Chapter 12 (Part 2 of 2): Devil May Care
awesome banner by sourbuckley
A/N: This isn't much, I know. But at least it's something, right? And there's much more to come. Sexy-wise.
FYI: This takes place shortly after we last saw them. [ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]
"Have you seen Buffy?"
Spike plucked her tattered gold dress off the floor, held it to his nose. "Quite a bit."
"I mean today. I haven't heard from her--"
"Were you expecting hourly updates?" He balled it up and cast it in the trash. "The girl's in Paris."
There was a pause. "It's been almost two days."
"Well, that's different." Spike's stomach growled and he craved cold fruit, as he always did after fantastic sex. Perusing the breakfast spread for the perfect gala apple, he said, "Pity; I had such high hopes for you two."
Flustered, Lindsey said, "We're fine. It's just, she's not answering my calls... I need to know when you last saw her."
The door to the master bath opened and the girl in question came out, freshly scrubbed of sin -- until she caught his grave expression; the hush-finger over his lips.
Spike could almost see the synapses bursting behind her gigantic, horrified eyes. Luckily she had him for an envoy.
"You can call off the search and rescue." Slicing the apple one-handed, Spike delivered her alibi with brilliant detachment, as if the subject of Buffy bored him. "I threw a mixer here last night. Started raining cats and dogs, I insisted she sleep in the guest quarters." He bit an apple slice off of the knife. "Not out of kindness, mind you; her frock was on loan from Dior."
"She's there?"
"She was. You literally just missed her." Crunching noisily, Spike opened her handbag to inspect the powered-off phone. "And I wouldn't take the radio silence personally. No one ever remembers the bleeding battery charger, do they? Her phone's completely dead."
In his periphery, Buffy flailed.
"Dead...? She didn't pack the charger?"
"What? You think I'm making this up?" The flailing intensified. It was downright distracting. "Let me tell you it's no easy feat, scoring a replacement for an ancient 'Blueberry'. I offered to buy her a real one, but you know how she is. Proud in her poverty. Now look where it's got her."
A lighter flared and Lindsey dragged and exhaled. "Guess I'll try the hotel again."
"Oh come on." Spike had to buy Buffy some time -- she couldn't possibly converse with him in this state. "She's got less than an hour left of holiday, doesn't need it filled with 'I miss you's. Can't you wait 'til she gets home?"
"How 'bout I decide when I talk to my own wife?"
"Touchy," Spike snickered. "Do what you want, all right? I've got a plane to catch."
"Thanks, I will." Click.
Little too touchy, Spike observed. Maybe the boy was more perceptive than he thought.
Oh, well.
"What the hell, Spike?" Buffy chirped, not at all appreciative. "Why would you say that?!"
Spike was shocked. Could she really not see that he'd done her a service? That he'd run damage control so she wouldn't have to? "What you want me to say, then? Don't know where you are? Have him phoning the consulate, the hospitals? Fat lot of good that would do you."
"No, that's not what I--"
"Or maybe, you prefer honesty. 'Your wife? She's right here, in my bedroom. Can't talk just now though, laryngitis you see from all the screaming as it turns out she's not been properly shagged before last night. Care for a few pointers, son?'"
"He put the charger into my bag," she said slowly, voice and body tremulous with rage. "He said, 'Whatever you do, don't forget the charger.' That's when I checked it off of my list and zipped up my bag."
"Oh." He scratched his neck. "Well, hell." Then: "You made a checklist?" He suddenly wanted to see it. 1) The rosy lipgloss Spike loves. 2) Gray pencil skirts to fuel Spike's new secretary fetish. "How office girl of you."
His budding arousal was ignored, however, what with her being in the throes of a full-fledged panic attack.
She paced the room, talking to herself. "How am I gonna get out of this now? How can I possibly explain... any of it? Oh, god. He knows. He has to know!"
"He doesn't know anything." Stopping her in mid-pace, he caught her gaze. "We can fix this."
She stared at him like he was a hideous rash. "What do you care?"
"I care about you--"
"Okay, stop. Stop right there. You don't care about me."
"Yeah, I do--"
"You can't care about me! You lost that privilege the second you ignored my love for your son."
He tutted. "Don't get self-righteous with me, pet. You lost that privilege the second you stuck your tongue down my throat."
"I don't want you caring about me!"
"Why?" He cocked his head. "Because it makes you all confused inside?"
"No. Because it makes me want to strangle you."
He chuckled, mouth closed. She couldn't know the significance of that statement, that the mere suggestion made his cock stiff. "Knock yourself out, baby."
"Ugh." She pulled the towel off her head to dry her hair. "I can't believe I let this happen."
He took the towel from her. "This was meant to happen."
"Meant to...? You made this happen. You made this happen for the single solitary reason that you wanted it to. This wasn't kismet, Spike, this was manipulation."
"Oh was it? Neat trick, that, me manipulating your lips onto my mouth!"
"Yes! That's exactly what you did and you know it! The looming threats, the countdown -- that's textbook psychology. You made up a date and let me freak out over the how and when. You gave me a self-fulfilling prophecy, all you had to do was wait!"
"And all you had to do was not fulfill it."
"Believe me, I will regret that moment of weakness for the rest of my life."
"Moment? Since when is twelve hours a moment?"
"Fine, the moment that kicked off a twelve hour black hole of regret!"
"That's not regret you're feeling, kitten, that's guilt. Brought on by the sobering reminder that you do, in fact, have a husband, and that you have been thoroughly indulging in an adulterous affair with me, your dear old daddy-in--"
Slap.
He grabbed her wrists and invaded her space. "You know as well as I do he hadn't called just now, you'd be on your knees begging for another go. I opened up a whole new world for you last night, and you are throbbing at the thought of total exploration. Admit it."
Her eyelids fluttered. "You make me sick."
"I set you free."
"Is that what you call this?" She flexed her hands, and he realized he was still clutching her.
Chastened, he let go, but didn't give her wiggle space. "The plane is--"
"I'm not getting on a plane with you! I'll find my own way home."
"W--" She couldn't mean that, could she? Not after he'd shown her the time of her life!
He tried to kiss her. She shoved him away.
"No! This is over."
"This is far from--"
"Do not kiss me. Do not touch me. Do not speak to me ever again."
"Yeah, you say that now, while you're sated. Tell me, what'll you say when you get hot and tingly again?"
"Fuck you." She hustled to the door. "That's what I'll say."
"Not quite how I remember it. Seems there was a pronoun switch last night." He couldn't force her to stay, but he could force her to face the truth. "'Fuck me, Spike! Touch my spot and whisper naughty French in my ear and fuck me, fuck me all night long.' Ring any bells, minette?"
"Stop following me!" She fluttered about the atrium, little polkadotted suitcase rolling behind her. "Where is this stupid guest room I allegedly slept in?"
"'Fuck me with your tongue, Spike! Ooh, ooh! It's so! fucking--'"
"--Shut up!--"
"'--long! Ohhhh you're so good, Spike, so good, it's so not fair, you're the devil! Please, please--'
"--'Pied-à-terre' he says. FYI, when there's an elevator inside of it, it's not a pied-à-terre, nor a flat. It's a building.--"
"--'Please make me come again, Spike, I need to -- yeah, yeah, oh OH OHHHH--'"
The guest room door slammed shut in his face.
Not easily defeated, Spike went to his room and dialed a number.
"Yes, Mr. Pratt?"
"Book every flight from Paris to L.A. over the next two days. Everything under, oh, three grand. Connecting ports included. Do it quickly, cancel them in an hour."
"I don't under--"
"Just do it." He closed the phone.
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.