ну, как диз?

@темы: diary

---

ch.7

Replacement by susBetaed by Maria and Flight Of Fancy.

---

Help me?

Как с ю-тьюба видео качать? Я что-то никак не соображу...

@темы: Вопрос, Пч, Я

---

03.01.2011 в 13:14

Пишет  delen2:

Таки да...
Стащено у  Diary best:

"Почему вас не комментят"
Иногда вы думаете: у меня уйма ПЧ, почему они меня не комментят? Ни мой шикарный фик, ни ссылку, которую я для них откопал, ни фотографии моего кота!
Вы думаете об этом постоянно и теряете сон и аппетит.
Забудьте свои мучения! Я провела тщательное исследование и всё выяснила!

- 15% ваших ПЧей уже ушли пастись на другие лужайки - в другой фэндом или вообще в реал.
- 15% собираются вернуться и откомментить позже. Вы сами знаете, как это бывает.
- 10% ваших ПЧей вас не читают вообще, а зафрендили из соображений приличия.
- 10% не прочитают ваш пост в этот день. У кого-то случилась крупная неприятность, и он с горя лёг спать, кто-то отравился и его несёт так, что он не может прорваться к компу. А кто-то в этот момент отдыхает на Таити, занимаясь разнузданным сексом и думать не думая о фэндоме.
Ладно-ладно, думая: "А вот это я опишу в своём следующем фике..."
- 10% читают вас с телефона, или в пятиминутном перерыве между работами, или опаздывая с ребёнком на танцы-хор-футбол-английский. Они бы и рады вас комментить, но - никак.
- 10% вообще никого не комментят. Только шныряют туда-сюда. Может, они и не могут комментить. Может, у них вместо рук - тентакли, и они не смогли достать клавиатуру для тентаклей.
И оно вам надо - нарваться на их коммент, полный презрения к тем, кто не имеет тентаклей?
- 5% не комментят потому, что обижены - вы не ответили на их последний коммент. Или ответили не так, как надо.
- 5% обиделись на ваш пост. Вы прекрасно знаете, кто и на какой.
- 5% обиделись, что вы не откомментили их пост. Теперь они будут лишать вас секса комментов, пока вы не осознаете свою вину и не явитесь с букетом повинной.
- У 5% пропала сеть.
- 1 % ваших ПЧ утром сломал руки. Обе.
- У 1 % клава не работает.
- 1% принял лекарства, и их близкие не подпускают их к клавиатуре для общего блага.
- 1% НЕ принял лекарства, и их близкие не подпускают их к клавиатуре для общего блага.
- 1% читает вас в постели, и их близкие грозятся отобрать у них клавиатуру, если они снова будут печатать всю ночь.
- 1 % - чьи-то виртуалы, и они комментят только тогда, когда дело пахнет скандалом.
- 1% вас действительно комментят. Только не пишут. Они телепаты, и если вы не поняли их сигналов, то это ваши проблемы, телепаты в них не виноваты.
- 1% - инопланетяне. Они никак не могут обмануть защиту блога и доказать, что они - люди.
- 1% не комментит вас исключительно по религиозным соображениям.
- 1% никак не могут догадаться, какую кнопочку нажать, чтобы отправить коммент. Они пишут и пишут в Техподдержку, но воз и ныне там. А вам точно нужны их комменты?

Ну вот вам и 100%.

Так что если вы получили хоть сколько-то комментов, это уже чудо, попирающее все законы статистики. Поздравляю! Значит, ваш блог просто потрясающе интересный. Можно к вам в ПЧ?

Но, несмотря на всё вышесказанное, мы всё равно будем ждать комментов!

@темы: diary, Пч, Хи хи

---

Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

---

Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

---

Блин*это момент для смайлика*, мне нравится

как Сара_моя_любофф_Геллар с Джеком Блеком смотрится. иии, они мне так нравятся рядом

@темы: _Sarah_Michelle_Gellar, Мороз крепчал(с.), Я

---

оливье шоу

оооо, опять в мультличностях Путин и Медведев отожгли

@темы: tv

---

ну как диз? правда я не уверене на счёт верхней картинки. родную я потеряла, а точнее не сохранила, так что я свою вляпала. главное авка от диза осталась, но она мне не нравится и я поставила свою, а картинку нигде найти не могу. наверное я её всё-таки удалила...

запись создана: 30.12.2010 в 22:43

@темы: diary, Я

---

C Новым Годом мои любимые, дорогие, ненаглядные, ПташеЧки!!!
Пусть этот год будет у вас самым-самым, чтобы следующий был ещё лучше!!!!

, ,

@темы: Пч, Праздники, Я

---

Ещё один подарочек)

31.12.2010 в 20:16

Пишет  Darkolgetta:

Подарочки ...
Письмо Деду Морозу Снегурочке от Zlataslawa
Хочу "Аларик с Дженной, что-нибудь теплое и семейное) "
Получай подарочек под елку! Долго не получался артик, но с пяток кажется попытки все встало на свои места!

@темы: Vampire Diaries, Избранное, Art

---

Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

---

Crash and Burn

Crash and Burn, Part II - Random Out-of-Sync Scene 1





Toweling his hair, Spike walked out of the bathroom, opened the underwear drawer and noticed a girl in the room. A girl who was decidedly not Buffy. Bore a slight resemblance, though. Especially when she looked at him like that.



Dawn folded her arms and cocked her head, waiting for an explanation.



Warily, Spike broke the ice with, "You must be the sister."



"I must. What must you be?"



He nodded. Cat was out of the bag, no point trying to hide it now. "Secret boyfriend."



Dawn gave him a suspicious once-over. "You don't seem like her type."



"Yeah. I get that a lot." He shifted. "Mostly from her."



"Are you living here?"



"Not... permanently."



"How old are you?"



"Look, will you be tattling to Pop anytime soon? If so, I'd like to get my pants on and have a running start."



"Tattle and lose the best bargaining chip ever? Shyeah." Before he knew what she was doing, she'd taken a picture of him with her phone, showed it to him and proudly proclaimed, "Buffy's gonna be doing all my homework from today until the end of time."



Spike had a feeling he'd be doing it, actually. "Staying in school that long, are you?"



"I am now."



The sliding door slung open, and it was big sister's turn to be in shock. "Dawn?"



"Hi, Buffy!" she said sunnily. "I just met your live-in lover. Your half-naked, way older live-in lover who you probably have gross disgusting sex with every night. P.S., I totally knew it."



Flashed the blackmail photo, Buffy surrendered. "What do you want?"



"Homework for life," Spike supplied.



"I see."



"And I want your purple ankle boots."



Buffy gasped.



"And--"



"No! No 'and'! You already had one and."



"You've been hiding a boy in the cabana, Buffy. I can 'and' all I want. AND," Dawn repeated, drunk with power, "I want your baby-blue halter dress."



Spike gasped.



Buffy looked at him.



"Isn't that the one you had on when we met? Swirly print, touch of indigo underneath, rode up way too high when you sat down?"



"You remember my dress?"



"I'll remember that dress as long as I breathe."



She would have jumped him right then if her sister wasn't in the room.



"Ew! Forget the blue dress, then. I'll take the yellow one."



"You don't want that one," Buffy and Spike said together. "Trust me."



Dawn wrinkled her nose. "Whichever one you haven't gotten sweaty in. God."



"Yeah, good luck finding--" He stopped talking when Buffy smacked his chest.



"Are we through, Devil Spawn?"



"No. I want you to be nicer to me. No more 'Devil Spawn', from now on you will refer to me as 'Your Awesomeness'. Also, I want you to bring me breakfast in bed like it's my birthday. For a week."



"Okay, now you're taking crazy pills."



Dawn spoke to her cell phone. "Speed Dial Dad." Ring riiing...



Buffy grabbed the phone, clicked it off. "Fine! I'll be your breakfast-bringing BFF as long as you promise to never tell him."



"Don't forget the homework and the chauffering."



"Chauffering?"



"I know, that's still not enough, right? Don't worry, I'm sure I'll think of more."



Buffy tried to count to ten, but only got so far as three. "Get out."



"Now, love," Spike reminded her. "Be nicer."



She put on a giant, fake smile. "Get out. Please." When that didn't work, she rolled her eyes. "Your Awesomeness."



"Okay! If you need me, I'll be in your room, trying on all your clothes and using your computer. See ya!"



"So," Buffy said after she was gone, "That happened."



"Yeah," he said thoughtfully, "Is it too soon to rip off your clothes, you think?"



"I'd give it a few minutes," she said, fidgeting. "Or, you know, now."









- End Scene -

Tags: crash and burn, fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

30Apr.2010 - последнее обновление

Crave, by NautiBitz

Chapter 42, Part 2: The Answer





awesome banner by sourstroodle

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

---

While Spike tackled his checklist, Buffy cleaned off her plate.



First things first, she quit her job, rented a furnished sublet in Los Feliz, and, in a mutual accord with Lindsey, set an annulment in motion. She told him to keep the loft, the car, and Huey P. Newton -- he was a sweet dog, but Lindsey was undoubtedly his best friend. Buffy had only one major item to claim, and that was Sunflower IV, which she promptly leased to a local museum.



It was a necessary step in the plate-cleaning process: until she'd rebuilt her life and had a home she could truly call her own; until she felt equal to the man who gave it to her, that painting would have to travel the world, for all to see.



She, on the other hand, had to stay put for a while. The gossip rags were casting her as a scheming, gold-digging temptress -- it didn't matter that Spike was technically the homewrecker in the equation. She was hounded day and night for two weeks straight.



Fortunately, when it became clear that no one involved was willing to fuel the fire -- though she suspected Cordelia Chase of an info leak (Revealed: Their Secret Tryst in Hollywood Hot Spot! 'She had him wrapped around her diamond-ring-wearing finger,' says a source) -- the media attention faded and turned to a new celebrity scandal.



The minute she could step outside without being hassled, Buffy went back to work. She signed with a temp agency, joined a gym, and even started taking art classes. No one at any of her new haunts bothered her -- the plus side to living and working in Hollywood, where the famous co-exist with the unimpressed.



As per her terms and conditions, she didn't see Spike. She only spoke to him on the phone every single night. Sometimes twice.



Initially, he was well-behaved, and limited the discussion to the day's events. He had a lot of healing to do -- in his body, his career, and, of course, with Lindsey.



She was proud of him. He knew Lindsey would never completely forgive him, but he opened up to him anyway. All Lindsey had ever wanted was honesty, and the knowledge that Spike truly cared. He got both, and Spike didn't ask for anything in return.



He was finally understanding what it meant to be a father.



The day after his hospital release, he brought Lindsey to Darla, who remained a secret to everyone but them. To Spike's astonishment, she recognized her son immediately. Lindsey wasn't frightened or repelled, he knew what to expect; he just wanted to help her. On the phone that night, Spike broke down, sobbing, lamenting what a fool he'd been. It was Buffy's one and only breach: she jumped in her rental car and drove to his house. But, the hugs quickly led to kisses, and she had to leave.



Not surprisingly, with each passing week, he got friskier. Bolder. He'd ask her what she was wearing, or fantasize about their date, or all-out beg to see her, insisting that he was back in tip-top shape, even the doctor said he was fine now, he'd surpassed all expectations, blah blah blah. Every time he did this she would gather up all of her conviction and say, "Learn to wait."



Incoming call from: Spike



Speak of the impatient devil.



Smiling, she closed her lip gloss wand and picked up the phone. "You're early."



"Don't make me come up there."



"Ah ah ah, you're not allowed." Because Buffy knew that if she saw him anywhere near a bed, she would bring him to it. "This is only our first date."



"A man can knock on a door on the first date, you know. In fact, it's quite common--"



"Sit. Wait. I'll be right down."



He purred, low and sexy, "Whatever you say, ma petite tyrant."



Her eyelids fluttered, and that was just at the sound of his voice.



This was going to be a challenge.



* * *



Spike idled outside of her apartment complex in a classic black and white Austin-Healey convertible, top down, music blaring. Beaming, she scanned the street for paparazzi, and closed her door.



Upon noticing her, he turned off the stereo and got out of the car to wait by the passenger side.



Her knees nearly buckled. He looked better than ever. Healthy, strong, handsome... Radiant, come to think of it. His outfit was simple, a black t-shirt, jeans and boots in accordance with her terms -- Nothing fancy, the opposite of fancy -- but Spike rocked that look So. Hard.



Sparky eyes eating her up, he leaned back to reach into the car, and when she approached him, he held out a single long-stemmed sunflower.



Taking it with a sly grin, she said, "Very nice touch."



"Very naughty dress," he said, brow arched.



"What? It's not pink." That was his only term: Whatever you do, don't wear pink. It wasn't a va-va-voom dress either, it was a totally appropriate first-date halter dress. That showed off a lot of leg.



An area that he was currently tilting his head to gaze at, longingly.



She wasn't faring much better: she'd caught a whiff of his cologne, and needed a moment before she could speak like a normal person. "Aren't you gonna let me in?"



He reached out to touch the dress, stopped himself, exhaled a growl, and cracked his neck. "Right." He opened the passenger door. "Get in, you little... Get in."



Suppressing a giggle, she got in.



Talk about electricity. The night had just begun, and already their sexual tension could power a small country. His proximity caused an immediate physical reaction: her heart thumped, her nipples tightened, her pussy swelled and opened against the fabric of her sheer underwear... This was so not the plan. They were supposed to take it slow.



Buffy crossed her legs and uncrossed them, smoothed her dress over her thighs, and brought the sunflower to her nose. If she didn't want this date to end with an NC-17 rating, she had to start thinking PG thoughts. Flower soft. Smells planty.



Sitting behind the wheel, he teased her with an impish smirk, "Anything wrong, minette? You look a bit ...nervous."



"You, driving," she covered up with a shrug. "Should I be afraid?"



"Only of my raw masculinity." He winked at her and joggled the gear shift. "Gonna let me in on where we're going?"



"Straight, right at the light. Do you even have a license?"



He considered the night sky for a moment. "Probably not."



She laughed, then yelped as he gunned the engine and pealed out.



* * *



"And, I run a multi-billion dollar corporation."



"That's what you do for fun?"



"Nothing's more fun than conquest."



A few months ago, she would have been offended by that remark. Tonight? Aroused was more like it.



Spike, who was always keenly aware of her reactions to him, went about adjusting his rearview mirror. "Also, I own an island and I'm very good in bed."



"Subtle," she said.



"Thanks," he deadpanned. "I've been practicing my small talk."



The smile he flashed at her was contagious. She looked down at her knees.



The traffic light turned green. He pressed forward. "Your turn."



"Well," she said, taming her hair as it whipped in the wind. They passed a cluster of restaurants, Thai, Ecuadorian, Vietnamese... "I like to travel."



"What a coincidence. I have a plane."



"Again with the subtlety."



"Just thought you should know."



"Mm-hm." She pressed her lips together.



"Traveling? Is that all you like?"



"No. I also like ice skating... French pop music -- pre-1970, that is... Seeing classic films in revival theaters..."



"Yeah?"



"Yeah. You seem surprised."



"I just... didn't know that about you." He looked at her thighs, and back at the road. "I like it."



"See?" She crossed her legs. "Small talk can be informative."



He remained skeptical. "Tell me more."



"Okay, uhm... I'm taking kickboxing now, and that's fun." She smiled. "Recently, I discovered that I really like sailing..."



He gave her a sidelong glance that made her throb.



"I'm also way into modern..." his bicep flexed, and she swallowed, "art."



"Art, you say? Well, what do you know. I happen to have an art foundation."



"Just lying around."



"Yeah."



"A whole foundation," she teased him. "You must know a lot about art."



Another knowing glance. "Not a thing. But I'd like to. I think what I need is someone to teach me how to see it right. Know what I mean?"



He was so cute. She rested a hand on his red leather seatback. "Well, I guess I could. Teach you."



"Could you," he said with a smirk.



She fought an urge to fondle the nape of his neck. "I could try."



"Stop that."



Did he read her mind? She withdrew her hand. "Stop what?"



He pointed at her face. "Looking at me like that."



"Like what?"



"Like I'm made of ice cream."



"Oh, like you're not looking at me the same way?"



"This was your rule, remember? I've gotta get through an entire evening with you without..." he gestured at her legs and made a fist, "bunching up that filmy little gift-wrap box of a dress you're wearing, which you had to know would drive me crazy--"



"I'm not allowed to look nice for our date?"



"--It's not fair, you tempting me like this. I almost died, you know. I deserve a little--"



"Left here."



"Hm?"



"Left turn!"



"Oh." He made the turn. "Where the devil are you taking me? Why's it such a secret?"



"No secret. It's just up ahead, on the right."



When he saw the sign, he let out a guffaw. "I should've guessed."



"Don't knock it 'til you try it," Buffy said, and he pulled into the drive-thru at In-N-Out Burger.



* * *



"Dead good," he decreed after his second bite.



"You're lying just to appease me, aren't you?"



"It's our first date," he said, shaking the burger at her and sucking ketchup off his pinky. "You can't possibly know when I'm lying."



"You always knew when I was."



"Mm. I love hearing you admit you're a filthy fibber."



She focused on the straw in her soda, breaking up the ice. "Not... filthy. I just didn't know how I really felt."



"Tell me about it." He set his dinner down in the cardboard tray, wiped his hands. "Thinkin' you were better off leaving me to find yourself."



"I did think I was better off," she explained. "I thought staying with you would mean I needed a man to feel whole. You know? Someone to take care of me. And I didn't want that, I wanted to take care of myself, and figure it out on my own. But then I realized--" Wait. Should she be telling him this? The answer, now?



Playfully, he prompted, "Go on..."



"It's a little heavy for a first date."



He ducked his head to catch her eye. "Tell me. Please?"



"I realized that together, we could be so..." Gaze locked in with his, the word came easily: "Powerful."



Eyes glazing over, his nostrils flared, his mouth opened and he huffed out an awestruck breath.



She knew what he would say if he could: that she was perfect for him, that she understood him better than any woman ever had, that she'd made all of his dreams come true with that single, deceptively simple statement.



Or, he would say that he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her into next week. It was all the same to him, when it came to her.



Buffy had hoped to avoid public displays -- the rumors were painful enough for Lindsey, actual photographic evidence would twist the knife. But, she didn't see any cameras in the In-N-Out lot, and Spike closed the top when they'd pulled in, so they had some privacy...



"Kiss me now," she said, and his hand was on her spot before she breathed the last word.



God, six weeks without all of this -- his hands, his mouth, his white-hot passion -- How could she possibly wait another second?



Tongue touching his, she tried to climb into his lap, but there was no room. It was her fault -- she'd told him it had to be the smallest car he had, so they couldn't do this.



"Bloody fucking hell," he said, bunching up her dress. "Come home with me."



She shook her head, pressed her lips against his ear and said, "Come home with me."



He inhaled sharply. "You sure?"



"I stocked up on fresh fruit." She nibbled on his earlobe. "Just in case."



"Right. Off we go."



They shared one more heady kiss, and she fell back into her seat.



"Strap in, kitten." He revved the engine. "Daddy's gonna break some rules."















More to come...

---

A/N: Up next: sexytimes! So much for a PG rating! (And don't get mad at me for stopping it there. Sometimes smut deserves its own chapter!)



A/N #2: The creative process -- or mine, anyway -- thrives on feedback. It's not about how much I get -- I'm not sitting here counting up all my praise like gold doubloons -- it's just that when I know people are reading (thanks, LJToys stats) but they don't say anything, I assume that the story has disappointed them somehow. Which is fine! -- I don't expect everyone to love where I've gone with this! -- but it's a little frustrating for me when I don't know the consensus. Wow, that was a lot of dashes! All I'm trying to say is, please tell me what you think. Thank you!

---

P.S. To be notified via email of updates to this story, click on 'track this' below and choose the 'crave' tag.



OR Join my mailing list.



OR: @nautibitz on twitter.







A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 42, Part 1: The Answer


awesome banner by lisanice

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

---

What did she crave more than anything in this life?

The answer dawned on her the moment it threatened to slip away.

Suddenly, she felt it in his cooling skin; heard it in his shallow breath, saw it in his icy, sparkless gaze. In that suspended instant, Buffy Summers knew exactly what she craved.

It wasn't him. Not entirely. Yes, she loved him, and she'd loved him for months, long before it even made sense. But what she truly wanted, needed, had to have? Was what they could become together. She hadn't been aware of it at the time, but her every transgression with Spike was her way of coaxing that barren seedling to a vibrant, brilliant bloom.

"Come on," she urged, patting his face with a blood-soaked palm. "Stay with me. I love you!" Why wasn't his chest moving? Why was he still bleeding? Wasn't love supposed to save the fucking day? "Spike! Please! I know the answer!"

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Lindsey was muttering to himself, sitting on the floor, shell shocked. "I didn't mean to..."

What did he think would happen, bringing a gun and his batshit sister in here?

"Move," someone said behind her. Garrett. "Keep his arms down."

Buffy panicked. "Don't move him, he -- he could get hurt."

"I know what I'm doing," Garrett said, pressing hard on his chest and checking his pulse. He'd been a medic in some war, Buffy remembered Spike mentioning that now. "What happened?"

"I killed her," Lindsey said, voice hollow and haunted.

"She tried to shoot Lindsey," Buffy explained, trying desperately to keep it together. "Spike got in the way. His hand is getting cold!"

"It's okay, he's in shock. He's not dead. Hey, look at me, man," he told Spike. "We're gonna fix you up. Good as new."

Spike blinked. That was a good sign, right? She kissed his hand, squeezed it. Wiped her teardrops from his forearm.

"Put his arm down, Buffy," Garrett reminded her firmly, and she backed away, let him do what he needed to.

Her ears seemed to fill with gauze then, muffling all the sound in the room. She watched the scene unfold as if it were a movie: Garrett kept talking to Spike, kept him awake, controlled the bleeding. The medevac crew arrived, put Spike in a stretcher. All the while, she caught flashes of Lilah's lifeless stare, her crumpled doll limbs. The splatter of red on the wall.

As they wheeled him out, she tried to follow but Garrett stopped her, said there wasn't enough room on the helicopter.

"But--" she felt her throat constrict, "he... he doesn't know the answer."

"He knows, Buffy," Garrett said, leaving Spike's blood on her shoulder. "We all know."

At that, he glanced at Lindsey, who looked up at them, lost.

"Cops are coming," Garrett told her. "You help him out with that. You need anything, you call Nigel. You hear?"

Numbly, she nodded.

Left alone with a dead body and her broken husband, she leaned against the wall, and hugged herself.

He sniffled.

She peered at him. "Are you--"

"Don't talk to me," Lindsey said, so she didn't say another word.

* * *

He surrendered to the police, told them more than he should have. They were questioned for hours. When they got to the station, Spike's lawyer met them. Lindsey refused the help at first, but the power of persuasion, and his exhaustion, won out.

Nigel came with bail money and news that Spike was still in surgery, that he probably would be for several more hours.

Buffy burst into tears, and Nigel held her. He assured her that Spike had the best care possible, had his own blood stored for transfusions--

"He's alive," she said, shaking her head. "I was so afraid..." She wiped her wet face. "I want to be there when he wakes up."

"I'll see to it that you are," Nigel said, but then she caught a flicker of doubt in his eyes; one that told her he wasn't altogether convinced he would wake up.

Buffy had lost enough people in her life to take that flicker seriously. As much as she wanted to hope for the best, she had to brace herself for the worst.

She called Fred, asked if she and Charles could take the dog for a few days. She nearly broke down again when Fred asked if everything was okay.

Nothing was okay. It seemed like nothing would ever be okay again.

* * *

Lindsey wasn't freed until after dark. He didn't look at her, just pushed past her to get outside, where they were mobbed by reporters. Who shot your father? What happened in that hotel room? Is this your wife? Are you Buffy Summers? Did you have an affair with Spike Pratt?

Disoriented by the chaos and bright lights, they found each other's fingers and, hands joined, made their way to the car Nigel had arranged to wait for them.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Where else could they go but home? As much as she wanted to be at the hospital, Nigel made her promise to wait until Spike had a room that they could sneak her into, and Lindsey... he had no one right now. Buffy gave the driver their address.

When they opened the door to the loft, the reality that it wasn't her home anymore became painfully clear. Without Huey, it was cold and unwelcoming. There was nothing left for her. Nothing but the painting.

"I'm gonna shower, if that's okay with you." She flipped on the hallway light, shrugged off her coat.

"You really met my mom?"

She turned to Lindsey. He looked even more adrift than she felt. "Yeah."

"Is she..." He put his hands in his pockets. "What's wrong with her?"

With a sigh, Buffy gauged the Scotch bottle he'd left on the hallway table. Just enough for two.

He lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Have a seat," she told him. She went to the kitchen to pour them each a glass, sat down beside him, and told him everything she knew.

* * *

Some time later, she found herself staring at Lindsey, who had fallen asleep on the couch. He looked like a kid.

She took off his shoes, covered him in a blanket, tried to smooth his furrowed brow, and said, "I have to go see your father now."

On her phone, the message read:

Condition stable. G is waiting in your parking garage.

* * *

They were flamenco dancing on a giant chessboard, to a strange, twisted version of Let's Face The Music And Dance.

He pulled her close, and they began to tango. "Gonna tell me the answer?"

She smiled. "I thought you already knew."

"Well, yeah. It's what I been trying to show you all along." They spun. "I wanna hear it from you."

He dipped her. She laughed.

"Well?"

"I forget the question."

Spike pressed his cheek to hers. "What do you crave--"

"Boss," Garrett said. "You're awake."

Buffy opened her eyes. The hospital room. Garrett, Nigel, knitting needles in hand... staring at the bed.

Spike was awake?

Spike was awake!

No excitement, the doctor had stressed, giving her an especially pointed look.

Forcing her demeanor to a quiet calm, Buffy pursed her lips and said, "Hey."







Read on... >>


A/N: The rest of the above scene plays out in the previous chapter, in case you forgot.






A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 41: Wake Up


awesome banner by sourbuckley

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: Thanks, dampersnspoons, for the beta.

---

Buffy had become an abstract sunflower.

She was an exquisite sight; laughing and dancing, leaving squiggles of color across a boundless white canvas. Spike knew he couldn't join her, but he didn't mind. Her joy was infectious.

"Wake up, Boy Wonder," a teenaged Liam said, slinging a gangly arm around Spike's neck. "The world is waiting."

Liam had a point. A masterpiece like this didn't belong to any one person. It belonged to the entire world. They needed to set her free, so that everyone could experience her power.

"We should set her free," he told his boyhood chum, "so that everyone can--"

"WAKE UP!"

Startled out of his vivid dream, Spike opened his eyes. Liam wasn't there, and Buffy wasn't a painted sunflower.

She was beside him, jolting upright in alarm, his son's name on her lips.

That woke him up -- and so did the sight of Lindsey in the room, trembling with rage, pointing a semiautomatic pistol at Spike's head.

"I don't want to hurt you, Buffy," Lindsey said. "Move away."

She didn't budge. "What the hell are you doing, Lindsey? Put the gun down!"

"Shut up! Shut your mouth and move away or I swear to God I'll--"

"You'll shoot me?"

Spike knew he very well could -- by accident. The boy was hanging on by a thread. "Buffy, do as he says. Move away."

"I will not! This is insane! You're not a killer, Lindsey! You're angry, and you have every right to be, but you're not--"

He fired at the chaise by the window, causing a plume of stuffing to fly out its back. Either Lindsey knew that the deluxe suites were soundproof, or he didn't care.

In any case, it had the desired effect: Buffy shrieked and jumped out of bed. Spike stayed put.

"I come from a long line of killers, don't I, Dad?" Lindsey advanced, nostrils flared. "I'm thinkin' I should embrace my true nature. Like father, like son?"

"Go on, then." With unwavering eye contact, Spike peeled back the duvet that covered him and said, "Shoot me."

"Spike, don't be an idiot!" Buffy hissed, "Tell him!"

Lindsey seemed momentarily thrown by the fact that Spike was wearing trousers. They'd spent the night in a chaste embrace -- she hadn't taken off her shirt or sweatpants either; he was probably noticing that now.

If he hadn't known their affair went beyond the pleasures of the flesh, he knew it now.

"What are you waiting for, son?" Fairly confident that it would have the opposite effect, he provoked him, "Follow in my footsteps."

Predictably rattled by that, Lindsey swung the gun toward Buffy. "Don't touch that phone!"

She held her hands up. "I wasn't!"

"Lindsey," Spike reasoned, "no one's making any calls. It's me you want, not her, yeah?"

"Yeah," Lindsey agreed with a sneer, returning his aim to Spike's forehead. "It really is."

Buffy whispered tremulously, "This is so stupid--"

"Shut up." Lindsey glanced at her as he kept Spike in the crosshairs. "You don't get to talk, you lying, cheating, monster-loving whore."

"She didn't do this to hurt you," Spike said. "Neither did I."

"No, of course you didn't. You just saw something shiny that you couldn't have, and you stole it from me, just like you steal everything else!"

"You're right. I was selfish. It wasn't fair to you."

"Yeah, well, excuse me for not being in the most forgiving mood right now, my wife just left me for a murderer!"

"He's not a murderer," Buffy insisted through grit teeth. "He didn't kill anyone. Tell him, Spike."

"Don't, Buffy, let it go."

"No! The lies end here and now. Tell him about Darla, or I will."

Lindsey tutted in bitter amusement. "Yeah, tell me. What bullshit line did you feed Buffy to convince her you didn't strangle my mother to death?"

Spike heaved a sigh of resignation. Buffy was right, there was no point in lying anymore. No one left to protect, aside from a tiny, frightened William, shivering on a cross. He'd projected that child onto Lindsey for far too long. So, he said it: "She's alive."

Lindsey opened his mouth, sputtered for a moment as he processed this information. "You think I'm stupid? What the hell are you two trying to pull?"

"It's true," Buffy said. "I saw her. I saw her with my own eyes. Just... please put the gun down and we can talk about this--"

"No! I don't believe you! I don't believe either of you!" Confounded, stupefied, his adrenaline fuel running out, he lowered the pistol. "What... You saw her?"

Buffy nodded.

Cautiously, Spike got out of bed. "Give me the gun, and I'll tell you everything. I'll even take you to her."

"This is... I don't even... I don't believe you."

Lindsey was so disoriented that Spike was able to gently wrest the gun away. Safety engaged, he tucked it into the back waistband of his khakis and put an open palm on Lindsey's shoulder.

Lindsey pulled away, but it was an afterthought. Dazed, he sat on the bed.

Crisis averted... thanks to Buffy. Spike cast her a glance.

She was solemnly gathering her things. "I'll go," she said, bag strap on her shoulder. "You two have a lot to talk about."

Wait. She was leaving him? Now? Before they'd even had a chance to say their proper goodbyes? "Buffy..."

She gave him a sweet, sad smile. This was it. The end. "Goodbye, Spike."

He sighed, helpless and heartbroken. After she left the room, he sat on the bed and noticed Lindsey furrowing at him sidelong. He'd gotten the picture.

He was a smart boy. ...Man. A smart man.

Perhaps they did have a lot to talk about.

"Or, not," he heard Buffy say in a strange voice, and she was back in the doorway, this time with a wild-eyed brunette holding a compact silver handgun to her chin.

Lindsey sprang up. "Lilah, what are you--?"

"Back off, Lindsey. This isn't about you." Her glare was settled on Spike. "Hands in the air, both of you."

Spike raised his arms, at a loss as to how -- and why -- Lilah Morgan had ended up in this hotel room.

"Hey," Buffy said with mock cheer, "look who I ran into at the elevator."

"Lilah, what's going on?" Lindsey asked.

"That's enough out of you, kids," Lilah said, riveted by Spike. "The grown-ups are talking now."

"That we are," Spike said carefully, reading her for clues. She was staring at him like she knew him, intimately. Had he bedded this girl a decade ago? She looked to be in her late twenties, early thirties; that would make her old enough. Or perhaps she'd been a Masterson girl... "What can I do for you?"

"Tell me what I need to know, and I might not blow her pretty pink brains all over your love motel."

Buffy was wearing a brave face, but she was terrified, and so was he. If anything happened to her because of some misstep he'd made in the past, Spike would never forgive himself. "Let her go, I'll tell you anyway."

"Ha. No. Who's the body?"

"The...?"

"Body. The dead one that you passed off as Darla? Her name wouldn't be Drusilla Davies, would it?"

Spike stared at her anew. "Who are you?"

Lilah cocked the gun she held to Buffy's throat. "Answer the bloody question!"

"Yes! Yes, that was her name."

"She ever mention a little girl named Edith?"

"Wh..." She had, as a matter of fact. That was the name Dru had given the love child they'd created in her incestuous, vampiric Bonnie and Clyde fantasy. But that was just a fantasy, it wasn't... real... "Edith?"

She smiled, sardonic. "Hi, Dad."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Buffy muttered, while Lindsey echoed, "'Dad'?"

"Oh. Yeah." Lilah informed Lindsey, "You banged your big sister. Several times. Sorry to break it to you like this."

Buffy's nose wrinkled, and Lindsey reeled.

"Hang on, all of you. I never slept with Dru before that night--"

"Sure about that, Batman?"

Batman. Spike frowned as that triggered a long-buried memory of a seemingly insignificant night: Liam gave him quaaludes, stuck a Batman mask on his head and they raced across the river on stolen bikes to a squat crawling with new wave runaways.

"She was sixteen, just like you. You were at a masquerade of some kind. You may not remember, but you were her first."

Spike didn't recall shagging anyone that night, but then he didn't recall anything between the time he walked in and the time he woke up in a dusty clawfoot bathtub the next afternoon. Try to look surly, Liam had told him on the way. No woman can resist a dark knight. "I had no idea."

"Neither did I. I had to figure it out myself. From the clues in her daft rantings and riddles!" As her veneer cracked, a hint of English accent surfaced through the American one she'd clearly cultivated. "I had to figure all of this out myself. Even what you did to her. It was an accident, wasn't it?"

Her death, she meant. "Yes."

She took a breath, straightened. "I could accidentally pull this trigger."

"Don't you fucking dare," Lindsey warned her, but Spike held up a hand to quiet him.

"Or, you could let her go, Edith. This is between you and me."

Her lashes fluttered at the sound of her name, but she held her ground. "You took away the only thing that mattered to me. I should do the same to you."

"She doesn't want me." His gaze met Buffy's for a moment. "Nothing matters anymore."

"How sweet and tragic and patently false. Where is Darla?"

He cocked his head. "What do you want with Darla?"

"It was her idea, wasn't it? To invite my mother over that night. Darla knew about me, you know, but she hated that I existed. That there was another link to you out there." She stepped forward with Buffy in her grasp. "Did she make you do it? Egg you on?"

"No," Spike said, aware that telling her the truth could lead to an even messier situation. "It was all me."

"My mother promised me she would introduce me to my father. But before she could do that, she disappeared." A tear ran down her cheek. "Drusilla Davies was crazy as a loon, and she was a godawful mother, but you killed her and disposed of her like she was a piece of trash. Like I... was..."

"I wish I had known about you," Spike said, earnestly, and that made her falter.

"This is bullshit," Lindsey said, and snatched the gun out of Spike's waistband.

Reflexively, Lilah aimed her gun at Lindsey, and reflexively, Spike stood in front of his son.

There was a pop, and a strange, hot sensation. Spike sussed out what had happened by watching Buffy's horrified face.

He'd been shot.

He lost his balance, and collapsed onto one knee.

"NO!" Buffy snapped her head backward, stunning Lilah, and ran to Spike just as he toppled to his back. She covered his spurting wound. Was that his heart? "Spike? Spike. Spike! You're okay. You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

She didn't sound very convinced. She looked lovely, though. Like an angel. He saw a gun, pointed in Lindsey's direction... "Behind you."

Another shot rang out, but it didn't come from Lilah's gun. Lilah disappeared from view, and he heard a thud. Buffy turned around, crawled away, and came back with his blood-spattered phone.

"What happened? Is Lindsey..."

"Shhh, he's okay. We're all okay." Hand on his chest, she put the phone to her ear. "Garrett? Spike's hurt." Tears began to stream down her face. "We need a... helicopter... medevac thing... Hurry." She shut the phone.

"Don't cry." He wanted to touch her face, but he couldn't move his arm. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she said, sobbing. "I love you so much."

Well, that was overdue. With what breath he had left, he chuckled. "What's a fella got to do, get shot?"

"Don't laugh." She pressed her lips to his ear. "I love you, Spike. I love you..."

Those were the last words he heard.

* * *

Spike was an abstract sunflower, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Outside the canvas, Buffy stood in her pink bikini, hands cupped over her ears. "Holy melodrama, Batman. Will you quit that? It's hurting my ears."

He closed his mouth, but still heard the screams, though they'd been shortened to quick, panicked pulses.

"Also, you as a flower? Not your best look. You're all... painty."

"But I understand art now, love."

"I know. That's why all the screaming, right?"

"I'm not screaming anymore." Eek! "Was that me?"

Buffy listened for the next one. Eek! "Weird."

"What is that noise?"

"I don't know, just come out of there and we'll deal with it, okay?" She extended her hand. He took it, and stepped through the threshold of the canvas.

The pulsing screams turned to mechanical beeps, and Spike's groggy head made sense of it: A heart rate monitor.

He was in a hospital bed. He'd been shot. There was a bandage on his chest. He was alive.

He could move his feet, too. All parts in working order. Definite plus.

With a glance at the darkened windows, however, he wondered if his eyes or brain had been damaged: Buffy was asleep, her head resting on the shoulder of his bodyguard, who sat beside his butler. The two men were wide awake, hurriedly knitting from the same hot pink ball of yarn.

"Will I bust anything if I laugh?"

"Boss," Garrett said, while Nigel said, "You're awake."

Buffy was roused by Garrett's movement. At the sight of him, she seemed to swell up with happiness, but then she notched it down. "Hey."

"Hey," he said weakly.

She got out of her chair, straightened her sweater, and tentatively approached his bedside.

"We'll, uh, we'll come back later," Nigel said, giving her a chair to sit in.

Garrett paused on his way out, and with barely restrained emotion, said, "Glad you're okay, man."

As they left, Spike frowned at Buffy. "What was that all about?"

Buffy sat down. "Garrett feels really guilty about what happened."

"I meant..." he cleared his rusty throat, "the knitting."

"Oh." She laughed, and pushed her hair behind her shoulder. "Nigel bet Garrett he couldn't learn in one day. It's been three, and now they're having knitting races. They're onto capelets, I think."

He laughed. It hurt.

"Ooh." She touched his chest, near his bandage. "Sorry. Don't laugh."

He covered her hand with his. "Why are you here?"

"That's a silly question."

"Is it?"

She traced little circles over his heart. "Uh-huh."

He let her do that for a while. It was comforting. "Have I really been out for three whole days?"

"There were a couple of surgeries. To get the bullet out. Half an inch to the left, it would have been your heart." Her eyes welled, and he noticed how red-rimmed they were. Had she been crying over him, or...

"Is Lindsey all right?" He was struck with unexpected panic.

She looked down. "Yeah. He's fine. It got a little hairy, he spent the first few hours at the police station. Because of, um..."

"Edith."

She nodded. "Who was not your daughter. We just got the tests back this afternoon."

Spike was deeply relieved to hear it, but she was still someone's daughter. Probably Liam's. It was possible he even knew about Edith and had denied culpability, as he was wont to do. And all that time, poor, crazy Dru thought Spike was her dark knight, when all he'd done was pass out in a sodding bathtub.

"Anyway, Lindsey was cleared. It was obviously self-defense. Plus they found these journals at her apartment... mega freaky. Charts and diagrams and the floor plans of your house... She had this elaborate plan of attack set for a specific date: the tenth anniversary of her mother's death."

Which would be coming up soon. "Bloody hell." He had honestly thought Lilah Morgan wasn't a threat to anything but Buffy's marriage -- that she was no more than a typical femme fatale who merely didn't want to be found by an abusive ex-boyfriend or husband, or something.

He would never doubt Buffy's instinct ever again. Given the chance.

"We talked, though. Lindsey and I. We're not gonna be best buds any time soon, but I think we're kinda square now, what with him almost shooting me in the face."

It was charming, the way she could reframe even the most horrid events as lighthearted farce. "I'm glad you're not enemies."

"You're not enemies, either."

He scoffed, raised a brow.

"You took a bullet for him, Spike. Cosmic scales? Consider them balanced. I know he does."

He shook his head in awe. "He's a better man than I."

"No, he's not," she whispered, bit her lip, and his still-intact heart fluttered.

Or, more scientifically, it was beating a bit faster, according to the monitor.

He squinted at her. "Did you--?"

"Oh," she said, clearly stalling, "We rehired your publicist. I hope you don't mind. There's kind of a media frenzy going on."

"Right... Yes. That's what they're for. Damage control, and all of that. Did you tell me you love me or did I dream that?"

She smiled to herself. "You didn't dream that."

"But... that was just because you thought I was dying. Right?"

Her eyes met his. "No."

"Help me out here, pet, I'm a little foggy. Hooked up to machines and drips and likely hopped up on morphine or somesuch wonderful drug... What's that mean to you?"

"It means..." she let her green-eyed gaze slide around the room, "Life is short. Time is precious. It means I don't have to climb Mount Kilimanjaro or kayak through the Amazon or learn to belly dance in Marrakesh to find myself. I know exactly who I am, and where I want to be. And that's with you."

"I'm still dying, aren't I? They found a tumor."

"No," she said, laughing. "Your doctor says you'll be back on your feet in a few days. But no strenuous activity for six weeks."

"Does that mean what I think it does?"

She nodded, using her flirty lips when she answered, "I'm afraid so."

Mesmerized, he said, "Will you marry me?"

"Never." She was smiling.

"Move in with me?"

"Cool your jets, mister." She sat up straight. "I think we both have a few things to take care of first."

"No, I'm ready, really. Can't think of anything."

She smirked. "I'll make you a checklist."

"And when I've checked it all off...?"

"We start over. In six weeks, you take me out on a real date. We go dutch, and I choose the venue."

He tried not to grin from ear to ear, really he did. "I accept these terms and conditions."

"Good," she said. "'Cause you really didn't have a choice."

She was so beautiful. "Do me one favor. I am in a hospital bed, that grants me one favor, right?"

"Depends what it is..."

"Nothing naughty," he promised, and tapped his earlobe. "I'm not sure I heard you the first time."

With a sly grin, she moved close to his ear, and he felt her breath on his skin as she whispered, "I'm in love with you, Spike Pratt."

He sucked in a breath, felt his cock throb. "Six weeks." He exhaled hotly. "Yeah. Don't do that again."

She giggled.







Read on... >>


A/N: This story ain't over yet. There are at least two more epilogue-ish chapters to go, but this was essentially the conclusion of the plot, and now I'm all sad and lonely. HOLD ME WITH YOUR FEEDBACK

...Please?






A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 40: His


awesome banner by kitty3101

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

---

Lindsey Pratt wasn't stupid.

He knew exactly who his wife was fucking.

But Christ, did he feel stupid for not believing it 'til now.

Lilah had tried to convince him, hell, even his shrink had suggested it, but he couldn't even imagine. Buffy was a no-nonsense kind of girl; that was why he liked her so much in the first place. No dark side, no lies, no skeletons in the closet, it was 'what you see is what you get' with Buffy Summers.

Or so he'd believed.

He'd also believed that Buffy was too smart, too savvy, too practical; not reckless or impulsive enough to fall prey to temptation ...or to be a temptation. To him.

Yeah, Lindsey knew his father liked pretty blondes and respected people who weren't impressed with him, but that didn't mean he'd be interested enough -- or twisted enough -- to try to get Buffy into bed.

He had no idea why he'd given his mother's murderer the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe he had wished that his father was a good man, deep down. That he was sorry for the terrible things he'd done. That maybe it was an accident, maybe he did have a heart after all. But this just proved he didn't.

His mother... God rest her soul, but she was a mess toward the end. A mess that his father made and tidied up without shedding a single goddamn tear.

Spike Pratt was a monster, plain and simple. And now this monster had gone and stolen his wife.

The hell if Lindsey was gonna let Buffy become another one of his messes.

Sitting on the bedroom floor by the upended dresser and a half-empty bottle of Scotch, hands trembling as he held the golden key to a Pratt Hotel room, he made a phone call.

"Lilah, it's me."

"It's 4am."

"You were right. You were right about everything."

After a silent moment, she sighed. "Come over."

* * *

"Penthouse suite," Lilah said, turning the card key over. "It's got to be."

He stopped pacing her kitchen floor. "What makes you so sure?"

She smirked as she passed him the card. "It's cute, how you know so little about the evil that men do."

He hated how she patronized. "Are you gonna give it to me, or not?"

"I'll give it to you. On one condition." She raised a brow. "I get to come."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Fanning out a hand, he accidentally hit a row of pill bottles on her countertop, and tried to right them.

She threw one bottle into the trash can, and shrugged. "I am now."

"These aren't yours," he accused, reading one label that said TAKE 3 EVERY FOUR HOURS WITH MILK. "Who's 'E. Davies'?"

"Look, Pratt," Lilah said, swiping it out of his hand and tossing it in the trash. "Big Daddy's got a bodyguard, right? Who's gonna distract him?"

He frowned. "I didn't really think that far."

She fixed his shirt collar. "That's why you need me."

* * *

"He's sitting by the lobby elevator, napping," Lilah said, talking fast as she got back into her car. "Which means they're definitely here, so all we have to do is go up through the parking garage. There's gotta be penthouse access from there. I'm gonna park on the street, we'll walk it--"

"Lilah, you don't want to be a part of this, believe me. Just let me out--"

"I am a part of this!" He saw something in her eyes then, a flicker of mania he'd never seen before. She composed herself, and said calmly, "Believe me, I just want to help."

* * *

Lilah wasn't wrong. The golden key granted access to floor PH.

The evil that men do. He shook his head in disdain. I know so little.

Because Lindsey... Lindsey was a good man. Every day he triumphed over monster and machine. He wanted no trace of his father's evil inside of him. He didn't even want his money. He was happily giving his trust fund away to charity, until he had to use some of it to build a life with Buffy.

And look where that got him.

As the elevator car ascended to its peak, so did his delirious, sleep-deprived rage. Adding insult to injury, Lilah was rattling off instructions, as if he were an incompetent child. Do this, do that, don't back down, let him know you mean it, blah blah blah--

"Shut up," Lindsey spat, and she did.

The doors opened quietly to a huge, ritzy living area with wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunrise was reflected on the buildings outside. A man's leather jacket was draped over a chair.

As he entered the suite, Lilah showed him that she was holding her shoes in her hands.

He stepped out of his sneakers, and mouthed at her, "Stay back."

She made a face, but complied.

Lindsey crept toward an open door. A king-sized bed came into view, and even though he knew, even though he fully expected it, seeing it in living color made his eyes sting and his stomach turn.

His wife and his father, entwined.

They were fast asleep, nestled under the covers, facing one another. Buffy was cradling that monster's head to her neck.

Tenderly.

Heart pounding, palms sweating, Lindsey cocked Lilah's gun and said, "Wake up."







Read on... >>




A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 39: Becoming


awesome banner by sourbuckley

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: That's right! The cat's out of the bag in this one... *holdsbreath*

---

"No, none of that. You'd end up with a real bloodbath."

A movie was on in the living room. Over the cinematic dialog, Buffy could hear snippets of laughter and conversation. She caught a whiff of marijuana smoke and beer. Lindsey had texted to ask if he could invite some friends over tonight, and she'd numbly responded with a yes.

It took all she had to leave Spike there at the hotel, after everything he'd said and done and made abundantly clear: He genuinely loved her. He would never abandon her. He was an extraordinary man who was handing her an ideal life on a silver platter... but the fact remained, Buffy was his daughter-in-law.

Unprepared to face facts, or her husband, or his friends, or facts, Buffy bought a little time by crouching in the hallway, rubbing Huey's ears. She was sure he'd been walked, but she could probably justify another one...

"That you, babe?"

I run from one guy to be with another I immediately want to run from, Buffy thought. There is something seriously wrong with this picture.

"Uh huh," Buffy said, mustering cheer as she entered the living room to greet Lindsey and his friends. "Hey, guys."

Lindsey craned his head back on the couch to see her. "Hey."

Feeling like she had to, for show, she gave him a soft peck on the lips.

He shot her a sly grin, as if he thought it meant more. Or maybe it was because he was drunk and high. Either way, it made her uncomfortable. She pointed at the screen. "Dirty Harry?"

"Ah, she's a keeper," Whistler said. "Knows the classics."

"Yeah, she is," Lindsey said.

"No, it's-- My mom had a thing for him," she shrugged, compelled to prove the opposite. "I've never seen the whole movie. But I get why it's a guy classic."

"'Guy'...? Guy, girl, that's irrelevant, this is a timeless tale of good versus evil. The triumph of, of man over monster and machine!"

Todd Whistler was an ACLU liaison. He talked like that a lot.

"Also, he's got a big gun," Buffy said.

Charles coughed, said, "No doubt," and offered her the bowl.

"No thanks, I don't smoke."

Accepting the bowl, Parker asked, "Why's that?"

Lindsey got along with Parker Abrams, but she didn't. Earnest humanitarian though he was, he had no qualms about loving and leaving the ladies. Namely Caridad, who cried on her shoulder for three weeks. When Buffy had confronted him, he'd tried to come on to her. And it had almost worked. Luckily, they happened to spot Lindsey in a coffee house singing his heart out and Parker was left in the dust. "I don't like to dumb myself down."

"I remember now," Parker said smugly, flicking the lighter. "Control Girl."

Buffy was about to set him straight when Lindsey wisely interjected, "You hungry? We hijacked the Kogi truck." To illustrate, he picked up a taco, its orangey insides showing through its paper wrapping.

She hadn't even thought about food; hunger was trumped by the nagging sense of dread building in the pit of her stomach. "Maybe later." She patted his shoulder. "I'll leave you guys to your guy stuff."

"There she goes again, groundlessly discriminating," Whistler said, shaking his head in disappointment. "We do allow girls in this treehouse, you know. Especially girls who smell like whatever perfume you're wearing."

"Respect, son," Charles chastised him with a knee-nudge.

"What? You don't smell that? It's like cherry blossoms."

Sniffing her arm, Lindsey said, "Did you just shower?"

"I... Yeah." Subtly snapping her arm back, she explained, "I had a power yoga class. Like every Friday."

"Oh. I thought you worked out at lunch."

"Right. Elliptical at lunch, then power yoga and meditation after work." She'd even triple-checked the schedule to make sure it was possible. "It's a thing I do."

"Huh," Lindsey said, mulling that over.

It was nerve-wracking, lying to a roomful of lawyers. Hopefully, they were all too stoned to notice.

"Freddie took me to power yoga once," Charles said. "That shit was no joke, I couldn't walk for days. But she's real flexible now, so I ain't hatin'."

Buffy took the ensuing I have great sex with my wife, too high-five as an opportunity to dash, but Lindsey held on to her wrist.

"Sit with me. Eat. Drink. Be merry." He kissed her hand and added, "Please?"

Too weary to make a convincing argument, she caved. "Okay. I'll go change."

She went to the bedroom and mechanically began her just-saw-Spike routine: remove office clothes, check for any tell-tale signs on fabric or body, hide golden Pratt Hotel key in lining of underwear drawer, put on comfortable t-shirt and sweats, pretend to be faithful wife.

How long could she keep this up?

* * *

Maybe dumbing herself down was exactly what Buffy needed.

After watching the bowl circulate twice, she'd decided to give it a try. Lindsey was amazed and amused and suspected she'd been replaced by a clone, but she'd just wanted to shut off the wailing What the hell are you gonna do? siren in her head.

Which it did... sort of. Combined with her beer buzz, the drug relaxed her and quieted her fears, but it also gave her a surprising sense of clarity.

Buffy finally saw this whole mess from the outside.

Fitting comfortably in Lindsey's embrace, she could see that they appeared to be a perfect match. He was smart and handsome and her age; they shared a unique sense of humor, a similar outlook on life, and one deep, unifying psychological connection:

They both felt tragically unloved by their fathers.

It was a feeling, she realized, that they both needed to get over.

We're not kids anymore. They made mistakes. They made bad choices. Just like us.

Buffy looked at her husband, riveted and pumped up by the climax of the film.

She touched his face, and he turned to her. He searched her eyes, and smiled. Then, he brought her close, kissed her head and kept her there, tucked under his arm.

He didn't understand.

But she was starting to.

She was also starting to feel sleepy. His shirt smelled good...

* * *

Buffy came to on Lindsey's chest, roused by a burst of raucous laughter. The movie was over. "What time is it?"

"Not even ten-thirty," Lindsey said, touching her hair. "You passed out cold."

"Weed rookie," Whistler teased her.

With a laugh, she said, "And how."

Charles said, "We should head out."

"No, you all stay," Buffy said, and kissed Lindsey's stubbly cheek before extricating herself from his grasp. "I'm just gonna relocate. 'Night."

As their fingers came apart, Lindsey said, "See you soon."

* * *

Spike was kissing her neck.

Breath hot and amorous, he ran a hand up and down her side, over her shirt.

With a soft moan of approval, Buffy weaved her legs through his, touched his strong, muscled arm and backed into him, circling her hips.

"Ohhh, baby," he whispered, roving beneath the shirt to cup her bare breast.

Every sensation was so rich, so intoxicating; the neck-kisses, the nipple squeeze, even the simple tug of her undies down her thighs...

"Mmmn..." she hummed, feeling him rub his thick tip against her welling entry. "Yeah..."

"Oh, fuck," he said, pushing through. "Ohhh, baby, hohh baby, I missed you so much. Hohhh."

She arched her back, reached behind her to caress his face. "Touch my spot." Was that stubble?

He found her clitoris.

Her eyes flew open and she turned to look.

"Ow!" Lindsey yelped as she elbowed him in the chest, tried to defend himself as she thrashed and wriggled and kicked her way out of his grasp. "Okay! Ow! Jesus! What the hell!?"

Shielding herself with a pillow, eyes adjusting to the moonlit room, Buffy realized what she'd just done.

Panting and disheveled, kneeling at the edge of the bed, he gulped and said, "What the hell, Buffy? What the fuck was that?"

"I - I was asleep. I didn't know..."

"Who I was?"

"...W-why did you do that while I was asleep?"

"I don't know! I was horny, you were giving me signals out there, you invited me back to bed last night--"

"I said not yet!"

"You had your hands all over me just now! You said 'Yeah'! 'Touch my spot'! To me, that says you're awake and you want it, too."

"I - I'm still high, I was," she tried to breathe, "confused..."

He squinted at her and said measuredly, "About what?"

She looked down and away, and he stood up, breathed out.

"Are you fucking someone else?"

Oh, God. "What?"

"Simple question," he said, nostrils flared, lips thin. "Yes or no answer."

"Lindsey--"

"Don't fuck with me!" He lunged forward and ripped the pillow out of her arms. "Tell me the fucking truth!"

"You're scaring me!"

He paced the room, growled in frustration and shoved her dresser, making it crash and topple onto its face. "Fuck this!"

Eyes shut, she heard him storm across the loft and out to the balcony.

Shaking, Buffy found her sweats, and put them on.

* * *

Buffy walked out into the chilly night air, zipped up her hoodie, and slid the balcony door shut.

Lindsey, dragging on a cigarette, kept his sights on the moon. "I'm sorry I scared you."

Buffy approached the railing, touched its cold metal surface, then hugged herself. "I'm sorry, too."

His eyes slid her way. "For what?"

She looked down at the street, and said it: "I have been seeing someone."

All of that secrecy, all of those lies, all of that time... and it came out so easily.

Of course, it wasn't easy for him to hear. He was still taking it in, shaking his head, letting it out. Finally, he asked, "Who?"

"You don't know him," she answered, and that was the truth.

"I just wanna know one thing," Lindsey said, voice shaking. He stubbed out his cigarette and crossed his arms. "Did this start before or after I told you about Lilah?"

She cast him a sidelong glance, then looked down in shame.

He scoffed. "I'm a chump. I'm a grade A fucking chump."

"No, you're not. You're a wonderful human being--"

"Fuck you!" He sat down in a patio chair and put his head in his hands. "I went into therapy for you. You let me sleep on the couch, thinkin'..." He spit out a gust of air. "How could you do this to me? What kind of person does that?"

Body vibrating from the sting of causing him pain, she said, "The kind who doesn't know what she wants."

"So, what? Now you do? Now you're leaving me?"

An ambulance siren echoed in the street below, and her clarity came back. "Yeah."

She slid off her wedding ring and placed it on the patio table beside his cigarette pack.

He looked at it, but didn't touch it.

When she opened the balcony door, she heard him say, "Who are you?"

She squeezed the door handle, took a breath, and left him.

* * *

"My name is Buffy Summers-Pratt. I lost my key to the penthouse suite." She'd walked out with only her purse, too dazed to think about anything but the monumental changes she'd made, and had yet to make.

"May I see your ID?"

She nodded, and passed the VIP concierge her license. He keyed a few things into the computer, and she heard a beep.

"Have a seat, Miss. It'll be just a moment."

She sat down in the lobby. More than a moment passed, and her phone rang. It was Spike.

"Hello?"

"What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

"It's 2am and you're trying to get into our hotel room without a key--"

"How did you...?" She glanced at the concierge. "Oh. They called you."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"

"I'm sorry they woke you. Please just go back to sleep--"

"Fuck sleep, I'm already on my way. Now tell me what happened."

"Don't. Don't come here, Spike. Please."

"Buffy."

Buffy looked up at a crystal chandelier. It blurred and refracted until she blinked, a tear spilling down her cheek. Swiping at the tear, she said, "I told him."

There was a pause. "You...?"

"I told him. I didn't tell him it was you, but... I told him."

"Get your card and go upstairs. I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *

Buffy sat in the dark, perched on the chaise by the windows, staring out at the cityscape and the stars.

"Buffy?" His voice, out in the main hall, broke her reverie. "Are you still...?" He came into the bedroom. "Buffy."

Spike obstructed her vision and crouched in front of her.

She smiled at him warmly, and touched his cheek.

He cocked his head, and said in a stunned whisper, "You're leaving me, too."

Her smile didn't fade. He read her so well. "I'm sorry, Spike. This has been so..."

"If you say 'nice' I might heave."

"Wonderful," she said. "Hard. Exhilarating. Painful... Enlightening."

With a pained, frustrated frown, like he was holding back tears or shouts, he huffed.

"It's time for me to clean off my plate," she explained. "To become Buffy Summers."

"That's not what I meant when I said--"

She touched her thumb to his lips. "I know what you meant."

"Buffy." He took her hands in his. "You don't need to start over, all right, you need to listen to your heart."

"I can't be with you, Spike," she said, placid. "Not now. Not like this."

"Now is all there is!" Eyes glistening in the moonlight, he beseeched her, "Life is short, Buffy. Time is precious. When you find something special, you hold on to it and you don't let go."

"Maybe, when I get back..."

"Back... From where?"

"I'm gonna travel the world. Run wild, like I've always wanted to."

"You can run wild with me," he said in exasperation.

She realized he'd never actually seen her in this state before: certain. Resolute. Immovable. All of those times she'd fought him in the past, she really had been daring him to change her mind. But not this time. "Thank you, for everything you've done for me. I will always treasure--" She trailed off, too choked up to continue.

A tear fell out of his eye and hers at the same time. "Oh, Buffy..."

She kissed his lips. He held her neck.

"Let me..." He took a deep, quavering breath. "Let me have this last night with you. Just..." he whispered, "to hold you."

Spike Pratt had changed her life, and she was finally seeing that he'd changed it for the better. Buffy knew that for as long as she lived, she would never forget this amazing man. No one would ever come close. But she also knew that she had to move on.

...Tomorrow.

Buffy brought him to the bed, and turned down the covers.

Tonight, she would be his.







Read on... >>


A/N: I know, it looks bleak, and you hate me right now, but trust me! This WILL end Spuffily! Also, the next chapter will BLOW YOUR MIND

...I hope



A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 38: No Future


awesome banner by Sotia aka ssddgr

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: If this story was faithful to canon, it would take about an hour to get to Sunnydale from LA via the provided means of transportation (= 2 hours by car). However, this is super-AU, and pffft, these people don't have two hours to spare. So, 40 minutes round trip it is! Thank you in advance for not getting all Comic Book Guy about it.

A/N #2: Thanks to Dampers for the once-over!

---

"Who are you?"

Spike didn't miss a beat. "Who do you want me to be?"

Sitting in her gym's locker room, mesmerized by the magazine article, she said, "Zeitgeist."

"Oh. You heard about that?"

"I do know how to read."

"God, I hate the press," he groused. "What are you doing flipping through finance rags anyway? Shouldn't you be reading Utne, or Nonprofit Weekly or somesuch?"

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I..." He exhaled noisily. "I wanted to surprise you."

He'd stupefied her. "Mission thoroughly accomplished."

"Not quite," he said, and let that hang in the air for a second. "Can I show you something?"

* * *

As the helicopter landed on the Pratt building, Buffy considered worst-case scenarios, most of which entailed a fatal crash, and Lindsey finding out that way. Why did she say yes to this?

The hatch door opened, and she thought, That's why.

The mere sight of Spike made her whole body hum. It didn't matter what he wore anymore -- a black suit this time, with a lilac shirt and a deep plum tie that complemented his hair, and yes, he did look great in purple, but that wasn't the point -- it was him. His presence. And the way he smiled at her...

Anyway. "I have to be back by one-thirty!" she shouted over the propeller's racket as he helped her aboard. "No whisking me away to faraway lands, got it?"

"Sorry," Spike said, tapping his headset. "Can't hear a thing with these on."

She opened the headset and said into his ear, "Promise me you'll get me back here by one-thirty. PM."

She realized she'd placed a hand on his chest when he touched it, tenderly. Meaningfully.

"Tout pour toi," he said, and she took her hand away.

Anything for you.

* * *

About twenty minutes into the flight, Spike sidled behind Buffy as she marveled at the tiny dollhouses clustered east of the coastline. "Look familiar?"

"Is it supposed to?" They hovered over a rooftop painted with the letters SHS in gold and burgundy. "Sunnydale...?" She looked at him. "Why are we flying over my high school?"

"Did I not tell you it's a surprise?"

* * *

From the landing site, they were driven to a parking lot behind a row of stores on Maple Court. A very recognizable row of stores.

"I don't understand," Buffy said, following him to the back door of her mother's old art gallery, a place she'd always remember as Modern Artifacts. Last she saw, it was a jewelry store. "What is this?"

"Now, it's not done yet, all right? Try and see it for what it could be."

"What what could be?"

"Do I have to go over the meaning of 'surprise' again? Because I can."

"Tch." She nudged him and tried to hide a smile. "Just open it."

Tethering his own grin, he unlocked the door.

The old inventory room was empty but structurally unchanged. Buffy had a flashback: sitting on the floor with her mother, wrapping paintings for return or, if they were lucky, for sale.

He took her hand, and they entered the storefront together.

The walls were unpainted, there was a layer of sawdust on the new cement floors. Two men were installing ceiling fixtures by the front window, another was building some kind of reception area. They chatted in Spanish over the strains of a Latin American pop song.

Spike shut off the boom box, and got their attention. "Soy el jefe de su jefe. What I say goes, so take a five minute siesta, por favor."

They peered at each other, unconvinced.

"Now," he said. "¡Ahora! ¡Ándale!"

As they grudgingly left their stations and filed out through the back door, the crisp, white lettering on the front window came into view:

the joyce gallery

"I got a real forward-thinking curator relocating from New York," he said. "She'll turn this end of town into Little SoHo in a jiff. We're building a door here to connect to the next shop. Bought that for the classes."

She blinked out of her trance. "Classes?"

"Art history and appreciation. Painting, drawing, sculpture... Oh, and uh, here's the first show."

He handed her a brochure.

Joan Mitchell: The Lost Works

"I wanted to surprise you by taking you to the opening." He scratched his neck. "But, surprise'll be ruined if you read about it someplace, and who's to say you'll even let me take you out in three weeks, so," with a sigh, he looked up at the ceiling, "here we--"

She grabbed his head and kissed him.

With a high-pitched, grateful moan, he swept a hand up her back, to her neck, into her hair, and the other dug into her spot, as if to stake his claim.

Oh, Spike. Yes, Spike. Her butt hit the sawdusty reception desk and he kissed a line down her neck, causing strange, random word formations. What was intended as an Oh my God actually came out as, "Mmm my Spike."

"All yours, baby," he growled, and got overzealous. "You know I'm all yours..."

"Ha-ahh," she gasped, stopping him just as his wicked fingers found the dewy spot on her panties. "Not here."

Forehead touching hers, he deflated. "S'all right. Got one more thing to show you, anyway."

"More?" He'd resurrected her mother's art gallery and created a charitable foundation in Buffy's honor. Did he honestly think he needed to impress her any more than that? 'Cause he did not.

He straightened her skirt and composed himself. "Come on."

* * *

The second part of the surprise involved a stop at Pratt Enterprises, where she learned that half of one entire floor had been dedicated to the Zeitgeist Foundation. At least twenty actual people were visibly hard at work, in meetings, on the phone, making his whim a reality.

Buffy was still in shock. "How did you do all this so quickly?"

"Money's a powerful tool," he said, and opened a door marked CEO.

It was a bright, spacious corner office with a great city view and a large, bold abstract painting on one wall. Red and black gessoed strokes, ripped paper... "Is that... Jane Frank? An original Jane Frank?"

"I bloody well hope." He closed the door. "D'you like it?"

It was magnificent. Breathtaking, but... "Do you?"

"Looks like rubbish to me," he admitted without shame. "But I'm told it 'evokes sensations of awe and helplessness'."

Much like the man who bought it. She tore her eyes away from the painting. "Don't you have another office right upstairs? I mean, how many do you need in one building?"

"Oh, this isn't mine."

"But it says CEO." She pointed at the door.

"I'm the head of Pratt, not Zeitgeist."

"Oh. Who's heading Zeitgeist?"

He put his hands in his pockets, and looked at her.

"Oh," she said, stunned. "What?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I, I have a job."

"And I'm sure you're very good at it, but that's just a job. This is..." He gestured around the room, and returned to her. "This is you, Buffy."

She tried hard to focus on the wrong in this, the manipulative angle. "How do you know what's me?"

He counted off on his fingers, "Art, world travel, philanthropy, getting people to see things your way... Stop me if you hear something you don't love."

"I don't know the first thing about running a foundation!"

"You in a leadership position, yeah, that's dead hard to imagine."

It flashed in her mind then: a vision of herself in charge of Zeitgeist... followed by everything that came with accepting such a position. Lightheaded, woozy, she wrapped her hands around the back of her neck and paced to the window, saying, "This is crazy."

"You love the idea, I can see it. You want this."

"I--" She crossed her arms. "You can't just spring this on me, Spike, you can't expect me t..." Running out of breath, she took a moment to recover.

He stepped up behind her, but didn't touch her. "Look, I know it's a shock. I don't expect an answer right away. But if I ran this by you before, you'd have assumed I was doing it for the wrong reasons."

"These are the wrong reasons," she said, turning to face him. "You don't even care about art."

"Does that matter? I care about you, living the life you're meant for. I just want to make you happy, don't you understand? Don't you see that?"

She shut her eyes and shook her head. "You're not supposed to make me happy, you're supposed to make me miserable."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't do what I'm supposed to. Never have."

In a huff, Buffy walked away from him. "God, you have to stop being so..."

"So... what?"

Arms crossed, she turned to him. Several words came to mind, but there was only one she could say when he gave her that melty eye smile. "...Nice."

He approached her again, touched her hair. "Maybe you should start being nicer to me."

"Spike..."

Briefly pressing a finger to her lips, he said, "I'm sending you back to your other life now, and because I'm being so very nice to you, you're going to meet me after work, and be very nice to me."

Buffy felt herself nod. Sex. Sex was simple. Sex she could handle.

* * *

"I love you, Buffy," Spike said, keeping her in thrall, holding her face so she couldn't look away, "I. Love you."

Buffy gasped and struggled.

This wasn't very nice of him. She'd done exactly as he'd asked: went straight to the hotel after work, gave him very nice kisses from head to toe and all stops between, and then she began to ride him, quite nicely, until he overtook her and hypnotized her with his all-consuming eyes while he fervently professed his love.

When he said it a third time, she let out a broken, yielding wail, and convulsed with him.

* * *

"What's the rush, kitten?"

The 'rush' was that she had no desire to hear his thoughts on her I love you-gasm, so she closed her bathrobe tight and said, "I need to shower, and get home before..."

"Don't shower," he hugged her close from behind. "Stay dirty, stay with me. Come see what I've done with the new place."

"It's your place, not mine." She broke free of his grasp.

"I know that," he said, a tinge of boyish hurt breaking through his masculine pride.

"I'm... Please just let me go, Spike. I need time to think, okay?"

He followed her out of the bedroom. "Yeah, well, forgive my hesitation, but the last time I gave you time to think, you nearly ended this. If you hadn't seen that article, I'd be coming after you right now, wouldn't I?"

"Stop!" She spun around to face him. "Stop coming after me! Just stop it!"

"Right," he said, mouth tight and angry. "Go on then, do your little ritual dance. Pick a fight with me or better yet," he spread his arms out, "cry until I back off, then run for the shelter of his loving arms."

She'd seen him this disdainful before, but he'd never hit home quite so well. "What happened to being nice?"

"I'm sick of it. I'm sick of seeing you this close to admitting what we both already know, and I am bloody sick of sharing you with another man."

"You are the other man."

"Is that what you tell yourself to get through it?"

"I don't..." She took a deep breath. "We haven't..."

"You haven't. Haven't fucked him? Your own husband? And why is that?" He stepped forward, getting in her face. "Tears are not an acceptable answer."

She pressed her lips together to stop the trembling, and said quietly, defensively, "I love him."

He cocked his head, raised his chin. "In what way?"

With a scoff, she said, "I don't have to answer that."

"No, you don't. Because I can read the answer all over your face."

"You're wrong! You can't read me for shit."

"Oh! Right! Try looking me in the eye when you say that."

"I love Lindsey and I'm going home to him tonight, and that's all you need to know!"

"Like hell it is!" He grabbed her arms. "You take me all the way in -- mind, body, soul -- and then you shut me out, time after time! I know you want me, I know you want this, I can feel it, but you won't let go of him! Why do you insist on living this lie?"

"Because! It's better than the alternative!"

"Of us being together?"

"No, it's what happens after!" The floodgates broke then, and tears started falling. "Okay? I'm eating all the cake, and there's not gonna be anything left on my plate at the end of this, except me, feeling like shit for what I've done, and I know that, and I can't lose..." her eyes met his for a moment and averted, "everything all over again. I just can't."

"What are you talking about?" He tried to recapture her gaze. "I'm not going to leave you, Buffy."

She looked at the floor.

"Hey. Just because we found each other in an unorthodox way, it doesn't mean we're doomed, all right? The only tragedy here is that he met you first."

"You said it yourself, Spike, we're all gonna lie bleeding."

"Yeah. And then we'll crawl off together and lick each other's wounds, come out of it stronger, and life goes on like it should."

"How long 'til you get tired of me? 'Til you move on?"

"What?" He squinted at her. "What in our history together tells you that I could get tired of you?"

"Your history," she said, sniffling. "Harmony..."

"I didn't love Harmony! Talking to her was like talking to the wind!"

"Yeah well, Darla's the love of your life and you can hardly stand to look at her."

"She is not the love of my life!" He let out a breath and said, softening, "You are."

Buffy stubbornly met his gaze.

"What she and I had... It wasn't love. I know that now."

"And how do you know this is?"

"How can you not know?" He shook his head. "You came along and you changed everything, Buffy. My entire world was about proving my worth. You helped me see it doesn't have to be that way."

A tear slid down her cheek. "I can't be your savior."

He took her hand and kneeled before her. "Let me be yours."

She gasped, shut her eyes. "No... Spike..."

"Look at me," he said, and she did. "I want you, Buffy. All of you."

Her hand shook in his, and he rubbed it with his thumb.

"You don't have to marry me, I just... want you," he said, voice trembling with emotion. "I want to fall asleep with you at night, I want to wake up with you in the morning. I want to take you, everywhere, everyplace I love, show you every little city and vista and café and, I want to take you out. Publicly. I want to parade you down the red bloody carpet and say you're all mine." He tightened his fingers around hers. "I want to teach you flamenco dancing, and Spanish; I want to curl up on the couch with you and do the Sunday crossword or watch bloody telly, I don't care, I want... everything. All of you. And if I can't have that, I..." He tutted, looked down. "Hell, you know I'll take any little crumb you give me. But if you think if I had you, if I finally had all of you, all to myself, I would take you for granted? You're wrong."

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide and wet, and she said, "I'm not worth all that."

"Oh, stop it." He let go of her hand. "You've had an affair, you haven't killed anyone. Fidelity is a societal construct, it doesn't mean anything."

"Except to the people you hurt!"

He gave her a scrutinizing head-tilt and said with interest, "Oh, I get it. You hate yourself because you think you've become your father."

She looked away.

"Yeah, that's it. Only that's not what you're becoming."

Sullenly, she looked down at him. "What am I becoming?"

"You're becoming Buffy Summers," he said, eyes sparkling. "A woman who can handle an empty plate, but knows when she doesn't have to."

In the hush that followed, her phone chimed, and her gaze slid in its direction.

"Go," Spike said, relenting. "I've got my crumbs for the day."







Read on... >>



A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 37: Bad


awesome banner by Lisa

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: There's no sex in this chapter. If you're looking for straight-up smut, you might have noticed a while back... this fic ain't the place.

---

Buffy reeled, colored lights and fanfare bursting all around her head. "That was..." She gulped, tried again. It was hard to breathe, or speak, or think. "What you did, with the acrobatics, and the pressure points, and the twirling me around... That was like, beyond tantric. That was... What do you even call that?"

With a rakish grin, he reached up to drum his fingers on the headboard and said, "Lunch."

"Really? Wow. I've been doing that wrong."

"Stick with me, pet. I'll show you how to do every meal right."

Fitting nicely into the space under his outstretched arm, she nuzzled for a second, then craned her neck to glimpse the hotel suite's bedside clock. It was almost a quarter to one.

"Don't tell me you've got to go already."

She nodded, but kept her head on his chest. "Soon as my bones de-jellify."

"Yeah, about that." He combed a hand through her hair. "It might take a while."

"You know, it's not polite to incapacitate a working girl on her lunch hour."

"Keep talking like that," he yanked her closer and bore down on her, "and I'll start feeling peckish again."

Smiling, she blocked his frisky hand and weaved her fingers into it, gazing into his bedroom eyes. "I guess I should be thankful it's not dinnertime, right? If that was lunch, I mean... I'm afraid."

"You should be. Dinner sex can take hours, and you'd need at least a week to recover." He lightly bit her breast, right above the nipple. "Maybe longer."

"Mmmn..." He was feathering his lips over her nipple. "What's-- stop it." She lifted his head. "What's breakfast like?"

Still focused on her hardening nipple, he said, voice soft and raspy, "Breakfast, contrary to popular belief, can occur at any time of day, and it's very filling."

"Like a sexual IHOP."

He frowned.

"Y'know, International House of...?"

"I know what IHOP is," he interrupted. "Have you ever been to the Caribbean?"

Buffy failed to catch that train of thought. "No, but I've been to IHOP. Good pancakes."

"Truth is," Spike said, pressing their joined hand to the duvet, "breakfast sex is best spent on a beach."

"Ah," Buffy said. "Not directly on the sand though, I hope. 'Cause sand makes sex not sexy real fast."

His nose grazed hers as he shook his head from side to side. "In a great big hammock for two, in the shade of the morning sun, while the surf breathes over the sand mere footsteps away."

"You're so poetic sometimes."

"Can you see it? You and me, lazing in a hammock, natives fanning us with palm fronds? After, of course."

"'Natives'? Does your fantasy take place in colonial times?"

"It takes place in the future." There was a knock at the door, so he jumped out of bed, saying, "On my island."

"Your island?"

"Yeah." As always, when he opened the door, there was a room service cart waiting for them. Garrett was the only one allowed in to the suite, and his orders were to knock, leave it there and go back downstairs. Spike rolled it in.

She was still stuck on that last thing he said. "You... have an island?"

"Of course I do." He gulped down a glass of water and let out an ahh. "What sort of rich bastard would I be without one?"

"Well, the sort who doesn't exploit any 'natives', for starters..."

"I'm not 'exploiting' anyone," he said, pouring a new glass. "My island staff works hotels in Martinique, I give 'em three times what they'd make anywhere else."

"Oh." She took the water he offered, wishing for the umpteenth time that he would stop making it so impossible to hate him.

He munched on a grape. "So?"

She raised her brows at him, drinking.

Spike put her empty glass aside, and climbed over her. "Take a holiday with me."

"A... What? No. I can't do that."

"Sure you can. A little getaway? How's this weekend for you?"

"This...? This weekend is not good for me--"

"Great, then, next weekend."

"Um, also no--"

"Think of it, Buffy: an entire island, all for us. Crystal clear ocean, bright blue skies, lush, private coves... it's paradise on earth."

"Sounds terrific, except for that one little problem of I have a husband."

He shrugged like that was a tiny speedbump. "Tell him you're seeing your cousin, uh, what's her name."

"No. I'm not involving Willow again. Not ever."

"Someone else, then. Tell him..." He pulled out of thin air, "one of your old sorority sisters is getting hitched, wants a last-hurrah weekend in Vegas. I'd buy that."

Buffy blinked at him. "Okay, first of all, nobody I know is getting married, and second, stop looking into my past. It's creepy."

"What, the sorority?" He laughed. "That was an educated guess, puffin. I only looked into you that one time. I swear it!"

"God, you must have a photographic memory."

"No, but I learned memory techniques from an Indian guru once, and you're changing the subject."

"You brought up my sorority!"

"I did." He double-twitched his brow. "Did you all shower together?"

"It wasn't like the movies. We were art and literary geeks, we didn't want to live in the dorms anymore, so we... Why am I telling you this? I can't ask any one of them to lie for me."

"Doesn't have to be a real person. Think outside the box, Buffy. Make up a name, I'll have an invite sent tonight, plane ticket attached--"

"Stop." She put her finger on his devilishly persuasive lips. "No. I'm not doing this! Little lies and omissions I can handle, but a calculated ruse? That's just ...awful. And you're bullying again."

He clamped his mouth closed, fighting his impulse to argue. She could tell it was an epic inner struggle. "Right." He rolled off of her, holding up a surrendering hand. "If you honestly don't want to, I won't say another word."

Buffy sat up, twisted and pinned her hair for a shower. "It's not that I don't want to, it's that I can't."

"No, it's that you feel you shouldn't."

"Pretty much the same diff."

"Tell me one thing." He lightly traced the curve of her thigh with the back of his hand, giving her goosebumps. "If it was guaranteed there was no way he could possibly find out... would you do it?"

She faltered for a moment, and he caught it.

"I can cover all your bases, Buffy." He rose to meet her, getting close and intense again. "I can check you into a hotel on the Strip. I can reroute your calls. I can hire girls to answer phones, take pictures with you, plaster those pictures all over whatever social networks you're on, he will never know a thing--"

"This is insane! I am not that person, Spike. I can't do that. That is not me..."

"But you want to go, and I want to take you." His voice went from soft and whiny to strong and impassioned: "Let me show you what it's like to have every little thing you want."

He started kissing her collarbone, and that always drove her crazy, but she somehow managed to hold her ground. "This isn't some coastal daytrip, it's a plane ride. To an island. For an entire weekend."

"All inclusive," he teased. "Breakfast, lunch, dinner... midnight snacks..."

She whimpered as he bit her neck. "You don't understand."

"I do. More than you know." He turned her face to his. "Say you'll think about it."

* * *

"Buffy Summers."

"Still thinking?"

She peered over her cubicle at Lindsey's door. It was closed. "It's only been two hours."

"Two and a half."

"Bully," she whispered.

"Sweetheart," he said confidently, "if I was bullying you, you'd be on a plane right now."

He had a point.

"Can't blame a fellow for gentle persuasion."

"More like firm."

"If that's the way you want it," he said naughtily.

She felt her cheeks redden. "You know what I...! Goodbye."

"Wait," he said. "I have a very important question for you."

Buffy had a feeling it wasn't all that important, but she waited anyway. "What?"

"If you were to say yes, would you write a checklist?"

She rolled her eyes, and tamed her smiling lips. "Probably."

"And on that list would be..."

"You really need to know this? Right now?"

"Humor me, little working girl."

She sighed. Someone passed her cubicle, so she sanitized her tone. "What would you suggest?"

"Well, bikini. The pink one, of course."

"Of course."

"Might have to get you a gold one as well..."

"I can get my own."

"Why should you, when it's really for me?"

The back of her neck prickled. She knew she shouldn't want to dress up for him, that on the outside it appeared to objectify and demean her -- but his reaction was always one of such utter worship, not condescension; how could that ever be demeaning? "Anything else?"

"Pantyhose. At least ...six pair."

"Um... Not really island-wear."

"I want you in the whole secretary getup when we land. Then, I make you strip down to your hose and swim in the ocean, where I proceed to fuck the sensibility out of you."

He was so crazy. And so freaking cute. "End of list?"

"Mm-mm," he disagreed. "Phone charger."

"Ha ha, right. Not to be forgotten."

"All day lip shine," he said amorously.

"Check. Theoretically, I mean."

"I want to watch you pack. Theoretically."

"You have the strangest desires."

"I want to eat buttered lobster off your tummy."

"And I repeat..."

"I want to suck raw oyster out of your--"

"Okay!" She felt an unbidden throb that shouldn't be felt when coworkers were walking by. "Thank you for that... update. I will get back to you."

"Remember, kitten," he sing-songed, "all I need is a name..."

"Goodbye," she returned in sing-song.

"Hang on. One last thing, and I'll leave you alone, I promise."

She sighed.

"Check your email. Your private email."

"Why?" she asked, suspicious. "What did you do?"

"Nothing bad." He chuckled. "I promise!"

She woke up her computer screen and whispered, "This better be work safe."

"It should be in your spam folder, if I did it right."

Sure enough, there was one email in her spam folder from B. Fearless with the subject Timeshares in the Caribbean! Don't say no!

Pursing her lips, she opened it.

Picture yourself running wild in this tropical oasis...

She scrolled down a series of photos. An idyllic cove, a hammock on the beach, tropical flowers in bloom, a docked catamaran at sunset, an amazing house, ocean views...

"That last one is the view from my tub."

Spike was blatantly preying on her weaknesses: her appreciation for beauty, her untapped adventurous streak, luxurious bathtime... Him.

"Cassie," she whispered.

"Sorry?"

Spurred by the adrenaline rush of being wildly, irrevocably bad, she said, "My sorority sister's name. ...Cassie."

* * *

Cassie's getting married.

Who?

My sorority sister? Cassie Newton? I've told you about her before.

You have?

Yeah. She's throwing a bachelorette party in Vegas next weekend. I'm invited... She sent a ticket and everything. See? I swear it's all true, I'm not lying, there's gonna be pictures and actors and lies upon lies just so I can be completely alone with your irresistible Dad for two days

"What the hell am I doing?" Buffy asked herself, and took her cell phone to the roof.

* * *

"I'm about to do something drastic."

"Okay," Willow said. "How drastic?"

"He wants me to go to his, um -- He wants me to go away with him for the weekend. To the Caribbean."

"Whoa. That is drastic."

"It gets drastic...ier," she said. "He came up with this big production for an alibi... which, I'm not even sure I can pull off, or that I want to..."

"So there's your answer. Don't pull it off."

"Yeah, I realize it should be that simple, but... I really, really want to go."

"You just said you didn't want to."

"I don't want to lie to Lindsey, but I do want to go with Spike."

There was a pause, then an incredulous, "Spike?"

Oh. Crap. Eyes widening in horror, Buffy couldn't offer an explanation.

"Oh. My god. William... William Pratt," Willow pieced together. "Oh, my god, Buffy! You're having an affair with Spike Pratt?"

"I... I know how it sounds, but..."

"Do you? 'Cause it sounds to me like you're regularly having bondage fun with your husband's Dad."

"O-okay, fair enough--"

"Not just any Dad, a conservative Republican who supported the Bush administration! Both of them! And Thatcher's!"

"Well, we don't agree on everything..."

"Is it just the sex? It's got to be the sex. I can't imagine you'd have anything to talk about..."

"We do, too," Buffy said defensively. "I mean, it's... He's... The sex is... I've never had... It's ...amazing. But we talk, too. A lot. Like, a lot a lot."

"Seriously, Buffy? You jeopardized your entire life's happiness for that?"

"No... You don't understand... It's deeper than that. Okay? It's more than sex and politics, it's..." Her voice got shakier as she spoke. "It's who he is underneath it all. Who we are when we're together."

"Oh. Oh. Oh, wow, Buffy, this is bad."

"I know it's bad--"

"No! You think you're in love with him!"

Whoa, where'd that come from? "I-I didn't say that. I did not say that!"

"What's deeper than sex?"

"I am not in lo--" The forbidden word disspated into a painful puff of air. Her chest cavity hurt.

"You're right. You're not. But your behavior and the things you say are all, 'Don't judge our star-crossed love'."

Buffy slumped against a hot adobe wall.

"Okay, so, I'm gonna play the family card here because it's obvious you need tough love, not wishy-washy friend advice: Stop this. Stop doing this to yourself right now. You have no future with Spike Pratt, and if you keep this up you'll have no future with Lindsey either. This is empty plate, Buffy, all the way."

A tear spilled down her cheek. "He wants to marry me."

"Great, so, you divorce your husband and marry his father? Kill two of Lindsey's most vital relationships with one stone; cause a huge tabloid scandal... And for what? A guy who doesn't care enough about his own son to know better than to mack on his daughter-in-law?"

"I didn't say I would marry him-- Because I," she managed breathlessly, "I don't..."

"Just... Be rational for a second. Be Buffybot. Let's say it all works out. Let's say you do love him. What would your life be like with him, just the two of you, after the dust settles? Is a famous billionaire gonna let you work? Do you think you'll be happy, tucked away in his mansion all day? You want to be some trophy wife throwing garden parties, is that the life you want?"

"No." Mouth quivering, she sniffled.

Willow sighed. "I'm sorry to be so harsh, but... Someone's gotta be Perspective Girl here. You can't take this trip with him."

"I know you're right, but..." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I know you're right."

"Look at it this way," Willow reasoned. "If Spike's got it bad for you, and you give him this -- if you go away with him? He's gonna think you love him, too."

* * *

"Hello, gorgeous," Spike said, like he owned the world. "Your alibi is winging its way to you."

"Please stop answering the phone like that."

"Sorry." His voice got low and flirty. "Are you making a list? Checking it twice?"

"I can't go."

"What? Why?" Crestfallen, he asked, "What's...? I can change the date--"

"No, I mean I can't. At all. Ever," she said, powering up the Buffybot. "This is my decision. Please respect it, and don't ask me again."

He was silent for a moment. "If that's what you want."

She stared at the ground. "It is."

"Right. Well," he said, clearly stung. "You know where to find me then."

She swallowed and said, "Yeah."

* * *

Perspective Girl was right, of course. Buffy had tricked herself into believing that she was falling for Spike, but she wasn't. Not really. She was using him to cope with the profound grief of being orphaned, of losing her absent father without a sense of closure. Which wasn't fair to anyone, not least of all Spike.

Especially now that he'd opened up to her the way he had, that he'd trusted her enough to show her his soul...

She'd known, too, that they had no future, but Willow had touched on a major dead end. What could Buffy do in his world? What would be her life's purpose, beyond being his occasional arm candy? All he wanted was to keep her to himself -- he didn't want her to share her talents with the world. How could they be equals in a relationship like that?

After ripping the alibi envelope to tiny pieces, she let the kitchen trash can close and considered her husband, camped out on the couch. He was lost in research, scratching his five o'clock shadow with the cap end of a pen, wearing only his dorky reading glasses, plaid boxer shorts and black dress socks. A few months ago, this inelegant sight, his patented work-at-home look, would have made her heart swell. Now, it just made her feel sad and tired.

"Linds," she said. "Come back to bed."

He looked up at her, processing what she'd said. "You... You sure?"

"Not... sex. Not yet. Just bed. Okay?"

"Yeah," he closed his book and smiled to himself. "Okay."

* * *

The next day, Buffybot was doing just fine -- powered up for a consecutive twenty-one hours, in fact -- until she glimpsed the cryptic headline that got her blood pumping like a real girl again:

THE ARTFUL SPIKE PRATT GIVES BACK?

Gives back what?

Taking a quick look around the newsstand, as if a witness would sense her transgression, Buffy grabbed the magazine off the rack, and started turning pages.

PRATT ENTERPRISES SPINS OFF NEW ART FOUNDATION

At first, she didn't understand it, and then she couldn't believe it.

Since April -- the month he took her to Paris -- Pratt Enterprises had begun investing in art galleries and art education programs all over the globe. He'd created a new foundation for it.

The name of this new foundation?

Zeitgeist.

"You could say I was inspired by an extraordinary work of art," Pratt says.

Hand on her heart, she breathed, "Spike."







Read on... >>



A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction