[Zlataslawa]

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 9: Just Wait


awesome banner by sourbuckley


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"What are we doing, Spike?"

With a philosophical squint, he said, "I think they call it 'walking'."

"Yes, away from that thing they call a 'conference'." The subtext being, if she wasn't doing what her husband believed she was doing here, how could she keep a clear conscience? Or even a partly translucent one? It didn't matter that said husband had yet to report back post-Lilah encounter. She believed in him. And she believed in herself, of course; completely! But still... "Shouldn't we be less with the walking and more with the working?"

"You are working. Been on the clock since noon."

"So far I've sat with you at an executive luncheon, or should I say an asskissathon in your honor, only to be leered at by your smarmy friends and now," she gestured at a weeping willow tree, "we're strolling through a pretty park."

"Those weren't my friends. And I thought you did a bang-up job. Way you cut them all down without actually saying anything offensive..." He chuckled. "Now that's art."

"So my job is to entertain you by belittling your friends."

"No, that's a bonus, and I told you, those people aren't my friends." He patted his suit pockets and found a pack of Gitanes. "Your job is to make sure I'm at my best. Let me know my tie's on straight; if I've something in my teeth, that sort of thing."

Seriously? "Have you tried a mirror?"

"I'd much prefer to look at you."

She averted her gaze and closed her trench coat. "That's not a very colleague-y thing to say."

"Colleague--?" He remembered his promise. "Right. Well, as colleagues go, you happen to be unusually easy on the eyes."

She sighed. "Just admit it, Spike. You flew me out here to be your escort."

"Escort?" Tapping the pack against his hand, he twitched a brow at her. "Decide to give me a tumble after all?"

Again with the involuntary blushing. "Not that kind of escort."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Flying you out here to keep me company. I must be some sort of diabolical fiend. What will I think of next?"

She watched him suck a cigarette out of the pack, his forehead crumpled like James Dean. "What happened to the cigars?"

"You said you didn't like them."

"Unfiltered French tobacco, not much of an aroma improvement, F.Y.I."

He closed his Zippo, savored an inhale. "There are limits to what I'll do for you."

Yeah, right, she almost said aloud before catching the odd of that sentiment.

* * *

"Something I need to do here," was his only explanation as he walked up to a ritzy stone building at the park's end. "It'll be quick."

"This isn't your flat, is it? Because if it is--"

"It's not my flat." He rang the bell, took a deep, bracing breath and turned to her. "Do I look all right?"

Forced to acknowledge Spike's undeniable all right-ness to her conscious mind -- and to his face -- Buffy blinked and stammered. "W... Uh... Y-you look--" To her shock, the word yummy sprang to mind and stayed there. "Yu-huh."

That peep of an answer didn't quite satisfy him. What did he want from her?

"You look-- really -- the tie? Well tied. I told you, you're better off with a mirr... wh-wh-what are you--" He was fixing her coat collar and his knuckles kept grazing her neck, making the skin prickle. "Touching!"

He held up his hands and said without irony, "Sorry. Sorry."

A man answered the door and nodded at Spike.

When they followed the man through the grand foyer into a tranquil garden area, Spike compulsively took Buffy's hand, and she came to a startling realization: he was nervous.

Who in the world could make Spike Pratt nervous?

A tiny old woman in a wheelchair sat at the foot of a fountain, scrutinizing them with sharp, wary eyes. "William?"

Nearly crushing Buffy's hand by this point, he said, "Hello, Mother."

Buffy was almost glad he was holding on to her, because otherwise she might have fallen over. Or run.

Lindsey had never mentioned his paternal grandparents -- she'd always assumed there weren't any. Yet, here it was: solid proof that Spike Pratt was born from woman, not forged in the bowels of Hell.

"Who's the girl?"

"This is Buffy. Buffy Anne Summers."

Drawing herself out of her stunned silence, Buffy managed a smile. "H-hello, it's very nice to--"

"I don't like her."

Okay then. Definitely born from this woman.

"You don't know her, Mum. You'd quite like her if we had time to stay."

Eyes widening, Buffy thought, Spike just took me home to Mother!

"Too bad we're so busy," she said to Spike, wresting free of his vise-like grip. ...and I'm so married to your son.

"You and your American blondes," her grandmother-in-law said in French. "When will you ever learn? They're vapid, greedy whores. Whatever you do, don't marry her."

No worries, grandmère! I married his illegitimate American son instead. Together, we plan to make several vapid, greedy, whorish heirs to the Pratt family throne. See ya next Christmas!

She couldn't exactly say that, so instead she replied in French, "I'm not a natural blonde. And he should be so lucky."

Livid, she turned on her heel and walked out.

Before she slammed the door, she heard the old woman cackling.

* * *

"Not a natural blonde?" Spike said when he finally caught up to her. "I feel gypped."

"Go find a Swede."

He laughed. "You should have stuck 'round to hear her reaction."

"Let me guess," she walked faster, as if that could somehow lose him. "She wants to have an affair with me now."

"Good one. But no. She had a change of heart. Really likes you."

"I really don't like her."

"'S'all right, no one does." He sniffed. "She's an evil bitch."

"Hmm."

"Don't 'hmm' at me. I'm not her. People do like me."

"Really? Name one person who likes you, and not for your money or your fame or whatever you can do for them."

"You." He stopped in the street. "You like me."

"No, I hate you."

"Only on principle. Strip that away, fact is, you like me."

That wasn't the point. What was the point? Under his slow-spreading grin, it took her a moment to return the subject to its proper place.

"I can't believe you took me to meet your mother! My grandmother-in-law -- without so much as a warning!"

"Would you have come in if I'd warned you?"

She paused. "Probably?"

"Look. I had to see her, and it's nice to have a buffer with me when I do, end of story."

"Buffy as buffer. Another thrilling aspect of my ever-changing job descrip." She rolled her eyes and began walking again. "So why did you have to see her?"

"Oh, you know. She's dying. At long last. Anyway, I've got to stop in whenever I come to Paris or the..." he wiggled his fingers, "guilt eats at me."

"I thought sociopaths didn't have guilt."

He smiled as if she was a cute kid who'd just said the darnedest thing, and took her hand. "Come on. Let me make it up to you."

She whined. "I can't take any more surprises, Spike. Where are we going?"

"Not sure yet. That's part of the fun."

* * *

Buffy's inner teenager was elated.

Ignoring rows of people waiting in lines for boat tours, Spike had marched to the water's edge and bribed his way into a private ride in a canopied cruiser. She got over the guilt the minute it started to meander through the quaint canals of the Saint-Martin district, and when he began to tell fascinating stories about the places they passed.

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"Good question." He sat back in his chair. "The answer is... I don't."

"You..." Her jaw dropped as he laughed at her. "You just made all of that up?"

"For someone smart as you, you're remarkably gullible."

She gasped and swatted his arm. Then his thigh. He gave her a meaningful glance and she covered her mouth. Bad touch! "Ohgodsorry."

"Second strike," he said. "Next one you're out. Or should I say 'in'?"

"Hey, wait, no. No to the in and out. That was an accident, and so was the last one. I was pissed off, I wasn't... turned on."

"Two emotions that are so easily confused."

"Tch." She smirked at him.

"Just tell me this. Are you having fun?"

"Do you always have to point it out to me when I am?"

"Until you admit you like me, yeah."

"Never happen." Her phone chimed, and she quickly fished it out of her purse. A message from one of her new Parisian friends: still in town tomorrow? come to my show...

"Not little Lindsey, then?"

Was it that obvious? "Not your business."

"Right, well, remember it's only five AM back home." He lit a Gitanes. "Give him a chance to wake up and send her on her merry way."

"Ha ha," she said, not laughing as she dropped the phone into her purse. "You said it yourself. He wouldn't cheat on me."

"Well, bugger, I take it back. Be dead easy to use this to my advantage, you know."

"Good thing you hate taking the easy route."

"Yeah." Smoke streamed out of his nose as he took in the scenery. "Good thing."

"I'm curious, Spike," Buffy said. "How's the magic affair calculator doing? Still on schedule?"

He smiled wickedly. "Ahead of."

"What does that mean?"

"Permission to speak frankly, no risk of breaching our agreement?"

"Sure," she said, not so sure.

"It means despite everything, despite the fact that I can't touch you or flirt with you or even make you think your husband is a duplicitous cad, tomorrow morning you'll be clinging to my naked back, quivering," he stared at her lips, "begging me to let you come just one. More. Time."

An unwelcome tingle radiating down her front, she scoffed. "Permission over."



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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.


Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic