Chapter 14, Part 3: Punish Me
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A/N: Van Nuys is the airport of choice for private flights to and from Los Angeles. It is also where they filmed Ingrid Bergman's take-off plane for Casablanca. Just in case you're ever on Jeopardy.
Spike got out of bed, and Buffy stared at the magic intercom thinking, I could have used that to get earplugs.
Not that she was necessarily regretful about the rabbit hole she'd tumbled into. Any rabbit hole that led to a total body high was all right with her ...as long as she could scratch her way out of it before arrival at Van Nuys.
A shining blade flashed behind her, shocking her out of her reverie. "What are you--?!" He sliced the rope in two. "Oh."
"'Oh', she says." He continued to cut her loose. "Sorry to disappoint."
"No... It was, 'Oh, so that's what the big scary knife is for'."
He closed it. "What did you think it was for?"
Rubbing her sore, rope-burned wrists, she shrugged. "Cutting through pantyhose, butchering innocent girls... Those were my top two."
"Silly Buffy. You're not innocent." He went to answer the knock at the door. "Cheers, mate," she heard him say to Nigel, then roll in a cart. "And I was thinking teeth and bare hands for the hose. Don't turn around."
"Why?" She craned her neck to see him squeezing out a hand towel.
"Would it kill you to trust me?"
"Only you know the answer to--" She startled when the warm, damp towel touched her shoulderblade, and she realized he was cleaning her off, ever so gently. "--that."
He discarded the soiled towel, then draped a wet, tingly replacement over her raw backside before blanketing that with dry towels. "Leave it for a few. Should numb the pain and take down the swelling."
Which he could matter-of-factly say because he obviously did this a lot. To hookers. Even Nigel knew the exact ratio of wet medicinal towels to dry, warm to cool... "Am I still red?"
"As a telephone box," he said, cleaning himself off. "Not to worry, it'll fade before we land. Can't say the same for your laryngitis."
That better not fade. It's my alibi.
A tall glass of ice water appeared before her and she chugged the entire thing as he returned the Clue-like array of BDSM gadgets to the bottom drawer and kicked it shut.
She touched the cool, wet tumbler to her face, rolled it over her burning-hot skin. "Can I ask you a question?"
He opened the mini fridge and looked at a plum. "You can ask."
"Bottom drawer: stocked for this occasion, or is it more of a 'smash glass in case of hooker' thing?"
Chewing, he squinted at her. "What would anger you more?"
"A lie."
"It was stocked for you. Smash glass in case of firebrand. Shall I write your name on it? 'Hookers keep out'? God knows I needed a sign for the top."
She averted her gaze. "I deserved that. I invaded your privacy, and--"
"Don't." He dropped the plum pit into the trash. "It doesn't matter."
"That footage--"
"Is ancient history," he said over her.
Then why take it wherever you go? "Also, none of my business."
"Bloody right it's not."
"Believe me, I know! It's just..., this family is secret central and I hate secrets for what they did to mine, I have this compulsion to air them out. I know it's not my place, they're your secrets to protect and I'm sorry, but I see a locked box and I get all Pandora…"
When she looked up again, Spike was eye-smiling at her.
Warily, she asked, "What?"
He moved toward her to peel her towels away, one by one. At the last, he said, "I never wanted kids."
Wait. Whoa. What? Spike Pratt was sharing? Buffy held her breath so as not to ruin it.
He covered her with a warm, dry towel, then the bedsheet. "Didn't know I had one 'til she dropped him on my doorstep. Mind if I smoke?"
"N-no, go ahead." Spike didn't know about Lindsey until the day they met?
"I thought she was playing me at first." He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and sat on the bed, back resting on the headboard. "I'd tried to break it off with her again, had a new wife, business was great... Twelve bloody years and she hasn't uttered a word. But," he sighed, "six paternity tests don't lie. The boy is mine."
Treading carefully, Buffy turned onto her side to face him. "You hadn't seen her in all that time?"
"Her?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "I'd seen her all along. She kept Lindsey tucked away in Texas with her mum, I don't expect she saw him often. When she wasn't off partying or flitting after some trackmarked busker or bloody Basquiat wannabe, she was with me."
"...and Liam?"
He watched his cigarette burn. "Like I said."
Bloody Basquiat wannabe. Got it.
"Liam had a unique gift for turning sweet girls sour. I'd always blamed him..."
She waited for him to go on. He didn't. "Lindsey thought you knew about him all along."
"'We have a son,' she says to me, May of '95. 'Here he is. Watch him 'til I get back.' Then she disappears for six months. Imagine my surprise. Never even knew she was pregnant."
"I don't understand. If she worked so hard to keep him secret, why leave him with you when her mother died? Why couldn't she just raise Lindsey herself?"
"Because she was bloody unfit, that's why," he said. "She was a drug addict, Buffy."
"Oh." She frowned. "Lindsey never mentioned..."
"Lindsey never knew. And I'd appreciate you never telling him."
"Of course." Lindsey had said that his mother's infrequent appearances were the highlights of his childhood. She'd take him on wild adventures, teach him new songs, tell him vivid stories and play outside with him for hours. Magical was the word he'd used to describe her visits. Maybe she was just high. "I won't."
"She hid it well. From all of us."
Buffy found her pillow. "She looked pretty hammered on that tape."
"Yeah. That was the first--" He breathed in. "What you saw was..." Another breath and, "It wasn't always like that, yeah? We had some good..." After a moment, he exhaled and stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. "Anyway. It's impolite to talk about exes in bed, isn't it?"
"Only if your bedmate actually cares."
He smirked. "Best not go on then."
"You are only into women who hate you and everything you stand for. What's up with that?"
"I'm a passionate man," he said with a wink, and got out of bed to open the laptop and eject the disc. "I like a woman who can take me on."
She turned her head to watch him. He really did have an amazing body. She was getting sleepy. What time was it?
As he opened the top drawer to return the disc to its place, this slipped out: "Why are you still holding on to her? She's..."
He froze for a second, then set the book down.
Buffy was just as stunned. "I don't know why I said that."
The drawer slid shut. "I do."
And if he dared to enlighten her, she was prepared to cover her ears and sing Lalalalala.
"We all take our punishments in different ways," he said, and she realized he was answering her query. "Some aren't as gratifying as yours."
Touché.
The feeling in her fingers had returned. She knew because she was compulsively thumbing her wedding band, a tic she'd developed not long after she'd met Spike.
Crunching on an ice cube, he switched off the light and got under the covers behind her.
Buffy was a little thrown. After all that, he wanted to spoon? He never ceased to confuse her.
But then he outlined her shoulder with a soft caress, and her eyelids fell closed.
"Still sting?"
She shrugged.
Spike pressed his ice-cooled lips to her shoulderblade, then kissed a tickly trail across her back as if they were a couple of lovebirds. Inappropriately ardent, yes, but it felt nice, and she was too tired to resist.
Buffy woke up coiled in Spike's embrace, flying over the eastern maw of the Grand Canyon. Just enough time, she prayed, to clean herself up, eat a hearty lunch and work on her guilt-free face.
A solid plan that was very nearly accomplished -- until he sat her on a dining table and sucked a handful of mango sorbet out of her pussy.
Guilt-free face, she found, is especially tough to practice after a butler has seen you with your thighs clamped on your father-in-law's head, shrieking hallelujah.
Gazing at her flushed reflection in the bathroom mirror, ten minutes to landing, she said, "You're fucked."
Read on... >>
ETA: This story is not even close to being done, by the way. The outline alone, starting with the plane landing, spans 26 pages, and chapter 14 was just the start of Act II (in a three-act story). So, have a seat, relax, and expect a nice, long meal. We haven't even gotten to the creamy center yet.
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.