had ideas, was the thing. All sorts of ideas and fantasies and desires, and
he couldn’t just abandon them, not until he had explored them. Particularly not
now, when Buffy was proving that she also was just brimming with naughty ideas.
The slayer was a fucking revelation. Dru would understand.
Besides, after reading the prophecy, he was quite sure she was off having the
time of her unlife.
The bell rang, and he practically salivated. Lunchtime. He opened the book
Giles was having him translate now, trying to look diligent.
Buffy would be paying him a visit soon.
God, he’d missed her.
***
The sock waited until Spike was deeply involved in his work to inch along the
base of the bookshelf, headed for the notebook.
It had been watching Spike and Buffy for months, the whole fall semester, and
it hadn’t taken long to figure out that Buffy was getting nowhere. She would
spend half her research time glaring at pages she clearly didn’t understand,
and the other half making eyes at Spike, and never wrote anything down at all.
It was almost like she didn’t even care anymore.
Good, the sock thought, ribbing expanding in satisfaction.
Spike, though… Spike was a problem.
The sock had quickly figured out that there was a notebook that he only wrote
in when Buffy was in class, that he casually slid under other books whenever
the old guy came over to check on him. He might as well have lit up a neon sign
over his head that said, “I’m hiding something! Ask me what!” With a huge
glowing arrow. Maybe even some strobe lights.
The sock’s path was clear. The notebook held Spike’s secret research. The fact
that he was keeping it secret meant that it was somehow important.
And that meant it had to be destroyed.
The sock had pondered many ways to destroy the notebook – setting fire to the
library (pretty), luring a teething puppy into the room (adorable), even
flushing it down the toilet (icky but symbolically satisfying) – but it had
finally decided that the easiest thing would be to just steal it and hide it
somewhere else in the book stacks. Maybe behind the Tolstoy. Nobody ever
actually read Tolstoy, not high school students, at least; they just got the
Cliff’s Notes, because the Cliff’s Notes were as long as a regular book. Yes,
the Tolstoy should be a safe place. Right behind “War and Peace,” the Tolstoy-
iest of Tolstoys. Nobody would ever check that out.
Stealthily, keeping watch on Spike in case he changed his mind about being
done, the sock crept towards the notebook. It cautiously eased its ribbing
around the spine, tugging it out a centimeter at a time until the book finally
fell to the floor with a soft thud. Panicking, it scrunched up against the
shelves, in case the small sound had caught Spike’s attention.
Spike didn’t even look around; he was staring at the book in front of him with
a look of concentrated anticipation, which was strange, but the sock couldn’t
complain.
It started to drag the notebook off towards the stairs.
When Buffy entered the library a few minutes later, the sock wasn’t even
halfway to its destination in the Russian Literature section – it still had the
stairs to navigate – and it froze in indecision. Buffy might suck at research,
but she had incredibly sharp eyes; it couldn’t decide whether it was better to
keep moving, or to find a closer hiding place.
“Slayer!” Spike hissed gladly, rising to greet her. “Come to favor us with your
linguistic expertise?”
“Give it a rest, Spike,” Buffy said fondly. “You know I can’t just leave you
unsupervised.”
“I am quite certain I count as supervision,” Giles interjected dryly.
“So, find anything good?” Buffy leaned against the table next to Spike’s
research, twitching a loose sheet of notepaper up to look at it. She was
holding it with the writing upside-down, but didn’t seem to care, as she was
gazing at Spike over the edge of it.
Spike grinned at her, eyes sultry. “Yeah. Got something really good for you.
Enlightening, you might say.”
“Oooh. Gonna show me?” Buffy raised her eyebrows, challenging. “Where is it?”
“Upstairs,” Spike said huskily. “On the back shelves.”
Buffy’s eyes flared. “Lead the way.” They headed towards the stairs to the
second level, fingers intertwined.
Giles rolled his eyes behind their backs, and the sock had to agree. They
weren’t fooling anybody.
Then the sock noticed the path they were taking to the stairs, and rapidly
zipped out of sight. Whew! Close call!
Spike’s notebook was still lying on the floor, and the sock watched in horror
as Buffy’s feet came closer and closer, until the toe of her boot hit the
spine, sending the notebook skittering across the floor. It flopped open.
“Whoops! Better get that…” Buffy bent down and picked it up, idly glancing at
the pages as she did. Then she paused, and gave it a more thorough look.
“Spike, is this yours?”
Spike frowned back at the shelf where he usually kept the notebook. “Uh, yeah.
Wonder how…”
Buffy was leafing through the pages. “Spike, when were you going to tell me
about this?”
There was a moment when Spike was obviously trying to decide what answer would
be least likely to lead to a massive beat-down. Finally, he shrugged. “Wanted
to be sure, first. Still need to check some things…”
“You found them.” Buffy beamed at Spike. “You found them!” She hugged the
notebook to her chest.
Spike bared his teeth at her. “Yeah. Suppose I did.”
Buffy’s face fell into serious lines then, eyes running across Spike’s face,
then she grabbed his hand again, tugging him up the stairs. “The thing. On the
back shelves. The thing you found. Show me now.” They disappeared into the
stacks.
The sock followed cautiously, hugging the base of the bookshelves as it inched
its way into the depths of the library. By the time it got there, Buffy and
Spike were locked in an embrace, kissing hungrily. As the sock watched, Buffy
broke free, took Spike’s hand and slid it under her skirt, eyes locked on his.
The sock couldn’t see exactly what was going on, but a second later, Spike
jolted.
“Fuck, Slayer, you been like this all day?” His voice was rough.
Buffy nodded, moving her hips against his hand. “I didn’t even put them on this
morning,” she said in a low voice, gasping.
“Fuck.” Spike pressed his forehead to hers, looking down her body. “Let me see,
love.”
Buffy’s hands pulled up the hem of her skirt, bunching it at her waist, a
faint, knowing smile on her face The sock inched a few feet more, trying to see
what Buffy was talking about – it was pretty sure it knew what she meant, but
she could have been talking about socks or something – but Spike was in the
way, curling his hand under her thigh and lifting it up and to the side,
fingers trembling.
“For me?” Spike said softly, pulling back to meet Buffy’s eyes.
“For you,” Buffy whispered back, biting her lip as Spike’s free hand slipped in
to stroke her. Then they were kissing again, Buffy moaning quietly into Spike’s
mouth as his hand moved between them.
Months of watching Buffy and Spike make out at every opportunity had left the
sock jaded; as they continued to writhe against the shelves, it turned its
attention to the important thing: the location of the notebook.
Ah! There it was, tucked on the shelf behind Buffy’s head. As the sock watched,
Buffy threw her head back, biting her lip to hold back a scream, and her hair
slid across the cover. Well, there was no getting it now. Even in the throes of
ecstasy, it was unlikely they would miss a sock moving around two inches from
Buffy’s ear. The sock could bide its time.
On the bright side, time spent smooching was not spent researching. The sock
approved.
It inched its way back downstairs, where Giles had turned on the radio, a look
of disgusted resignation on his face. The sock slithered into Buffy’s backpack
and settled in to wait.
It had gotten good at waiting.
***
Buffy barely made it to class after lunch – she had to make a quick pit-stop in
the bathroom to clean up – and Willow greeted her with a smile of relief as she
slid into the desk next to hers.
A few minutes into class, Buffy felt a nudge at her elbow, and looked down to
find a folded note. Warily keeping an eye on their teacher, she unfolded it and
read.
How is the research going? There was a sly-looking smiley face next to the
words.
Buffy flattened out the note on her notebook, nonchalantly writing her answer.
Good. Spike found something really useful.She stretched casually, dropping the
refolded note on Willow’s desk.
A few minutes later, the note came back. Yes, but how is the research going?
(For the record, by “research” I mean kissing.)
Buffy felt her face turning red. She hastily scribbled her answer. Why would
there be kissing?
Buffy had to wait a long time for an answer; she surreptitiously rubbed her
lips, wondering if the fact that she had in fact been doing a lot of kissing
just before was totally obvious. Could people tell? She never could, but maybe
other people could. Then she wondered if people could tell when other people
had been doing other sexy things, because Spike had been really inspired by her
no-panties stunt.
Not inspired enough to let her unbuckle his jeans, but she could tell he was
wavering by the way his voice had caught when she brushed the buckle on her way
to touch him through the denim. He had even fallen to his knees, so that he
could see what he was doing better, and she could tell he wanted to do
something more while he was down there, she had been tense with anticipation
hoping he would, and when he had reluctantly let her skirt fall so she could
get to her afternoon classes, he had pressed a reverent kiss against her,
kissing her right there through the fabric of her skirt before rising to his
feet, and she had finally resolved that she was going to ask him, no matter how
embarrassed she was, she was going to ask him to kiss her there without any
fabric in the way, because time was running out, and she had to know what it
felt like before she gave it up forever.
She wondered if he would let her kiss him through his jeans, or if that was
against the rules. Stupid rules.
The note under her elbow startled her out of her naughty thoughts.
It’s okay. I’m dating a werewolf, remember? And Xander’s dating Cordelia. You
can kiss Spike.
Buffy looked at the note for a long time, thoughtful. Finally, she wrote her
reply and passed it back.
Can we talk after school?
The bell rang just a bit later, and Buffy met Willow’s eyes shyly as they both
got up for passing period, braced for rejection, but Willow just nodded,
smiling wryly. “Where should we meet?” the redhead said casually, as if she
hadn’t just busted Buffy for lip-locking with the evil undead.
“Um, not the library. Maybe outside? That bench?”
“Okey-dokey.”
Then Xander joined them, making some lame joke that Buffy barely heard as they
walked down the hallway, and things were sort of normal again, a nice surface
normal that almost made it possible for Buffy to ignore the way she was shaking
inside.
It was good that things were moving along at last, right? She had always known
things couldn’t go on like this forever.
Even if she sometimes wished they could.
***
The sock woke up when Buffy carried her backpack out into the sunlight, and for
a moment it was disoriented, because Buffy usually headed straight to the
library after her last class, to get back to the books, and it had expected
that today of all days she would be eager to get back to work.
But no, she was sitting in the sun somewhere – the sock could feel the heat of
the sunlight through the backpack, though it was gentler now that they were
into December – and a short while later the sock heard her greet Willow. They
chatted a bit, walking, before settling down somewhere shady. The sock
cautiously poked out of the backpack enough to see leaves waving overhead. So,
under a tree. This could be interesting; the sock nudged the zipper of the
backpack up just enough that it could see and hear more clearly.
“So. I hear you’re making progress on your research,” Willow said in a voice of
loving mockery.
“Willow.”
“Sorry, I’ll stop teasing.” There was a crack-and-hiss as Willow popped the top
of a soda. “So, is this when I get to find out about the super-secret project?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s time.” Buffy sighed, opening her own drink. “Spike and I have
been trying to figure out a way to get Angel back.”
Willow was silent for a long time before speaking. “And this is a good idea…
why?”
“He’s my boyfriend, Willow. I can’t just leave him in a hell dimension. Not if
I can get him back.” Buffy was plucking blades of grass from the ground,
scattering them around her feet.
“Not to throw cold water on this, but do you really want him back? I mean, you
haven’t seemed like…” The sock listened avidly for Buffy’s reply.
She shrugged. “Of course I do. I mean, there’s a lot of stuff he needs to make
up for, but that’s all stuff he did without his soul. Once we give him back his
soul, he should be okay again. He won’t be evil anymore.”
“Yeah, I mean, I was going to mention that the last time Angel was around, he
was all with the killing people and the making tropical fish necklaces and the
trying to end the world, but, um, that actually wasn’t what I was talking
about.”
Buffy frowned. “What are you talking about, then?”
Willow sighed in exasperation. “Buffy, you have a new boyfriend now.”
“I do not,” Buffy whispered, looking sulkily at the ground.
“When you spend all your time with someone, doing things together and talking
and laughing and sneaking off to kiss every chance you get? That’s a boyfriend.
We’ve all had plenty of time to accept it. Maybe you should, too.”
Buffy looked at her little pile of shorn grass for a long moment. “Spike
doesn’t want to be my boyfriend.”
“Really? Then why is he going along with all of this, the research and the not-
killing-people and all that?”
“We’re going to get Drusilla back, too. That’s why he’s helping.”
“So he follows you around like a puppy dog because he’s in love with someone
else?” Willow’s voice dripped with disbelief.
“He doesn’t… I don’t know, Will.” Buffy ran a hand through her hair, sweeping
it off her face. “It’s like… It just happened. We were both so sad, and he was
there and I was there, and we cried for weeks, and then the kissing happened,
but all the time we’ve been talking about Angel and Dru, how we’re going to get
them back. Like we’re just… killing time until we can get back to our real
lives. This is all just a time-out.”
Willow’s lips were pressed together, like she had something to say but didn’t
want to say it. Finally, she said, “So, you’re sure this is what you want?”
“Of course,” Buffy said softly, but she was looking away. “Spike wants Drusilla
and I… I want Angel. We want them back.”
The sock couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t sound sure. She sounded sad.
Willow sighed again. “Well, if it’s what you really want, you know I’ll help
you. What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to get together what you need for the ensoulment spell. The herbs,
and candles, and, um, the Orb of Jessica.” Buffy’s voice was firm and
determined. “Do you still have that?”
“Thessulah. Um, yeah, about that. You know in ‘Labyrinth’ when David Bowie’s
doing that really cool thing with the glass ball?” Buffy nodded encouragingly.
Every girl remembered everything David Bowie did in Labyrinth, didn’t they?
“Well, last time we watched it, Xander decided to try it out, and… Let’s just
say I don’t, in fact, still have it.”
“Do you think you can get one?”
“Probably. They’re not actually that rare, for some weird reason. I’ll head by
the magic shop now, see if they have any in stock. I can pick up the rest of
the stuff we need, too.”
“Thanks, Will. I, um, don’t know when we’ll have the rest of the research done,
but I think it would be good if we have it all ready. So we don’t have to wait.
I can’t bring him back if we can’t give him back his soul.”
“If you say so.” Willow sipped at her soda. “You know, it didn’t work last
time. The spell.”
“It’ll work this time. It has to.” Buffy glared at the ground, eyes hard.
Willow’s face crinkled with doubt. “And if it doesn’t?”
Buffy shrugged, but there was an awkwardness to it, as if she was feeling less-
than-sanguine about the situation. “Then I’ll kill him again.”
They finished their sodas in silence.
The sock considered this turn of events thoughtfully. So, if Willow couldn’t
cast the spell, Buffy couldn’t bring Angel back? This might be easier than
trying to halt the research, certainly now that Buffy had seen the notebook. It
would have to wait and see what this “Orb of Thessulah” was like.
It hoped the Orb was fragile.
***
Willow came back to the library before they broke for dinner and patrol,
carrying a bag brimful of supplies. Buffy greeted her with a huge smile, trying
to cover the fact that the whole afternoon, while she and Spike had worked
together to find out more about the hell dimension now that they had a name,
she had felt sick. She told herself it was just that she was worried that
things would go wrong, that she was nervous at the prospect of failure, but
Willow’s words from the afternoon stuck with her.
Was Spike her boyfriend?
Her brain kept telling her that no, Angel was her boyfriend, and Spike was her
temporary-something-more-than-a-boyfriend, but Willow was probably right that
that didn’t exactly make sense. So what was Spike, really? She had watched him
across the table, as he leafed through books and jotted down notes and
occasionally said something snarky, and the more she watched him, the more
confused she got.
Could Spike be her boyfriend? She kept twisting the moral issues and
philosophical implications around in her head, and she kept coming up empty.
Spike didn’t have a soul, which she knew meant something, but she wasn’t sure
what anymore, because everything she had thought went with having a soul – love
and laughter and tenderness, all the things Angel had lost – Spike had in
spades. And even though he still had a monster inside him, still loved the hunt
and the kill when she took him with her on patrol, well, so did she, when it
came right down to it, and he had been able to follow the rules Buffy had laid
down for him, living off blood from the butcher and not harming humans, easily
if not happily. What was it he had that made him Spike and not just a slavering
beast? Where did the love come from? Because, as much as she wanted to dismiss
what he felt for Drusilla as not-real-love, she had spent months of nights
curled in his arms, talking about everything and anything but especially Angel
and Drusilla -- she knew him now, and she couldn’t just wave it all away. There
was something real inside Spike, something capable of feelings and humor and
affection, something that she liked. Something that she might even love, if she
let herself.
She just didn’t get it.
She wondered if she could maybe figure it out, if she tried hard enough and
long enough. Like maybe all her life.
But Willow had brought the bag of supplies, and she guessed none of her musings
really mattered anyhow, because Spike was going to leave forever once he had
Dru, and she would have Angel with his soul, and the details behind it wouldn’t
matter so much then. She peeked into the bag. “Is this everything?”
“Yep!” Willow gave a cheery grin. “Everything except the herbs that we’ll want
fresh. I have the rune stones at home still, of course, but I can bring them in
tomorrow.”
“They had an Orb of Thessulah in stock, even?” Buffy wondered why she felt
disappointed.
“Yeah, they had a bunch. I guess they sell really well as stocking-stuffers.
They’re so shiny.”
“Want one in your Hanukkah stocking?” Buffy laughed, setting the bag of
supplies out of the way, by her backpack.
“So, do we have a plan yet?” Willow sat down at the table, looking at the
papers spread out in front of Spike. Spike glared at her briefly before turning
back to his work.
“Not yet.” Buffy cast a furtive glance at Giles, making sure he was out of
earshot. “We, um, don’t want to rush things. We need to have everything right.”
Willow followed Buffy’s glance. “Oh. Giles doesn’t know?”
Buffy grimaced. “I can’t tell him. Not with what Angel did. Once he’s back and
good again, I think it’ll be all right, though.”
Willow’s face was doubtful. “If you say so.”
There was a sudden crash behind Buffy; she jumped to her feet, eyes scanning
the room for a threat, but all she saw was a little pile of glass on the floor,
just below the tipped-over bag of spell components. How anticlimactic.
“What the hell?” Spike bit out next to her; she glanced over to see that he was
ready to fight as well, and just as frustrated as she that there was nothing to
hit. They really needed to patrol tonight. Or maybe just make out. A lot.
Yeah, that would work.
“Aw, the Orb of Thessulah!” Willow pouted, leaning over to look at the
shattered pile of glass. “How did that happen? I know the clerk wrapped it up
really well, and it was at the very bottom of the bag.”
Buffy shrugged. “Gravity is a harsh mistress. Anyhow, can you get another one?”
“I guess. I won’t have time to go by the store for a few days, though. Is that
okay?”
Buffy tried not to feel relieved, but she was. “Yeah. Yeah, whenever is fine.”
Willow fussed about cleaning up the broken glass before heading home, waving
off Buffy’s offer of an escort since the sun was still up. Buffy sank into a
chair across from Spike and tried to scan some more Latin, but she couldn’t
concentrate.
Spike suddenly looked up at her. “Slayer, you still not wearing any knickers?”
His voice was unconcerned, as if he had just asked her the time.
Buffy bit her lower lip, letting her teeth drag across the surface before
answering. “No. Or yes.” She flushed, but kept her voice nonchalant. “I’m not
wearing any.”
Spike nodded, then turned back to his work. “Good,” he said quietly.
Giles came over to the table then. “Spike, have you made any progress on that
translation from the D’Angelo text?”
Spike rolled his eyes and handed him one of the papers. “Finished it yesterday,
hardly worth my time. Already on the G’Nedd prophecies.” He glanced at Buffy, a
smug look that she suspected was a little dig at the fact that he was still
kicking her butt in the research department, but she grinned back at him,
because she was still kicking his butt in just about every other department.
Also, there was something extra-sexy about Spike looking all scholarly, with
ink-stains on his fingertips.
“Ah, yes, very good.” Giles wandered back to the circulation desk.
When he was gone, Buffy leaned across the table towards Spike. “Any progress on
our end?”
“Working on it,” Spike huffed. “Give us a little time.” He eyed her neckline.
“You know I can see all down your shirt. Is there a national underthings
shortage?”
Buffy smiled. “No. Just making a statement.”
“And that statement is…?”
“My mother is gone again tonight. She went to Sacramento for the weekend.”
“And?” He put down his pen, started to shuffle the papers into a neat stack.
“What do you think?”
Spike leaned forward, mirroring her. “I think you want to scream tonight.”
Buffy just smiled.
***
The sock was feeling pretty smug as it inched its way out the library door.
Smashing that glass ball had been chancy – coming out of the backpack when
anybody could have seen it and raised a fuss – but it had been worth it, both
because it had successfully set back the spell-working and because, as it
turned out, smashing things was fun.
And it had more fun ahead of it, too. Before smashing the thingamabob, the sock
had checked out the receipt tucked into the bag, which conveniently had the
address of the magic shop printed on it. It would take it a couple of days, the
sock judged, and there would be some disappointed children come Christmas
morning, but if the sock had anything to say about it, no shiny glass balls
would be sold to anyone in Sunnydale this holiday season. Especially not red-
haired witches.
The sock had a Grinchy mission: to smash every Orb of Thessulah in the town.
It gleefully set forth on its quest.
***
Spike had been pissed off at first about his hand being forced, now that Buffy
knew about the progress he had made on his research, but after a while he was
able to shrug it off. He still could stab her in the back any time he chose.
And right now, he chose to spend a luscious evening making the slayer come over
and over again. He left her clothes on, just pushing her shirt and her skirt
up, because that was the whole point of going without knickers, and he could
always get her naked later. They had all night.
Of course, she had turned the tables on him when she had pushed him back on his
cot, kissed her way down the center of his bare chest, and kissed his cock,
right through the denim of his jeans. “Is this all right?” she had asked, eyes
hot, and he had nodded slowly, then closed his eyes as she proceeded to nibble
and mouth his cock through the denim, and for a moment he had dizzily imagined
just letting her have it all, letting her slide her hot mouth over his cock,
even if it meant Drusilla would cut him off for a century, and just the thought
of it finished him off and he came in his jeans, swearing. Buffy had laughed
gently, crawling back up him to snuggle into his neck, and he had taken her
chin in his hand and kissed her deeply, wishing he could taste himself on her
mouth.
They were taking a break now, hands lazily wandering over each other, Buffy
nuzzling into the hollow of his throat. After a bit, she suddenly spoke, voice
quiet.
“Where will you go?”
Spike didn’t pretend not to understand what she was talking about, though it
was a bit of a non sequitur; there was only one thing she could mean. He
shrugged, enjoying the feel of her cheek against his shoulder as it moved.
“Dunno. Away.”
“Oh.” She rubbed her forehead into his neck.
“Does it matter?” He curved his hand around her breast, thumb idly stroking her
sweet hard nipple.
She made a pleased sound, shifted under his hand. “No, I guess not.”
“You’ll stay here. With Angel.” He could feel his hand growing rougher at the
thought, and forced himself to relax. It wasn’t going to happen anyhow. He had
already decided to stab her in the back. Hadn’t he?
It was Buffy’s turn to shrug. “Yeah. Hellmouth.”
Spike rolled over her then, looking down at her, stroking her hair away from
her face. “You should see the world. Travel.”
Buffy smiled up at him, shyly, though her hands were planted very unshyly on
his ass. “Travel sounds nice. I’ve never been out of California.” She let her
legs fall open, cradling him between them.
“Whole world out there. You’ve saved it, few times. You should get to see it.”
Spike could feel himself warming to the idea, picturing Buffy in a few of the
places he had been. She would glow. It meant he would have to not kill her, but
he pretty much already knew he wasn’t going to anyhow, no matter how many times
he told himself he would. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even kill the watcher.
What a fucking sap he was turning out to be.
He could still kill Angel, maybe. If the soul-spell went wrong. That would be
all right. Dru would bitch about it, but it would be worth it.
Buffy sighed, smiling. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. Maybe Italy.”
Spike snorted, shifting to the side to lean on his elbow, watching his other
hand as it ran the length of her body. “Yeah, if you want to be boring.”
Buffy glared at him, blowing her bangs out of her eyes with an irritated huff.
“Paris would not be boring!”
“Not boring, then,” Spike conceded with a grin. “Pedestrian. Doing what’s
expected of you.”
Buffy’s eyes seemed to double in size, all teary and pleading. “But, Paris.”
She waved a hand in the air, trying to convey the grandiosity.
Spike sighed, touching a finger to the tip of her nose. “All right then. Have
it your way. You can go to Paris.” He leaned in for a kiss then, long and
lascivious, mouths open and tongues sliding, and they stopped talking for a
while as his hands traveled south. It had been at least ten minutes since his
fingers had been inside her, and that was far too long. She was still hot and
swollen and sensitive; it took hardly any time at all to make her come again,
quivering against his fingertips. Fucking glorious.
Buffy was gasping and shaking, but her eyes focused on his again. “You’ve been
there right? Paris?”
Spike stroked his wet fingertips across her stomach. “Well, yeah. Paris and
Rome and Berlin. Prague. Moscow. Lots of little towns in between, too. There’s
a lot more than just the big cities that’s worth seeing. And that’s just
Europe. There’s all of Asia, and Africa, and South America. Canada. New
Zealand. Hong Kong.”
Buffy smiled at that, then pouted and thumped her fist lightly on his chest. “I
want to start with Paris,” she said stubbornly.
God, she was hot when she was bossy. Spike laughed indulgently and settled her
more comfortably against his shoulder, sliding his arms around her. “Fine. I’ll
take you to sodding Paris.”
Buffy looked at him with her big eyes, mouth trembling a bit, and he realized
what he had said, and hastily backtracked. “If we don’t get them back.” That
was less comforting than it might be, as close as they were to finishing their
project, but it was an escape route, and he took it. 
Buffy looked up at him, face serious. “I thought you wanted me to stake you. If
we don’t get Dru back.”
Was that what he had said? Of course it was what he would want, he couldn’t go
on without Dru, but now, with Buffy warm and sweet in his arms… “Yeah. Yeah, I
do. But… after. You can stake me after Paris.”
Buffy narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to.”
Spike went on, ignoring the little thrill that rushed through him at what she
was saying. “You’ll like the bread there. We can eat at the best restaurants,
have espresso in pretentious cafes. Eat crepes from street vendors.”
“I don’t want to stake you.” Buffy was growing agitated, and he ran a soothing
hand through her hair.
“You promised, love.” She hadn’t, he knew.
Buffy knew it, too. “I didn’t. I never promised.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Fine. Don’t stake me. I’ll take care of it myself.” He
kissed her again, because it was wonderfully sweet that she didn’t want to
stake him, bleeding adorable.
The staking question resolved, Buffy got back to the Paris fantasy. “So how are
we going to pay for all this food?”
Figures she’d be all practical about it. “Got ways.”
Buffy fixed him with a knowing, disapproving look. “You can’t steal anything.
Not when you’re with me.”
“Bugger.” Spike kissed her hard. “All right. I’ll cut back on smokes for a
while before we go, use the watcher’s dosh. Maybe you can get the Watcher’s
Council to pay for the trip, tell them you’re taking out a nest. Probably be
true, too, there’s always a nest of something in Paris, ‘cause of the sewers.
Be brilliant, hunting there with you.” He drifted off a bit, imagining prowling
the streets of Paris with Buffy by his side. Those French vamps were an
irritating lot, anyhow. Be a favor to the evil community, taking them out.
Buffy grinned impishly up at him. “So a slay-cation?”
Spike laughed at that, shortly. “Yeah, all right. We’ll live off bread and
cheese and water, blood from the butcher. Can still get the crepes. All the
cafes in Paris are pretentious, so we’ll get our espresso from the cheap
pretentious cafes. Happy?”
“Yes.” Buffy cuddled up to him again, tracing shapes on his chest.
“Lots of things you can do in Paris cost hardly anything. We’ll go up the
Eiffel Tower at night, look at all the lights, and take a boat ride on the
Seine and walk by the Moulin Rouge and visit Jim Morrison’s grave. Go to the
good nightclubs, the ones that aren’t fancy. Go dancing.”
“I like dancing.” Buffy’s eyes were closed.
“I know. I like watching you dance.” He remembered that first night he had seen
her, happily dancing at the Bronze, while he prowled the edges of the dance
floor, watching, wanting her in every possible way. “One night I’ll take you
out just before dawn, fuck you under the Arc du Triomphe.”
Buffy’s eyes opened in shock, then fluttered most of the way closed. She looked
up at him with the eyes of a siren. “You could f-fuck me right now.”
Spike froze. God, even stuttering, hearing those words coming from Buffy’s lips
was… god. He wanted wanted wanted, was a hair’s breadth away from begging her
to help him break his vow, but he had hesitated too long, and Buffy was already
withdrawing.
“Or not.” She said it like she was laughing, like she had only been kidding,
and Spike felt something shift inside him. He didn’t recognize it at first, but
he thought it might be guilt. Was that even possible?
He kissed her forehead, quickly. “I’m sorry, love, I…”
Buffy shrugged, smiling bravely up at him. “It’s okay. I understand. Dru.”
Spike looked down at her, at this brave, beautiful girl who was giving him
everything, even when he was holding back, and he made a decision. Not the
decision, but a small concession, a tiny gift. “Got something else you might
like, pet…” He kissed his way down her stomach, past the waistband of her
skirt, spreading her thighs wide; she gasped in pleased surprise.
He hadn’t missed her subtle hints at lunch, that she wanted this, and as he
stroked his tongue along her sweet wet quim, he admitted that he had wanted it
just as much. Had craved it, all this time.
She tasted like heaven, like sins forgiven, a reward that he would never
deserve. But she deserved this, deserved all the pleasure he could bring her.
Which was a lot.
He gave it all.
***
The sock surveyed the scene of destruction around it. Shattered fragments of
glass littered the floor of the magic shop, glittering in the light of the
streetlamps that filtered in through the blinds. Not one Orb of Thessulah
remained on the shelf with the cheery sign advertising “New Age Paperweights!”
The sock had checked the back room as well, nosing around the boxes of stock to
ensure that there weren’t any more just waiting to be put out on the shelves.
They had all been demolished.
That had been fantastic! Definitely worth the two-day trek through the streets
to get to the store. The sock was beginning to think it had a knack for high
adventure. It was itching to hit the road, go out into the world with its
mission of helping the helpless. That would kick butt!
It just had to take care of Buffy first.
The sock sighed and started its lonely trek back to the Summers residence.
 
End Chapter 7
 
***** A Sock's Plans Unravel *****
Buffy opened the box Willow had brought to the library, looking at the
thoroughly bubble-wrapped orb, half satisfied and half worried. “That’s so
weird, how the magic store ran out of Orbs of Thessulah right after you bought
one. Do you think there was a Christmas rush?” Buffy unwrapped it partway, so
she could see the shiny surface.
Willow shrugged. “Maybe. The lady who runs the store now wouldn’t talk about
it, just got this funny look on her face, so I’m thinking there may have been
an Incident. Maybe she got a defective batch and she had to send them all back.
Thank goodness for eBay!”
Buffy nodded absently, popping one of the bubbles between her fingers.
“Willow,” she said suddenly, setting the box aside, glass sphere safely nestled
inside, and turning to face her friend. “Do you think I’m being selfish? Trying
to get Angel back, I mean.”
Willow looked uncomfortable. “Um… Well, you are trying to save him, right? From
an eternity of torment? That sounds pretty unselfish to me.”
“Yes, but… Well, the Angel off in the hell dimension, it’s evil-Angel, right?
He doesn’t have his soul. So is he really being tormented?”
“I don’t…”
Buffy kept on going. “I mean, his soul isn’t there, is it? His soul is off… I
don’t know where it is, just not in him. Maybe it’s happy where it is, you
know? Maybe it doesn’t want to go back.”
“Buffy, I…”
“Where do vampire’s souls go, anyhow?” Buffy frowned. “Do they go to heaven, or
do they just hang out in some sort of limbo? And if they’re just hanging out,
do they talk to each other? Like, do all the vampire souls just have some kind
of party, but not a party, like they’re just killing time in the afterlife
being bored, waiting to see if someone wants to put them back in their vampire
body? And…”
Willow put a hand over Buffy’s mouth. “You’re rambling, Buffy.” Buffy smiled
under her hand, and Willow dropped it, smiling a little self-consciously.
“I know, it’s just…” Buffy sighed.
“You’re having second thoughts.” Willow regarded her with serious eyes.
Buffy glanced quickly off to the side, where Spike and Giles were having a
spirited argument about the translation of some stupid word. There was a
definite twinge somewhere in the area of her chest. She tugged Willow with her
and walked farther away, so Spike couldn’t possibly overhear them. “Yeah,” she
said quietly. “A little.”
Willow gave her a sympathetic smile. “Because of Spike.”
Buffy’s first instinct was to deny it, but Willow had a knowing look on her
face, and she guessed that the Ship of Denial had sailed long ago, leaving her
stranded on the Shores of Reluctant Confession. “Yeah.”
Willow heaved a deep sigh. “Then don’t cast the spell.” She said it like it was
the easiest thing in the world.
“But Spike…” Buffy swallowed back another sigh. “Spike is in love with Dru. He
wants her back so much, Will. How can I tell him I want out?”
Willow rolled her eyes. “We are talking about the same Drusilla, right? The
Drusilla that killed Kendra and made Giles give up the secret of Acathla? Kinda
on the not-so-sane side?”
Buffy felt small. “Uh-huh.”
“And you’re okay with bringing her back into the world?”
“That was the deal,” Buffy said reluctantly. “When Spike helped me fight Angel,
I promised him he could have Drusilla, that they could leave town and never
come back. Willow, I barely beat Angel with Spike’s help. Without him, I… Well,
I wouldn’t even be around to welcome our new demon overlords. And he kept Giles
alive, too, after Angel had gotten what he wanted out of him. I promised.”
“But you know, when they leave they’re just going to start killing again.”
Buffy knew, and it hurt. “I was thinking of asking him not to.”
Willow didn’t even answer that, just stared at her in disbelief.
“I’m crazy, aren’t I?” Buffy sighed.
“Maybe a little,” Willow admitted, then gave Buffy a quick hug. “But he has
been living off blood from the butcher’s for, what, seven months now? Eight?
And he hasn’t killed anyone in all that time.”
Buffy laughed, a little bitterly. “It’s not like Alcoholics Anonymous, Will. He
doesn’t get a shiny medal if he makes it a year without murdering someone.”
“I guess not,” Willow said thoughtfully. “But, you know, I like to think people
can change. That no matter how bad we get, we can always become better, right?
That it’s never too late. Maybe vampires can change, too.”
“Without a soul?” Buffy let herself look at Spike again, watching his face. He
had so many expressions, just oozing emotion. Where did the emotions come from?
Willow smiled wryly. “And you’re suddenly an expert on what a soul is, and what
it does?”
“A soul is…” Buffy frowned, glaring at Willow. “A soul is a soul. It’s
important.”
“Important enough that you’re going to let him go without a fight?” Willow
asked, her voice gentle.
“I don’t know,” Buffy whispered.
Willow looked like she had more to say, but there was a sudden crash behind
them. They all turned to look at the shattered pile of glass on the floor that
once had been an Orb of Thessulah.
“I left that in the box, didn’t I?” Buffy said peevishly. “I swear it was all
safe and wrapped up!” The box was lying on its side, bubble wrap scattered
around it. She knelt to look at the pile of fragments.
Willow peered over her shoulder. “Well, another one bites the dust,” she sighed
in resignation. She grinned then, reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I bookmarked the
vendor who sold me this one. He had, like, fifty in stock, super cheap. And
free shipping!”
***
The sock could have grinned when it heard that, from its hiding place under the
table. Looks like the smashing wouldn’t be over for a while.
It looked forward to the next shipment.
***
Buffy thought about it, through the long days of research once school had let
out for the holiday, and all through the Christmas celebrations. (She gave
Spike a CD and her mom gave him a package of black t-shirts; he gave them both
cheesy keychains he had obviously gotten at the local gas station one of the
times they stopped on the way home from patrol, but it was the thought that
counted, right? He swore up and down he hadn’t stolen them, and Buffy could
tell he wasn’t lying – she had his tells down, now – so that was something.
Buffy’s was a big yellow smiley-face, but he had painted little eyebrows and
fangs on it with his black nail-polish, and apparently mooched her mom’s red to
give it a little drip of blood, and then painted a red heart with a big black
stake through it on the back. It kind of made her want to cry.)
She finally brought it up on New Year’s Eve, or really New Year’s Day, after
they had gotten home from a surprisingly hot evening at the Bronze – Spike had
pulled her off under the stairs a little before midnight, wrapping her in his
coat so nobody could see what his fingers were doing, and he knew her body so
well by now he had been able to make her come just at the end of the countdown,
so she was seeing stars when everyone was celebrating and making noise all
through the club, and then he had kissed her, sweet and fervent, and she had
thought maybe it would be a happy new year after all.
Spike didn’t answer at first when she asked him point-blank if he was going to
go back to killing as soon as he had Drusilla back, just stroking her bare
shoulder and staring up at the ceiling.
“That was always the plan,” he finally said, slowly. “Leave and never come
back.”
Buffy snuggled in closer. “I don’t know if I can let you go.” She tightened her
arms around his stomach.
There was a long moment of silence, just his hand on her shoulder, her cheek
against his chest. Finally, he sighed. “You going to alter the deal on me,
then?” He didn’t sound mad, just curious, and Buffy nestled in closer.
“I don’t know. I should.” She closed her eyes, squeezing again. “I’m a terrible
slayer.”
“You’re a brilliant slayer,” Spike laughed. “Got me bagging it, didn’t you?
Saved the world. You’re brilliant.”
“Well, thanks for the endorsement, O William the Bloody,” Buffy said, rolling
her eyes. “I’ll be sure to print that on my business cards.”
Spike laughed again, and she slid over on top of him, rubbing her bare chest
against his. He looked up at her like… well, she didn’t know what it was like,
just that it made her want him again, but at the same time made her want to
just stay like this forever, just looking.
She gave a little wriggle, enjoying the way his eyes widened then dropped with
desire. “Besides, you wouldn’t respect me if I didn’t at least consider staking
you the moment our truce expires,” she pointed out cheekily.
Spike grinned up at her, eyes wicked. “Yeah, you’re right on that.” He slid his
hands into her hair and pulled her down for a kiss.
After a bit, Buffy sat up, straddling his stomach, and looked down at him
again, wondering what it looked like to him, the look on her face, because she
was too full of conflicting emotions to know what she was feeling.
“Do you still want to kill me?” He stared up at her, face blank, and she
hurried on to clarify. “I know you won’t, but do you want to?”
His face shifted through a dozen emotions, before settling on a serious,
somehow naked expression. “No, and yes.”
Buffy lifted an eyebrow, because that wasn’t a complete answer, and he knew it.
Spike pulled her down to him then, rolling over so she was on her back, his
face close to hers. “Well, there’s always going to be a part of me that’s
howling for blood, yeah? Part of being a vampire. I mean, I can drink pig’s
blood and survive, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a part of me that wants to
feed. Like a lion in the zoo, the instinct doesn’t go away just because it’s
caged.” He bent in then, nuzzled at her throat. “When you’re close to me like
this… I can sense it, feel the blood pumping through you. The scent is
overpowering. Part of me wants it more than anything.”
Buffy quivered under him, but she wasn’t afraid. Why wasn’t she afraid?
Shouldn’t she be afraid?
Spike shifted over her again, rubbing his nose against hers, brushing a light
kiss over her lips. “But I’m not a lion, am I? Got a mind that can think, and
free will. May not have a soul to feel what’s right and what’s wrong, but I can
control myself, if I want to. Just like… like you can control yourself when you
want a third jelly donut, but you know Giles hasn’t had one yet.”
Buffy thumped him on the chest with her fist. “I don’t howl for jelly donuts,
Spike.”
Spike chuckled against her throat. “You sure about that, pet? I saw the look in
your eyes this morning…” His fingers lightly wandered along her armpits, the
ticklish spot.
Buffy laughed despite herself. “Stop it!”
Spike curved his hand around to her breast, catching her earlobe in his teeth.
“Well, I’d use the analogy of you controlling yourself when you want my hard
body, but since you can’t…”
Buffy gasped in outrage. Well, fake outrage, since she thought she probably
should be outraged, but seriously, how full of himself was he? “I totally can!
Witness me controlling myself.” She slid out from under him and started walking
towards the stairs.
Spike sighed behind her. “All right, pet, you’ve proved your point. Come back
to bed.”
She turned and looked at him, half-naked and disheveled and sinful on the cot,
and rushed right back. “Oh, thank god.” She curled up against him again. Spike
kissed her on the forehead.
“No, I don’t want to kill you,” he said after a bit. “Don’t think I could, now.
World’s more interesting with you in it.”
Buffy gave him a wry look. “I am pretty sure that’s a quote from Hannibal
Lector.”
Spike affected a patently fake look of surprise. “Is it? Dunno who that is, but
I like the cut of his jib. Does he have a newsletter that I can subscribe to?”
Buffy glared at him, just as fakely. “You liar. I bet you’ve seen ‘Silence of
the Lambs,’ like, a hundred times. Probably rooting for Buffalo Bill, too.”
Spike gently tugged her to the middle of the cot, starting to kiss down the
center of her stomach. “Shows how much you know me, pet.” He eased between her
legs; Buffy lay back in anticipation as he tenderly kissed the inside of her
thigh. “I’m very fond of Clarice. She’s a sweet thing, can take out a serial
killer in the dark without backup.” He gave Buffy a good lick, right up the
middle, then lifted his head, grinning. “Got a weakness for that type.” He
dipped his head down again, curling his hands around under her thighs.
Buffy stopped thinking then for a while, just enjoying the moment, because
really, once Spike started in with his tongue, she couldn’t really think of
anything else. She had to hand it to him, once Spike decided to cross a line,
he really crossed it; since he had tossed his no-kissing-below-the-waist rule
out the window, he had seized every opportunity to get his tongue on and in and
all over her, and Buffy was definitely not complaining. Well, maybe complaining
a little, because knowing for sure how good it felt to be receiving made her
really want to try giving for a change, see what noises Spike would make with
her mouth on him – she thought he would probably swear; he swore a lot,
whenever Buffy did something he especially liked, and for some weird reason she
found it really hot – but he was the one with the stupid rules, so that was
that. More oral sex for her!
A long while later, Spike prowled up the length of the cot, planting tender
kisses on her skin along his path, until he was pillowed on her breast, and she
cradled his head in her arms, closing her eyes for just a bit, because somehow
lying back and letting Spike have his wicked way with her ladyparts was
incredibly exhausting, and Spike liked to snuggle up and smugly absorb her
afterglow. And she was all good with the snuggling up because, well, afterglow.
 They had barely snuggled at all though when Spike suddenly lifted his head,
looking her in the eye as he asked, “Can I kill Hitler?”
Where had that come from? “What?”
Spike smiled smugly – he liked it when he had gotten her all befuddled. “Sorry,
I mean could I kill Hitler? If he were here?”
Buffy shifted under him, rolling her eyes. “Hitler’s been dead for decades,
Spike.”
Spike shifted to lie next to her, resting on his elbow. “Speaking in
hypotheticals, love. Stretch your mind a bit.” His free hand splayed out over
her stomach.
What a weird vampire. But, what the hey! Buffy could indulge his little what-if
scenario. She frowned at the ceiling, thoughtfully. “Okay, hypothetically… Are
we traveling back in time to kill Hitler? Because if that’s the case, no,
because even I know you don’t mess with your own past. That way lies madness
and people fading into nothingness at the school dance.”
Spike gave her the fakest set of Bambi eyes she had ever seen. “Not even to
save thousands and thousands of innocent people from the Holocaust?”
Buffy glared at him. “…Damn it, Spike, don’t make me go down that rabbit hole.”
Spike laughed apologetically. “Sorry. No, not back in time. Right here, right
now. There’s Hitler. Can I kill him?” He gestured vaguely across the basement.
“How did he get here?” Buffy narrowed her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” Spike replied, exasperated.
Buffy turned on her side to face him, mirroring his pose. “No, it totally does.
I mean, if he traveled in time, and if we kill him we change history, it’s just
the same as if we went back in time. It’s hard enough to make good decisions in
the present without adding in the possibility of screwing up the past.”
Spike nodded, accepting her point. “All right. No time travel. Everything in
history happened the way it happened. Satisfied?” He shifted a bit closer to
her, watching his hand stroke along her hip.
“I guess.” Buffy smiled, placing her hand over his.
Spike turned serious eyes up to her face. “So, can I kill him?”
Buffy made a show of looking suspicious. “How do we know it’s really Hitler? I
mean, what if it’s a wannabe with a bad mustache?”
Spike let out a frustrated sigh. “You can have him complete a sodding
questionnaire for all I care. Let’s just take the identity as given. It’s
Hitler. Real flesh-and-blood Hitler, with all the weight of his crimes behind
him, and he’s all primed to go out and kill some more. Can. I. Kill. Him.” He
was looking at her as if this were the most important question in the whole
world, like he was asking her the meaning of life.
Buffy thought for a moment, then shrugged, giving him a little smile. “Maybe.”
Spike groaned and leaned over to kiss her, hard, and she laughed. “Was that the
right answer? That you can get your jollies killing the greatest mass-murderer
known to history?”
Spike settled back on his elbow, looking pleased. “Killing Hitler probably
wouldn’t even be all that fun. He’d be old and all gamy. That’s not the point.”
Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Because you were all gung-ho to get with the
Hitler-killing just a second ago.”
Spike kissed her again, quickly. “The point is, you can think of a human being
out there that might, in the grand scheme of things, be worth less than me. And
if you can think of one, I bet you can think of more, yeah? Means I’m coming up
in your estimation.”
“Yes, soon you shall surpass Ted Bundy in my mental ranking of villains-by-
evilness,” Buffy replied.
Spike’s face was suddenly serious again. “Does that mean I can kill Ted Bundy?
He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
Buffy laughed incredulously. “Let me think about it.” This was quite possibly
the weirdest conversation Buffy had ever had, but then Spike slid in, pressing
his whole body up against hers, and kissed her like he meant it, and that was
her cue not to think again for a while.
Later, just as Buffy was thinking about gathering up her clothes and heading
upstairs so they could maintain the polite fiction that she was spending nights
in her own bed, Spike looked her in the face, eyes serious again.
“It bothers you, me killing again. Dru.” His voice was low.
“Of course it does. I shouldn’t let you go.”
Spike looked down then, like he was ashamed – though of course he couldn’t be –
and when he looked up again, the look in his eyes was… intense. Somehow
resolute. “If you want me to, I’ll promise. I’ll swear, right here and now. Not
to kill. Get my blood from the butcher.”
Buffy just looked at him. “You would do that? Most vampires wouldn’t be able
to…”
Spike interrupted, “Yeah, well, I’m not most vampires. Not gonna pretend I’m a
good guy, not ever, but, well. Never broken a promise to a lady.”
“And Dru?” Buffy couldn’t look away from him. He dropped his eyes, shrugging.
“Not sure what I can do about her. She doesn’t exactly listen to reason, you
know?” He met her eyes again. “Maybe I can talk her into, you know, catch-and-
release, or something like. I can’t promise she won’t ever get out. Got a will
of her own, yeah? But I’ll do what I can. Make it so you don’t have to kill
her.”
Buffy smiled, feeling sad all of a sudden. “Okay. Promise me.”
“Stand up,” Spike said suddenly. “Gonna do this proper.”
So Buffy stood up, and Spike fell to his knees before her, and it was like he
was proposing marriage – the weirdest marriage proposal ever, with her naked
and him in just a pair of black jeans, on the concrete floor of the basement –
instead of promising not to kill and to try not to let his beloved kill either,
but he said the words, face serious, and she looked down at him and nodded like
a queen.
Then his face turned wicked again. “Do you have to go right now, love?
Because…” He lifted up on his knees just enough to suggestively press his lips
to her hip.
Buffy bit her lip. “Not yet,” she whispered, letting her legs slide apart.
He sealed his vow with a kiss.
***
The sock stirred briefly at the back of the laundry basket, awakened by Buffy’s
moans. Cripes, AGAIN? it thought grumpily, wriggling under the other socks so
the sound would be a bit muffled. It was getting kind of ridiculous.
That was okay, though. It had done a fantastic job of stopping the research
progress and destroying every Orb of Thessulah that had come near, and it was
just a matter of time now before they gave up and realized they were perfect
for each other and should just accept it, so the sock could get on with helping
other helpless people. Though it didn’t mind waiting a bit; Joyce had liked
that fancy French detergent so much she had kept ordering it, so the wash cycle
was even better than before.
Buffy and Spike were as good as settled.
The sock curled up for another smug night’s sleep.
***
Spike once again found himself staring at a page that held information he
didn’t want to know. This was getting to be a habit. A really bad habit.
School was back in session, and he was back to working in the library while
Buffy was in class, and he had gotten another secret notebook going. This one
he kept in the pocket of his duster at all times, so it couldn’t go wandering,
his own personal notes, including things he hadn’t told Buffy about, and he had
it now.
He had the ritual, the words and the components and everything. He could get
Dru back. Buffy could get Angel back, if he shared it with her. He had just
finished copying it neatly at the very back of the book, and all his work was
done.
Spike couldn’t put it off any longer.
He had to make a choice.
 
End Chapter 8
***** A Sock Victorious *****
Chapter Notes
     This is the smutty chapter. Only one more to go after this! Enjoy!
Spike chose to put off choosing. Just for a few more weeks. The slayer’s
birthday was coming up, and she was all worked up about it. After doing some
figures in his head, Spike had figured out why. After receiving the jolly gift
of a soulless Angel for her last birthday, she didn’t need to receive the gift
of Angel – soulless or not – again this year. Really, nobody should ever
receive Angel as a gift, not even at those demented gift exchanges where all
the gifts were shitty and mixed up and you spent the evening trading your gift
up until you had the least shitty of the shitty gifts that you could manage and
then everyone shared a good hearty laugh at how shitty all the gifts were.
Angel was a really terrible gift, was the point.
He kept the notebook tucked away and continued on pretending to do research,
writing down false leads in his other notebook, the one Buffy knew about.
Wouldn’t do for her to figure out what Spike was up to.
Not before he had decided.
***
When the Slayer’s birthday rolled around, he played it cool. The Scoobies had
wisely eschewed the surprise party this year, settling for pizza and cake and
movies at Buffy’s house. There were presents (Spike privately thought his was
the best; he had been pleasantly surprised to find a DVD of “Dirty Dancing” –
the real one – on a rack at the convenience store where he got his smokes, and
the way Buffy turned bright red when she ripped off the tissue was priceless)
and threats of birthday spankings (which did not happen, but if they had Spike
knew his would definitely have been the best), and it all felt very strange to
Spike, because it was wholesome and simple, and somewhere along the line he
realized he was actually having a good time. He argued some movie trivia with
the obnoxious one, had an oddly deep philosophical discussion with the
werewolf, and even got teased by the redhead.
He knew all their names, but he was trying not to use them in his head. He
didn’t want to get attached.
That night, Buffy appeared on the basement stairs after Joyce had retired for
the night, as had become their routine, but she just stood there for a while,
looking at him sitting on the edge of the cot, eyes big and somber.
“Everything all right, love?” he finally said, cocking an eyebrow at her.
“Yeah,” she said, almost absently. “Yeah, just kind of a flashback.”
Spike smiled, shaking his head. “You know, you don’t have to…”
“I know,” she said quickly, then came down the stairs, crossing the floor until
she was standing right in front of him. “I know,” she repeated, curving her
hand around his face, thumb grazing his cheekbone. “Can we just… can you just
hold me tonight?” she said in a small voice.
Spike dipped his head in concession. “All right.” There had been other nights
that they hadn’t done much of anything sexual – Buffy was still squeamish when
it was that time of the month – but tonight felt different. He lay on his back,
and she curled against his side, palm warm against his T-shirt, and she sighed
contentedly and fell asleep almost instantly.
Spike didn’t sleep at all.
He looked at her, rubbing his thumb on her shoulder, other hand flat on top of
hers, right over his unbeating heart, sometimes kissing the top of her head,
and thought. He thought about Dru, his wicked princess, his salvation. He
wondered if, in that far-off dimension, she had had any visions about him.
He could use a comforting vision right about now.
But he lay there in the darkness, and thought about love and loyalty, about
destiny even, cradling his enemy in his arms, all through the long silent hours
of the night.
By the time he felt the sun rise, a faint prickle on the back of his neck, he
had made up his mind.
***
It was just a little while after her birthday that Buffy finally admitted to
herself that Spike had been acting weird.
Well, technically, he always acted weird, but he was acting weirder. To the
point where she didn’t even recognize him at times. Softer, somehow. Peaceful.
It was creepy.
He spent hours with Giles, talking about the books Giles had on his shelves,
and one afternoon the two of them had done some sort of weird thing with one of
them, involving a huge stockpot on a hotplate and a few gallons of some stinky
herbal concoction. When she asked Spike later, he shrugged and said something
about burning not being enough for some books. Giles had looked patently
relieved afterwards, and Buffy could swear the book stacks were better lit all
of a sudden.
One night, she came down the stairs to find that the basement, which had
gradually become strewn with evidence of Spike’s residency, was neat and
relatively bare, Spike’s belongings heaped into a few boxes. He had shrugged
again, and said he preferred it clean, which was the first she’d heard of it.
Actually, he was shrugging a lot. Any time she asked him a question.
Buffy wasn’t stupid. She could tell Spike was getting ready to leave. He must
have found something, been preparing to run off with Dru when the time came. He
probably didn’t trust her to let them live.
Buffy was feeling faintly murderous towards Drusilla, that was true.
She didn’t want him to go.
She couldn’t say it, though, couldn’t ask him to stay, not when he was about to
get his true love back, not when she was about to renew her relationship with
Angel. Her real boyfriend. What was Spike supposed to do in Sunnydale? Golf?
Would they go on cheery double dates, her and Spike and Dru and Angel, maybe
bowling or the arcade? It was ridiculous.
It was better for him to leave.
The replacement Orb of Thessulah arrived, and Buffy didn’t even open the box
this time, just tucked the unopened box at the back of a shelf. She found the
box on the floor three times, which was weird, but each time she shook it and
didn’t hear any tinkling glass bits, so she assumed it was still whole.
She wondered why Spike was ready to go when they still hadn’t found the answer,
but she guessed he was just being prepared. Like a Boy Scout. (The image of
Spike in a Boy Scout uniform made her giggle, but in a sad way, because she
still didn’t like the implications.)
He was leaving her.
She couldn’t ask him to stay.
***
The sock was frantic.
Why why why couldn’t the magic that imbued it with mobility and intelligence
and so frickin’ much soul have also given it some kind of fingers?
It was trying really, really hard to take care of the latest Orb of Thessulah,
smash it up real good, but apparently it was packed in way too much bubble wrap
to break as long as it was in the box, and no matter how much it tried, the
sock just couldn’t get the box open. It was sealed with a single, flimsy strip
of packing tape, hardly anything at all, but the sock had tried from every
angle, with every possible part of its sockish anatomy, the cuff and the heel
and the toe and all of the sock-bits in between, and it just couldn’t get the
tiniest end of the tape up. And the knives in Giles’s collection – actually a
fairly large assortment, for a library – were all too heavy for it to wield.
And it knew now that Spike, the devious bastard, had been researching behind
its back.
How evil was that?!
The sock watched now as Spike tucked his secret research book back into his
duster. The sock had tried on several occasions to get it, but the stupid
duster was always just too close to Spike’s hand for the sock to risk. Even
when he was mostly naked, the duster was right there next to the bed, and the
vampire had really excellent eyesight; he had sometimes narrowed his eyes in
the sock’s general direction in a way that made the sock Very Paranoid Indeed.
Well, if it couldn’t destroy the components for the ritual, and it couldn’t
steal or destroy or otherwise derail the research, the sock had only one
recourse: Amp up the romance quotient so the two idiots would take their
relationship to the next level.
The internet would save the day.
***
Spike had picked a day very carefully – a Saturday just about halfway between
Buffy’s birthday and Valentine’s Day, so as not to tread on either one, because
even though he had stories he could tell Buffy about St. Valentine, he got the
impression that she would still stubbornly stick to some romantic
interpretation, because that was exactly how she was. Stubbornly romantic in
the face of evil.
It was fucking adorable.
But a decision had been made, and he was sticking to it, and all that remained
were the goodbyes. Not that he was going to say “goodbye” right out; he wasn’t
a complete idiot. If he let Buffy in on his plans, she would beat him up and
chain him up, and then probably wouldn’t even kiss him after all that foreplay.
No, Buffy couldn’t know.
He had picked a Saturday because Joyce would be home during the day but gone in
the evening at an opening at the gallery – more wine and cheese – and had
through careful suggestion managed to plant the idea in Joyce’s head that she
needed a new dress for the occasion, and that Buffy should of course go help
choose it. (He had also, in an entirely non-subtle way, planted the suggestion
in Buffy’s head that she might give Joyce the slip, pick up something red at
Frederick’s of Hollywood, and she had seemed intrigued, but he wasn’t going to
hold his breath, as Joyce had been keeping a sharp eye on Buffy’s expenditures
since the oysters. Not that he had breath to hold.)
While they were at the mall, he got things set up in the basement. He wanted
things to be perfect.
One perfect night before it all ended.
He was just laying out some finishing touches when he heard the doorbell ring.
After a quick check out the peephole to make sure it wasn’t a demon or, worse,
a door-to-door salesman, he opened it to greet the postman.
“Got a package,” the man said, a little nervously. (Spike had gotten a good
pissed-off look going on his face, in case of door-to-door salesman, and hadn’t
bothered to shake it off.) “But I’m not sure if this is right. Is there a
‘Spike’ living here now?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Spike said in surprise.
The postman looked at him for a moment longer. “What happened to Joyce?”
Spike rolled his eyes. “I murdered her and buried her in the basement.” When
the mailman continued to just stare at him, he sighed. “Oh, for… She’s at the
bloody mall, you berk.”
“Oh.” The postman shook himself. “Anyhow, I need a signature.”
Spike scrawled his name on the clipboard, just SPIKE in bold, jagged capitals,
and snagged the parcel, discreetly wrapped in brown paper. “This it?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s all.” The postman gave him one last nervous look before
hurrying out into the sunshine.
Spike closed the door, frowning at the package. He hadn’t ordered anything off
the internet – Joyce had threatened to stop buying mini-marshmallows if she saw
any suspicious credit card charges – and he certainly didn’t have any friends
who would have sent him a gift, even if anyone knew where he had been staying.
(Actually, now that Spike thought about it, until coming to live in the Summers
household he hadn’t gotten a fucking gift since he had become a vampire, and
that was pretty fucking infuriating.) Maybe Buffy had ordered something for
him? He ripped open the brown paper.
A VHS tape with a picture of a sinking ocean liner fell on the floor. He picked
it up and frowned at the title:
Titanic Cocks
***
The sock watched in anticipation from its hiding place beneath the couch as
Spike looked at its inspirational present, face blank with what was obviously
awe and gratitude. It had had a little trouble navigating the new online
bookstore, but it had finally managed to find the movie it wanted. There had
been several versions, actually, so the sock had just gone for the cheapest
one, hoping maybe Joyce wouldn’t notice the charge.
It had a boat on the cover. Good enough.
Spike started to laugh, and the sock wondered if it was a happy laugh or an
evil laugh or somewhere in between, and just what happiness-to-evil ratio would
be best for the success of its plans, but then Spike shook his head and dropped
the videotape in the trashcan, stuffing the brown paper wrapping on top of it.
In the trash!
This was what happened when you tried to be nice to a soulless monster.
The sock grumbled to itself and started to scoot off to take a nap in the
laundry basket. It was done for the day. Tomorrow it could try and figure out
how to make Buffy happy with the stupid vampire of her choice. Even if he was
an ungrateful jerk.
Then Spike sighed, catching the sock’s attention, and fished the videotape out
of the trash, taking it downstairs. The sock followed cautiously, and saw Spike
stick it in a duffel bag that had been stuffed under the cot. Which was, well,
not setting it up in the VCR like the sock had hoped, but now that it had
gotten a good look at the basement, it had the idea that Spike was on the same
page as far as planning a romantic evening. He was probably just saving it for
the appropriate moment.
The sock rubbed its ribbing together gleefully and slithered down to take up a
vigil in the laundry basket.
Everything was going according to plan.
It paused, though, halfway down the stairs. Did it really need to watch them?
By now it was, frankly, a little tired of all the noise. It supposed the stuff
they were doing felt good, since they certainly seemed to enjoy it, but from
its perspective it was all just a little… odd. Uncomfortable.
Perhaps it should give them some privacy, here at the end. Then it could take
one last run through the washer, for old times’ sake, and head off on a new
adventure. That sounded good.
It scooted back up the stairs and found a comfy spot under the couch – that way
it could watch the movie, if Spike decided to incorporate it into his evening.
Such a timeless romance.
The sock soon fell asleep, dreaming of icebergs.
***
Buffy waited until the sound of her mother’s SUV was fading down the street
before heading downstairs to join Spike. Honestly, one mysterious oyster dinner
– nobody had ever admitted to placing the order – and suddenly she couldn’t
even be trusted to order her own pizza, she had to make do with frozen. Even
though she was a totally responsible adult now. She sighed as she opened the
door to the basement.
And froze. The expected harsh glow of fluorescent lights was absent, replaced
by a soft, warm glow, like sunlight or… FIRE!
Oh god, was Spike on fire?
Buffy started to run down the stairs, panicking, but about halfway down she
realized that that was a ridiculous conclusion to jump to, and besides she
could see candles sitting on the dryer now, which made a lot more sense than a
burning vampire, given the sexy hints he’d been dropping all through dinner.
She couldn’t stop her momentum though, so she stumbled to an awkward halt in
the middle of the basement floor.
Spike was staring at her, frozen in the middle of lighting yet another candle
on one of the storage shelves, and there was a long moment where they just
looked at each other. Finally, Spike grinned, smugly, as if he knew just what
she had been thinking. “Hello, pet.”
Buffy laughed as if barreling down the stairs in a wild frenzy was just the
sort of thing she did every day. “Hey.” She gestured at the lit candles.
“Special occasion?”
Spike shrugged. ”You’re here.” Which would have been a totally romantic thing
to say if it hadn’t been accompanied by the exact same shrug he’d been giving
her for weeks, any time she asked him anything important.
She folded her arms. “No, really. What’s the occasion?”
Spike looked at her steadily, then laughed, shaking his head. “Made a
decision,” he said at last, walking slowly towards her, that lazy, prowling way
that made her knees melt. Along with all sorts of other parts of her.
“Uh-huh.” Buffy narrowed her eyes, willing all her parts to stay non-liquidy.
“And what did you decide?”
Spike didn’t answer, just kissed her, hard and possessive, sliding his hands
around her waist, and that was basically it. Meltdown.
She would ask him what he had meant later.
He was starting off gentle tonight, and Buffy shivered as he slowly pulled her
top over her head, because that meant that he was planning on a marathon and
wanted to warm her up first. She hadn’t been able to get anything new after
all, but she had changed into her red lace bra and matching panties while her
mom was changing into her new dress, and Spike hummed his appreciation into her
mouth, running his hands lightly along her body, down to the waistband of her
leather pants, before reaching down to skin off his own T-shirt. Buffy smiled
tenderly and slid her hand down his quivering stomach to stroke his hard length
through his jeans.
Spike closed his eyes then, pressing his forehead against hers. “Take them
off,” he said roughly.
Buffy’s hand froze on him. “What?”
“You can… You can take them off. If you want to.” His eyes opened then, the
expression in them strangely vulnerable. “You can have whatever you want.”
Buffy bit her lip. “Are you sure?” She stroked him again. “I thought there were
rules.”
Spike let out a little laugh of disbelief. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I’m
sure. Bugger the rules.”
They both watched Buffy’s shaking hands as they slowly undid the buckle of his
belt and popped the button of his jeans, but as Buffy slowly eased down the
zipper and curled her fingers around his hard cock, his head fell back. “Fuck,”
he muttered, hands clenching at his sides.
“Too much?” Buffy whispered.
“Never,” he said fervently, dipping his head down to kiss her again as she
stroked him. “But – god! – if you keep that up I’m gonna…”
Buffy grinned then, diving in for a quick nip at his Adam’s apple. “Maybe you
should lie down for this part,” she said, voice solicitous. Her hand tightened
on him.
Somehow they made it over to the bed, wrestling his jeans and her pants off in
the process, until Buffy was on top of Spike, feeling wicked in red lace, while
Spike was completely naked. She looked him over, making a show of it, before
sliding down so she was kneeling between his legs. He looked up at her like she
was his queen as she curled her hands around his cock again, feeling his
contours.
“What do you want, Spike?” she said softly, watching his face.
“Everything,” he gasped as she stroked him. “Anything. Whatever you want, love.
God, your hands…”
“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Anything I want?”
“Anything,” he vowed.
She leaned forward and gave the curved head of his cock an experimental lick;
he groaned, clutching the sheets into knots. “Do you like that?” she said with
a sweet smile.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“Do you want more?” Buffy insisted, leaning forward so her warm breath washed
over him.
“God, yes,” he begged. “Please.”
Buffy was tempted to tease him more, but his eyes were wild and somehow
terrified, and she had mercy on him, sinking down to take his cock into her
mouth.
It wasn’t what she’d expected – she hadn’t known what to expect, really, but it
hadn’t been this, the feel of him between her lips; he tasted coppery, and the
skin was so very smooth and soft under her tongue. She tried nibbling down the
sides, licking up from the base, swirling her tongue around the swollen tip,
and through it all Spike swore and pleaded and sobbed, and she loved it, that
she had brought him to the edge of hysteria just with her mouth.
She knew just how he felt.
She slid one of her hands over to his, and he clutched at it, weaving his
fingers into hers; she kept the other loosely curved around the base of his
cock, stroking gently as she looked up at him. He met her eyes with a look of
total adoration. “Tell me what you want,” she said softly, letting her lips
just barely brush the tip of his cock as she spoke.
He laughed brokenly. “Am I supposed to be able to talk, kitten?” His voice was
slurred, as if he were drunk.
Buffy blew on him, grinning when his cock jerked. “Yes,” she said. “Tell me.”
Spike swore, a stream of curse words that ended with, “Lick me, pet. God, your
tongue…” His voice cut off when Buffy gave him a long, firm lick, all the way
from base to tip. Then another. On the third lick, she added a little flick of
her tongue, just at the end. His hand gripped hers convulsively,
“Now what?” Buffy said, taking just the tip into her mouth for a moment,
because she wanted to.
Spike just laughed. Buffy loved the sound of his laughter. She started laughing
too, she couldn’t help it, and she took him into her mouth as far as she could
go while she was still chuckling. His back arched, and he swore again through
his laughter.
“God,Buffy, I’m going to…”
Buffy sucked as hard as she could, and he shouted, and she felt his cock quiver
and jolt between her lips, and then she was surprised into choked laughter when
he came in her mouth – not surprised that it happened, but surprised because
she hadn’t known how it would feel, and now she knew, it felt like power, but
also a little weird, unexpected, the taste and the sensation, and her mouth was
dripping as she laughed and he took her by the arms and dragged her up and
kissed her, sliding his tongue against hers and kissing her lips and her chin
and her cheeks, until she was clean, and he rolled her over, so she was up
against the wall, kissing down her neck, and then she was under him and he was
looking down at her, face triumphant and worshipful.
“My turn,” he growled, and slid down her body, hooking his hands behind her
knees and spreading her wide, and she nearly screamed when his tongue touched
her swollen clit through the lace of her panties. He licked her hard, then
gently, tongue delving deep into her and swirling around her folds, and
occasionally slipping lower to tease at – she couldn’t even think it, but it
all felt so good, she nearly wept as she came, sharp and brilliant. Spike sat
back on his heels long enough to tug her panties down her legs and toss them
behind him, then gently turned her sideways on the cot, tucking the pillow
behind her so she was half-propped against the wall and her crotch was right at
the edge of the thin mattress, then sank to his knees beside the low bed,
curved his arms around her thighs and licked hard, all the way from back to
front, eyes locked on hers the whole time. She managed to free one hand from
clutching the mattress to stroke the hair back from his face, run a gentle hand
along his cheekbone, and he laughed against her and somehow captured both of
her hands in his, pressing them into the mattress beside her hips as she arched
to meet his mouth and his tongue and – oh god! – his teeth, just barely grazing
her where she was most sensitive, and she came again, and this time she did
scream, she didn’t bother holding it back because she knew Spike loved it as
much as she did.
She was quivering and trembling and couldn’t quite work her legs, but Spike
slid up again, kissing her tenderly, and tugged her arms and legs around until
they were lying together, his elbows on either side of her head as he looked
down, and he was sliding his hard bare cock against her, gliding easily through
all her wetness.
“Can I fuck you, Buffy?” he asked in a low voice. His eyes were deadly serious.
She looked up at him, feeling just as serious, and nodded. “Now, Spike,” she
whispered urgently, and he didn’t wait any longer, just slid a hand between
them to adjust his position, and then he was inside her, and it was perfect.
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, as he began to rock against her,
and she managed to convince her thighs to work well enough to wrap her legs
around his waist, and he grinned, pumping harder.
Oh, god, she hadn’t known, she hadn’t known, or she would have demanded he
break his rules on the very first day, begged and pleaded until he gave her
what she wanted, because she hadn’t known how it would feel, his delicious cock
sliding through her, deeper and deeper, until it almost hurt, but the best pain
ever, and he was swearing into her lips, half-kissing but not quite, like he
couldn’t quite coordinate it all, and he suddenly slipped his hand down between
them, pressing his thumb hard on her clit while he slid in and out, delving his
tongue deep into her mouth, and another orgasm took her by surprise; she gasped
against his tongue, sucking on it reflexively, and he thrust and thrust and
thrust as she clenched about him, and just as she was coming down he jerked his
head back and she felt him jolting inside her, and she smiled up at him and he
smiled down at her as they both eased into sweet lethargy.
They lay there for a few minutes, limbs still tangled; he was still mostly hard
inside her, and he pulsed slowly, miniscule thrusts as he kissed her eyelids
and her earlobes and her shoulder, and after a while she felt the tension
building again, and she rolled him over so he was on his back and she was
sitting up, knees tucked in against his ribcage, toes curling slightly under
his ass. She rocked against him, watching his face.
She was still wearing her lace bra, and she took his hands in hers and set them
on her breasts as she rocked and rocked, his thumbs rubbing the rough lace
against her tender nipples. His eyes flared as she reached around behind her to
undo the clasp, and he helped her slide the straps over her arms until she
could toss it aside, and then he slid his hands up to cup her bare breasts,
letting her nipples pop out between his fingers, and he pinched and kneaded,
eyes locked on hers as he reared up to give each nipple a flick of his tongue.
Buffy bit her lip, whimpering at the way his cock surged inside her with the
movement, shifting into a new, succulent angle.
“More,” Buffy said, though she didn’t recognize her own voice, and then he had
his arm around her waist, free hand on her breast, tipping her nipple up for
him to suck and lick and – god! – nibble, until she was mewling into his hair,
clutching his head to her. He chuckled against her – the vibrations ran right
through – and switched to the other breast, sucking intensely. He was all the
way hard again now, and Buffy felt her subtle rocks turning into needy thrusts,
until she finally shoved him back on the cot and threw her head back as she
rode and rode, and he slid his thumbs into her center, spreading her folds wide
and rubbing against her clit as she moved, both thumbs together, and she arched
back and came, screaming except no sound came out but a harsh gasp, and she
collapsed on his chest.
He was still rock hard inside her, taking little sharp thrusts that made her
shake, and she lifted her head and kissed him as he slid easily inside her.
“More,” she said again, and he kissed her hard and sat up, pressing her back
until she was laid out over his knees. Which was again different, but
delicious, the way he angled inside her.
“How do you want it, love?” he asked in a raspy voice, running a possessive
hand all the way from her breast down to her knee, still moving inside her,
tiny hard pulses that made her eyes roll back in her head.
She laughed breathily up at him, and tried to think, and finally gasped out,
“Number three.”
“A fine choice,” he grinned, and wrapped his arms around her and heaved her up,
and for a moment they were separated – she couldn’t help but whimper, just a
bit, at the sudden emptiness – and then her face was nestled in his thin pillow
and her rear end was in the air and his knees were between hers, wedging them
wide open, and then his hands were on her ass, caressing and then spreading,
and then his cock was sliding into her again from behind, his hands pulling her
hips back hard to meet him.
“Is this good?” he asked roughly, thrusting hard, and she nodded against the
pillow. He was deeper like this, deeper than she had imagined he could be,
gliding easily in and out of her; she squeezed around him and they both cried
out together at the increased friction.
“Harder,” she demanded, and he gasped out a laugh and gave her harder; she
tilted her hips up to meet him, sliding one hand down to press against her
clit, and he slid his thumbs into the crack of her ass at the same time, and
she came again, nearly ripping the pillow apart in her other hand.
Spike slowed for just a bit, placing a tender kiss just between her shoulder
blades, smoothing her tangled hair over her neck. “Buffy,” he whispered against
her spine, and she shivered.
Then his hand was over hers, between her legs, and he was fucking her hard, his
finger next to hers on her clit, and there went another orgasm, like an
electric shock, and then another, and he was swearing again, naughty words
spilling from his mouth like a waterfall – at least the ones she could
recognize were naughty, and she assumed the rest of them were naughty and
British – and he pressed his hand into her belly and shuddered inside her,
collapsing over her back for a moment, before oozing around until she was on
top again, slick and sweaty and shivering, and he tipped her mouth to his for a
tender kiss, lips clinging to hers sweetly.
When Buffy could breathe again, she said, “Wow.” Which was not especially
eloquent, she supposed, but Spike should be happy she remembered words at all.
And he seemed to be, hugging her tightly. “Yeah,” he replied.
Buffy felt vaguely embarrassed, because she was all wet with his spendings and
hers, but Spike didn’t seem to mind; actually, he seemed fascinated, sliding
his hands through their mess and smearing it all over her, and then he slid
down her body and started to lick her, everywhere, and she thought maybe she
was supposed to feel more embarrassed at that, but she just smiled contentedly
and lay back and enjoyed it. Especially the part where he found her clit,
lapped tenderly at it until she came again, a sweet sigh of an orgasm, and
finally he eased back up to take her in his arms. They lay there for a long
while, letting the candlelight play over them as they indulged in light
caresses and spare, clinging kisses.
“Tired, love?” he said eventually.
Buffy tipped her head up, lifting a challenging eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“I think…” Spike slid a hand down, testing. “God. I think you want more.”
“Good answer,” Buffy grinned, pushing him onto his back. “Number twelve?” she
asked, cupping his cheek in her hand.
He nuzzled into her palm. “All right,” he said offhandedly, eyes heavy-lidded,
hands curling around her thighs. She smiled down at him in victory.
Buffy had really wanted to try Number Twelve.
***
Spike let himself stay until Buffy was asleep, his arms tight around her, hands
stroking her hair and her smooth bare back, but when she was finally out,
faintly snoring in that way he thought was adorable but she would probably be
embarrassed about if he told her, he cautiously eased out from under her,
gently lowering her head to the pillow, and pulled on his clothes in the
darkness.
It didn’t take him long to pack, just throw his stuff in his duffel bag –
clothes, extra packs of cigarettes, the Sex Pistols CD, a few odds and ends –
and he knew he couldn’t stick around, he needed the whole rest of the night.
But he knelt beside the cot one last time, stroking Buffy’s hair back from her
face, just watching her sleep in the dim shadows of the night for a few last
moments. Finally he kissed her on the forehead, set his note on the pillow
beside her, and slung on his duster.
Shouldering his duffel bag, he headed up the stairs.
He didn’t look back.
 
End Chapter 9
***** A Sock Moves On *****
The sock woke up at the sounds of the basement door opening and closing, and it
happily scooted out so it could get a better view of the TV. Movie time!
Except instead of coming over to the VCR and popping in the tearjerker romance,
Spike headed into the kitchen and out the back door. He had a duffel bag slung
over his shoulder and his duster on, and the sock realized in horror that Spike
was leaving. The door closed behind him, his platinum hair just visible through
the square glass panes of the window.
The sock quivered in panic. Where was Buffy? She had to stop him from leaving!
It slithered as quickly as it could to the basement door, leaping up at the
doorknob over and over again until it finally managed to gain purchase on the
slippery brass and turn the knob, dangling from it as the door swung open. It
dropped to the floor and wriggled quickly down the stairs.
There she was! How could she sleep at a time like this? Wasn’t she supposed to
be a hyper-vigilant champion keeping the forces of evil from ruining the world?
Spike was upstairs right now, ruining her love life and thus the sock’s world
with his evil leaving-through-the-back-door, and she was asleep on the job!
The sock set about waking her up.
Unfortunately, it soon realized that Buffy was either completely exhausted or
the deepest sleeper of all time, because waking her up was not working at all.
It started by nudging her shoulder, over and over, escalating the pressure
until it was slapping against her bicep, but she only wriggled into a more
comfortable position, snoring faintly. The sock tried tugging the light blanket
off her, thinking the cold might awaken her – the basement was definitely
cooler in the winter – but she merely grumbled in her sleep and tugged the
blanket right back up over her shoulders. It even took a huge chance,
slithering over in front of her face and slapping lightly at her cheek, but she
merely furrowed her brow and brushed at the sock like it was an annoying fly.
How long had it been? How far had Spike gone?
The sock frantically surveyed the basement. Noise! It could make noise! It
launched itself at the dangling manacles – the long chains had been looped up
out of the way – and it swung on the links as vigorously as it could, so that
they clanked together.
Buffy just smiled, as if she were dreaming of something pleasant.
It frantically wriggled over to the abandoned boom box, poking its cuff
frantically at the buttons over and over, but the radio wouldn’t turn on, and
the sock finally realized that the batteries were dead. Stupid Spike and his
stupid punk music CD! The boom box should have had a plug, but now that the
sock thought about it, it remembered that it had left it upstairs in Buffy’s
room because it was too much hassle to have it dragging behind – moving the
boom box had been hard enough – and there just wasn’t time to go all the way
back upstairs to get it now.
The sock knocked all the extinguished candle stubs off the shelves and the
dryer, but the faint thuds of wax against concrete didn’t even seem to register
with Buffy. It turned the dryer on, but then it realized that the sound was
actually pretty soothing, which was surely counterproductive, so it twisted at
the knob again until the dryer turned off.
The sock cursed its weakness, its lack of a voice, the snail-like speed that
made each new attempt at waking Buffy up take so long that Spike had surely
walked another mile, maybe two in the time it took for each failure. It had to
have been trying for hours. The tiny, high windows were already glowing with
the light of early morning. And now it was out of ideas. It desperately
wriggled up onto the shelves, hoping that maybe there was something it could
use in the boxes of Christmas decorations. Didn’t Christmas involve bells? It
tugged mightily on the corner of the box to shift it into a better position to
open the lid.
The much abused shelf, weakened from battles and sexual antics, groaned under
the shifted weight and collapsed with a crash of shattered glass and ringing
jingle bells. The sock found itself buried in a heap of tinsel and tangled
lights.
“Spike?”
Buffy’s voice was sleepy, and the sock could have wept. She was awake!
Then it frowned to itself. Now it was trapped in a pile of holiday wreckage.
It started digging itself out.
***
Startled awake, Buffy blinked drowsily at the dim basement, sleep-addled brain
slowly taking in the collapsed shelf, the candles on the floor, the complete
lack of Spike, the folded note on the pillow…
Oh, god.
She snatched up the note, breathing fast. A small bound journal was underneath
it. Oh god oh god oh god she wasn’t ready, she didn’t want him to go back to
Drusilla, not yet, not when she had made up her own mind that… She unfolded the
note, hands shaking.
The note was written on a sheet of Giles’s crisp formal stationery in bold
block printing, with words scribbled and crossed out here and there.  Buffy
scanned the note quickly, then went back and read it again, slowly taking it
in, feeling her lower lip trembling but not able to do anything about it.
 
Slay Buffy,
I’ve decided to leave Dru where she is. Can’t imagine a better life for her
than spending millennia worshipped as a hell goddess. She has a whole dimension
of minions to care for her now, doesn’t need her Spike anymore.
I lo
The notebook has everything you need to get Angel back. Yeah, I’ve been lying
to you all along. Evil. I lov I hope you’re very happy together. Well, I hope
you’re happy. Don’t give a fuck about Angel. Punch him in the nose from me.
Tell Joyce thanks for the hot chocolate and… and everything, and tell Giles
that he needs to get that book with the red binding under lock and key. He’ll
know the one.
I love y   I lo  I
Bugger this. I love you.
Not telling you where I’m going, but I won’t forget my promise. Don’t have to
worry about me.
Good luck.
Spike
 
Buffy sat limply on the edge of the cot, mind racing. He didn’t want Drusilla
back? When had that happened? How could he…
Oh, god. He thought she still wanted Angel. He was stepping aside so that she
could have her happy ending. Except… she didn’t want that ending anymore. She
had loved Angel, of course she had, with all her heart, but her heart had been
broken, and Spike had helped her glue it back together, and now it wasn’t the
same anymore – nothing ever was after it had been shattered, no matter how
careful you were at putting the pieces back – and now her love for Angel…
didn’t fit. Her mended heart had already been filled up.
She was in love with Spike.
Buffy jumped to her feet. She had to find him. She had to find him, so she
could punch him in the nose, because he was a total idiot, leaving without even
asking her how she felt. And after she punched him she was going to kiss him
until he realized what an idiot he was and agreed to come back where he
belonged.
She had to find him.
Where would he go?
She could hear the faint sounds of her mom moving around in the kitchen
upstairs, and her heart lifted. Her mom had come home late, and she always got
up early on Sundays, even after late nights, so she could go to her book club.
Maybe she had seen him, could give Buffy some sort of clue as to where to start
looking, since Spike had been all stupidly self-sacrificing and mysterious
about where he was headed. The jerk. She grabbed clean jammies out of the
laundry basket and dressed at top speed, quickly gathering her scattered
clothing (though she couldn’t find her panties) and the soiled linens and
shoving it all into a corner, just in case her mom came down later, and took
the stairs two at a time, bursting out into the kitchen.
“Mom! Mom, have you seen…”
And there he was, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, hands wrapped
around a mug of steaming hot chocolate, eyes going straight to hers. He had
enough grace, or at least self-preservation instinct, to look abashed.
“...Spike.”
Joyce looked up from her juicer. “Buffy, did something fall in the basement? I
heard a crash.”
“Uh, yeah. One of the shelves collapsed.” She couldn’t stop staring at Spike.
“What were you doing down there?” Joyce’s face clearly said she had an
excellent idea why Buffy might be downstairs in Spike’s domain early in the
morning, but was happy to accept any excuse so that she could continue to
pretend she didn’t know.
“I went down to, um, talk to Spike. But he wasn’t there. Because he was here.
Why are you here?” She directed that last bit at Spike, and he looked down at
his chocolate, poking at a marshmallow.
Joyce rolled her eyes. “Of course he’s here, Buffy. He’s been living here since
last May. Where else would he be?”
Buffy had no answer for that.
Joyce went on, handing Buffy a glass of juice. “So, Spike was telling me that
the Watcher’s Council is thinking of sending you to Paris? On a mission?”
Spike took another sip of his hot chocolate, trying but utterly failing to look
innocent. Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe.”
“How wonderful! You know, I’m not all that happy about this slayer business,
but at least you’re getting some cultural opportunities out of it. You’ll have
to go to the Louvre. They have a wonderful collection of Egyptian artifacts.”
“I promised Buffy I’d show her around,” Spike said affably. “Eiffel Tower.
Moulin Rouge.” His eyebrows lifted as he looked at Buffy over the rim of his
mug. “Arc du Triomphe.”
Oh, god.
“Mom, shouldn’t you be leaving for your book club?” Buffy said quickly,
drinking her juice down. She was going to need the vitamins.
Joyce glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Oh, I have a good fifteen minutes
before I have to go.” She busied herself wiping the counters.
Spike took another hearty drink of his hot chocolate, tongue darting out to
lick off the mustache.
Buffy sighed and drank another glass of juice.
***
The sock wriggled up the stairs, leaving a trail of tinsel strands behind it.
It wondered how long it would take Buffy to track Spike down – he must have
gotten to the city limits by now, might even be in Los Angeles if he had stolen
a car – and sighed, rounding the corner into the kitchen.
Oh. Well, that had been fast.
Guess that’s why she’s the Chosen One, it thought happily.
The sock wriggled up into the hanging basket that held potatoes, to get a
better view.
While it was watching, Joyce stood up and rinsed her mug in the sink. “I’ll be
back around three,” she said pointedly. “I have a lunch meeting with a new
artist after book club, and I need to go by the grocery store after.”
Buffy just nodded, and her mom snagged her car keys off the rack and headed out
the door, sighing.
The second the door closed behind her, Buffy stomped over to Spike and gave him
a shove; he nearly fell off his stool, starting to laugh. The sock rubbed its
ribbing together in anticipation. This was going to be good.
Buffy folded her arms, face settling into a pout. “You’re still here. I
thought… I thought you’d be gone by now. In Mexico or somewhere.” She looked
angry, but her lips had started to quirk up into a smile.
Spike stood up, turning to face her. “Funny thing, pet. Turns out I’m not all
that altruistic.”
Buffy just cocked an eyebrow; Spike sighed and went on. “Look, the way I see it
is, you cast that spell, bring Angel back, you’re not going to be able to time
it so the soul just pops into him the second he arrives in Sunnydale, yeah?
He’s going to be evil, and he’s going to be mightily pissed off, and you’re
gonna have to restrain him while the witch tries to suit him up with his shiny
white hat. Be a pretty terrible ally, to abandon you in a situation like that.
Figure I’d better stick around, make sure things go right, there.”
He started to pace, gesturing sharply. “Then, what happens if the soul-thing
doesn’t work out? Already tried it once, way I hear, and it slid right off. So
then you’ve got Angel, big and bad and back in the world, and the only thing
you can do at that point is kill him, right? I’m telling you now, if there’s
any killing of Angel going down, I’ll want to be here for that. Don’t want you
to have to do that again.
“But let’s say you do get him back, stick that soul right into him, he’s back
to his old brooding self again.” Spike stopped pacing, turned to glare at
Buffy. “See, pet, that’s where it gets interesting. Hard for me to fight him
when he’s not here. Not talking hitting him over the head – though, yeah,
physical presence also a requirement for that – but fighting him inside you.
Can’t drive out a memory. Can’t conquer a dream. But you get him back? That’s
when things get real.”
He stalked up to Buffy, standing right in front of her, fists clenched at his
sides. “Go. Cast the spell. Get Angel back. Give him his soul. Make him
everything you ever wanted him to be. Everything I’m not.”
He leaned in so his face was inches away from hers. “I’ll slip in and fucking
win you. Right under his sodding nose.”
The sock wanted to cheer.
Spike folded his arms then to mirror Buffy, head tilted back, eyes resolute.
“I’m not giving up, Buffy. I’m going to stay, and I’m going to court you, and
seduce you, and reason with you and argue with you and look at you like a
bleeding puppy dog if I have to. I’m gonna do good works and fight by your side
and prove that I’m sodding well the better man, soul or not, and in the end
you’re going to choose me.”
Buffy just looked at him, silent moments stretching out. The sock could swear
it saw sparks snapping in the air. “Nice speech,” Buffy said finally.
Spike let out a huge sigh. “Thanks.”
“Are you done?” She raised her eyebrows.
Spike tilted his head pensively. “Yeah, think so.”
Buffy nodded slowly, looking down at the ground, then took a step closer. “Just
checking.” The next second, she launched herself at Spike, snaking her arms
around his neck, kissing him like she was starving. Spike wrapped his arms
around her waist, heaving her up onto one of the stools and stepping between
her thighs, devouring her right back.
The sock sighed. This was going to take a while.
It curled up for another nap.
***
Buffy could feel tears coming out of her eyes, she couldn’t stop them, and when
she and Spike finally came up for air – for her, at least – he brought his
thumbs up to her cheeks, brushing the drops away.
“So,” Spike said gently, kissing her nose. “What’s going on, then?”
Buffy sniffed. “You’re an asshole.”
Spike laughed against her. “Yeah. So?”
She put her hands on his chest, looking at them, then back up at his eyes. “I
don’t want you to go.”
He shrugged. “Just said I’m not going.” His hands clasped together in the small
of her back.
“But you did go,” Buffy said, suddenly fiercely angry, hands curling into fists
against him. She gave him a good thump.
“Yeah.” Spike sighed gustily. “Came back.”
 Buffy narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “So, how far did you make it?”
He looked away, laughing faintly, then back, shrugging one shoulder. “Back
porch. Breathed in the night air, and realized it wasn’t the same any more,
walking in the dark alone. Sat out there until sunrise to see if anything
changed, but it didn’t. Joyce came down about then, and that was that.”
“So you stayed for Mom’s hot chocolate?” Buffy teased.
Spike laughed shortly, looking down. After a long pause, he shrugged one
shoulder again. “Did you read it?” His voice was light, but it shook, just
barely. He released his hands, sliding them around to rest on her hips.
“Your note?” Buffy smiled faintly.
“Yeah.” He had a sullen look on his face now, lower lip set stubbornly.
“Yeah. I read it.”
Spike toyed with the bottom button of her pajama top. “And?”
“And you’re an asshole,” Buffy pouted, thumping his chest again. “I can’t
believe you would do that to me. You could at least have asked me what I wanted
before you put me through that. You’re a big, fat, stupid jerk.” She slid her
hands up to cup his cheeks, shaking him gently until he lifted startled eyes to
hers. “And I love you, too.”
He groaned and kissed her hard, hands dipping under her pajama top to stroke
the bare skin of her back.
At Buffy’s next oxygen break, he looked at her seriously. “So, are you still
going to bring Angel back?”
Buffy lifted her eyebrows. “I wasn’t planning on it. I think without his soul,
he’s probably pretty happy where he is, like Dru. And his soul… well, there’s
no way of knowing where it is, and I think that’s probably okay.”
Spike looked mildly disappointed. “All right, then.”
Buffy looked at him askance. “Don’t tell me you were hoping I would bring him
back after all, just so you could rub it in.”
Spike grinned fiercely. “Maybe.”
“You’re awful.”
“But you love me,” he said, eyes wary.
“Yes,” Buffy said, looking him right in the eye. “I love you.”
He smiled then, boyishly. “I love you, too.” He started to lean in for another
kiss.
“But,” Buffy said quickly, placing her hand over his mouth. “I also know you.
So if you’re sticking around for good – you are sticking around for good,
right?” He nodded sharply, pressing a kiss to her palm. “If you’re going to
stay, we need to have some ground rules.” She lowered her hand.
“Thought we were done with sodding rules,” Spike grumbled. He looked like a
twelve-year-old who had been told he couldn’t skateboard in the mall.
“Not those kinds of rules,” Buffy said softly. “Not… not bedroom rules.” She
ran her hand along his chest, loving how he twitched under her hand. “We’ve
gotten pretty good at negotiating those on the fly. I mean, rules for the rest
of the time.”
“Made you a promise, love. Promise still stands.”
“You did. And I know you’ll keep it.” She narrowed her eyes. “I also know that
your promise was very carefully worded, so that you could still keep on doing
mostly what you wanted, as long as nobody died.”
Spike grinned in acknowledgment. “Got me there.”
“So. Let’s figure this out right now. Get it over with.”
“All right,” Spike shrugged, and they started in on the negotiation.
Half an hour later, they had come to agreement on most issues. Spike had made a
large number of concessions related to felonies and misdemeanors, and Buffy had
in turn agreed to allow Spike more freedom now that he wasn’t her prisoner, and
also to try the manacles at least once. Buffy sighed contentedly, then fixed
Spike with a gimlet gaze.
“Now. About biting people.”
“Already promised not to kill humans, love,” Spike pointed out. “Except Hitler.
You said I could kill Hitler, and maybe Ted Bundy.”
“You also once told me about – how did you put it? – ‘catch and release.’”
“Oh, you caught that, did you?” Spike sounded disappointed.
“So. No biting, period.”
Spike pouted. “Not even if it’s a very bad man that we’re grilling for
information on how to stop the next apocalypse but he won’t talk and the fate
of the world is hanging in the balance?” He blinked at her in faux innocence.
Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Thought about this a lot, have you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“All right, then,” Buffy conceded. “There is a slight chance that I may allow
you to bite someone, in a situation of dire need and world-saveage. But no
biting without my express, specific, freely given permission. Possibly in
writing.”
“Sounds good to me, pet.” He suddenly scooped his hands under her pajama top,
cupping her bare breasts. “Just so you know, though, vampires’ bites don’t have
to hurt.” He slid one hand down into her pants, teasing. “Been told it can be
very… exciting.”
Buffy shook, and slid her own hands down to unbuckle Spike’s belt. He started
to pant, groaning as she released his cock, taking it in her hand. “Spike?”
“Yes, love?”
Buffy’s hand tightened around Spike’s cock. “So help me, if you ever bite me –
if you so much as nick me with your fangs…” She pressed close to him, lips
brushing against his as he quivered, obviously having no trouble imagining the
dire consequences she was implying. Possibly more dire than she was even
thinking. Later on, she might reconsider the biting thing, now that he’d gotten
her curious, but right now, she needed to show him who was boss. “And believe
me, I won’t even need to use my hands.” He could be the boss next time.
Spike’s eyes rolled back in his head in ecstasy. “Fuck.”
Buffy grinned wickedly. “Don’t mind if I do.”
***
The sock woke up when Buffy and Spike stumbled against the hanging baskets as
they groped and wrestled their way out of the kitchen, stopping to kiss madly
against the door to the basement. The sock watched indulgently as Spike kissed
his way down Buffy’s throat, fumbling at the doorknob until Buffy’s hand
stopped him.
“Not the basement,” she said in a low voice. “My room. Bigger bed.”
Spike groaned, kissing her hard. “Window, love. Sunlight.”
Buffy hiked herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Don’t stop. I –
oh! – I put in blackout drapes two weeks ago. That day you and Giles were doing
the thing.”
“For me?” he whispered into her chest.
“Just for you,” Buffy confirmed. She rolled her body against his. “So take me
upstairs and fuck me.” She kissed the top of his head. “I want to try Number
Seventeen.”
Spike swore softly into her breasts. “God, I love you.”
“I know,” Buffy gasped into his hair, yanking at his shirt, and then somehow
Spike managed to stagger up the stairs to the second floor, hiking Buffy up
over his shoulder along the way. The sock felt its ribbing expand in indulgent
pride as their mingled laughter and groans were cut off by the slamming of
Buffy’s bedroom door.
Mission accomplished.
The sock was not taking any chances, though; it slithered down the stairs and
slowly dragged Spike’s notebook up to the first floor, one riser at a time,
secure in the belief that Spike and Buffy would be occupied for hours. Though
it did get a little bit concerned when it made it back up to the first floor,
because the walls were shaking. It hoped the contractors hadn’t skimped on the
materials when building the house.
Perhaps they should move Buffy’s bigger bed down to the basement, for their own
safety.
The sock considered leaving a note to that effect, but finally just shrugged
its ribbing. It had done all the hard work of getting them together. They could
manage the rest of it on their own.
It dragged the notebook out to the trashcan by the curb, gleefully dropping it
on top of the kitchen refuse and brushing its toe and heel together in
satisfaction. Good riddance.
It headed back up to the porch, sighing a bit at the loud noises coming from
upstairs. They had left Buffy’s window open, for some strange reason, and while
the sock had considered going back in to make sure things were going all right
up there, it could pretty much tell from here that Buffy was having the time of
her life.
The whole neighborhood could probably tell, in fact.
No need to say goodbye, the sock decided. No need to seek thanks. From the
shadows it had worked its magic, and to the shadows it would return, to find
another worthy person in need of its unique professional assistance. It turned
to go.
But as it inched its way down the sidewalk, the sock hesitated. Was its work
here truly done? Could Buffy, the bearer of a sacred duty to vanquish the
forces of darkness, and Spike, a soulless vampire, truly find happiness
together? Could Spike resist the temptation to return to his evil ways? Would
their relationship be able to weather the trials of time? Would their
relationship be truly accepted by the Scoobies? Would they ever agree on who
had to fold the laundry? Suddenly the sock wished for some sort of sign to let
it know that it had done right by its beloved Buffy. Maybe a pat of
confirmation. A letter of recommendation. Even a kindly glance and a gentle
murmur of, “That’ll do, sock. That’ll do.”
All the sock asked for was a sign.
Buffy’s voice trailed down from the open window, harsh with ecstasy. “YES! Oh,
god, YES!”
The sock shrugged its cuff. Well, okay then.
The Sock with a Soul, helper of the helpless, slithered off into the night.
Well, day. Alone again, naturally.
 
THE END
 
Author’s Notes:
Well, that ended up completely unlike what I expected this fic to be. Thanks to
all of you for joining me on this surreal journey!
This story has less music involved than my other fics, so no playlist, but
there is a closing theme song: “Alone Again (Naturally)” by Gilbert O’Sullivan,
which is quite possibly the most depressing song of all time. It can be found,
among other places, on the soundtrack for Megamind, and on the theme song
collections for the anime Maison Ikkoku.
There will be further adventures of the Sock with a Soul, eventually, but I
feel the need to give my other neglected WIPs a little love for a while.
Many, many thanks to my incredible and inspirational beta the_moonmoth; to
feliciacraft for the initial inspiration and restfield for further evil
influence; to pfeifferpack, who made me a kickass banner; and to Seasonal
Spuffy for providing a reason to go down this twisty, demented path and a
deadline to make me hustle along said path. This was my NaNoWriMo project – I
could not start until November 2nd due to other commitments – and I am happy to
say I made my word count well ahead of schedule.
Please do check out my other fics – if you enjoyed this there is a good chance
you will also enjoy my current WIPs “Prisoners of Love, Blue Skies Above” and
“Summer of (Hobo) Love.” (I considered calling this fic “Sock of Love” to keep
my titles consistent, but that just… wasn’t a good image.) (And I once thought
there was no joke too low for me…)
 
 
 
 
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