— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
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