Let's Talk About Sex
by
Estepheia
Part Thirty-One
I see you shiver with Anticipation
As Spike arrived at the hotel to pick up his stuff he was in a good mood. Hell, better than good. He felt as high as a kite, only without the drugs, as if he’d just single-handedly slaughtered himself a bunch of Polgara demons.
It was a bit disconcerting that such intense emotion should be caused by a young man who, only two years ago, had looked like the vampire equivalent of a candy bar: colorful on the outside - What is it with those hideous shirts? - and yummy on the inside.
Am I getting soft with old age? Spike wrestled with the question for a moment as he stuffed his freshly laundered and ironed shirts into a duffel bag.
Nah! Emptying the contents of the mini bar into his duster pockets and checking out of the hotel without paying helped ease his mind.
Still evil? Check.
He climbed into the car and chucked a CD into the new player he’d “organized” for the deSoto. He fast forwarded to the fourth track. He turned up the volume to a sufficiently evil level, rolled down the windows to share his new loudspeakers with the rest of the world and blared through the night. He felt like singing. So he did. Right, so maybe the words didn’t really go with his big bad image but it wasn’t like anyone was around to hear him. At least no one that knew him. Besides, he’d always loved the show, ever since he’d seen it in a small London theatre in the mid-Seventies.
“… Don’t get strung out
by the way I look,
don’t judge a book by its cover,
I’m not much of a man by the light of day,
But by night I’m one hell of a loveeeer…”
Guess I should rent the film for Harris and Anya sometime, or - even better - take them to see the show. I’m sure Anya would enjoy the spectacle and it’d be fun to see Harris blush.
He started.
Hey, I’m making plans! Plans that don’t involve death and mayhem. Guess I really am getting soft. But he was in too good a mood to let it bother him.
During the drive to Sunnydale, that sense of big happy stayed with him. He bobbed his head with the music and enjoyed the wind rushing through the open windows. But as he approached the apartment block where Xander and Anya lived he allowed himself to be serious for a moment and examine his feelings.
He knew quite well where that rare elation came from…
Now, love was a funny thing. A force of nature, stronger than the forces of good and evil. It was blood not brains, and it had nothing to do with choice or even like or dislike. It was great and made you feel alive and it set you abuzz and it made your whole being tingle with anticipation and possessiveness. It was also terrifying like a drug craze and it made you lose control. It could also hurt you, crush you and twist you out of shape. It could bring out your best and it could bring out your worst.
Spike had always loved being in love. Even when Dru had broken up with him and he’d wallowed in misery he’d never wished for love to stop. Loving Buffy was different, though. Those feelings had left him miserable and often made him wish he could just stop. Worst of all, loving Buffy had made him feel utterly lonely.
Bugger this!
Unrequited love was something for Arthurian knights, not for vampires.
Fortunately, the thing between Harris and him had nothing to do with love. Or if it did, he just didn’t want to know, cause his unlife was already complicated enough. It wasn’t just about sex, either – however marvelous that had been. That was just the juicy mouth-watering cherry on top.
The “thing” between Harris and himself was, in a way, more precious than love and more satisfying than sex. It wasn’t based on hormones or genetic programming or whatever it was that made people fall in love. It was also something Spike had never had, throughout his existence, dead or alive, something he hadn’t known he was missing. Until recently.
Sometimes, he and Dru had come close. Sometimes, when she wasn’t throwing tea parties for Miss Edith or plotting the end of the world, he’d felt an inkling of it. Spike remembered with fondness nights they’d spent going to the movies or cabarets; sneaking into zoos to taste the blood of exotic animals; playing Rummy; or watching “Passions” and eating popcorn. But those moments had become rarer and rarer as his Princess went through nostalgic phases more often, pining for her own time and growing irritated with the things Spike enjoyed, like fast cars, loud music and bustling music festivals.
He parked the deSoto, grabbed his bag and approached the building, momentarily uncertain. All the windows were dark except for one. An inviting yellow glow shone out of Xander’s living room window. As Spike looked up at the balcony he felt a strange mixture of anticipation and apprehension. This was uncharted territory. If he went up there the rules would change.
He’d have to drop his shields, the pretence, the big bad act…
The vampire lit himself a cigarette and scanned the horizon. Dusk was already approaching. The sky had lost its blackness, but there was still enough time to get back into the car and drive to the cemetery. Maybe that’s where he belonged.
If he went up to that balcony he’d probably have to stop treading on the dark side, too - at least for a lifetime. No more big checks in the ‘still evil’-column. Didn’t mean he had to turn into a knight in shining armor… God forbid! But it certainly meant changing some of his ways.
He crushed his half-smoked cigarette underfoot.
What the heck! Been walking in the twilight for the last couple of years. More or less. Gets easier with time.
It wasn’t really a difficult decision. Xander, who’d already seen more of the bumbling poet and the love-struck Romeo than anyone else (except maybe Buffy), had unwittingly made the one offer Spike couldn’t refuse. “Right then.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and climbed up. He pushed against the door. Sure enough they had left it open. Spike slipped inside and inhaled deeply, catching a faint trace of the inhabitants’ lingering scents.
There were three lit candles sitting on the dining room table. He could have seen just as well without the illumination, but he liked their welcoming glow.
There were sheets and pillows on the sofa. Spike walked over to the makeshift bed and silently set his bag down on the floor. He ran his hand over the white pillow. It felt smooth and it smelled clean and fresh.
He smiled. A door closes, another one opens. All kinds of images were swirling through his mind: Xander, Anya and him riding a roller coaster; Xander and him watching soccer matches on telly; hanging out at the Bronze with the Scoobies. Gotta teach Xander how to play snooker. He was looking forward to hours of talking, listening, laughing and arguing.
There were bound to be setbacks. “So what,” he said quietly to himself. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
After almost a hundred and twenty years of being dead this was the first time anyone had ever called him a friend. He wasn’t about to mess this up.
Part Thirty-Two
With a Vengeance
Crawling between those nice fresh sheets while reeking of booze and tobacco somehow seemed inappropriate. Besides, he was far too chipper to go to bed. Spike decided to take a quick shower to get the smell out of his skin and hair, and then unwind in a nice hot bath.
Fifteen minutes later he was ready to climb into the tub. He had moved the kitchen radio to the bathroom again and set it to play one of a pitifully small number of CDs in this household that were NOT Country or stuff like 'My Fair Lady.' The name of the band didn't ring a bell, but anything 80s was bound to be better than those 50s musicals. Really have to do something about Harris's education, he snickered, meaning not just the young man's taste in music. And Anya's, too.
His cock perked up at the thought, but not in a desperate 'do-it-now!'-way. It was more of an enthusiastic 'sounds-like-a-plan-count-me-in' vibe. Spike ignored the proof of his arousal and stepped into the hot water.
He sighed contentedly as he slid beneath the surface. There was nothing as soothing and relaxing as soaking in hot water. He leaned back, letting his arms rest on the rim of the tub and closed his eyes in something akin to rapture. As delicious warmth seeped into him, his thoughts drifted aimlessly until they finally settled on an important matter.
He'd have to get Anya a birthday present, one that she could actually open in front of her friends. So, no dildo-shaped threesome-voucher. He smiled lazily at the image. He could almost hear the 'you're a pig, Spike'-chorus of the girls. Chocolate? Lame. Perfume? As if she didn't already have plenty of bottles cluttering the bathroom. Jewelry? Would look very odd, coming from him. Something magical? Bit like carryin' coals to Newcastle.
He realized that he didn't have the faintest idea what kind of thing a vengeance demon turned human might like. I'd better ask Xander for some pointers.
More lingerie, maybe? She'd liked the set of underwear he'd given her as compensation for the torn bra (which was somehow still among Spike's possessions even though it no longer carried her scent). But he had no way of knowing if she'd ever worn the lot. I wonder if Xander got any fun out of it...
His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Anya. Can I come in?"
"Sure, after all it's YOUR bathroom."
The door opened. Anya looked absolutely stunning. She was dressed in a red silk kimono style dressing gown that was embroidered with dragons and Japanese unicorns. It revealed quite a bit of cleavage.
"Oh, um... hi, Anya," Spike said sheepishly, taking a good look. "I was just thinking of you."
"Spike," she said, smiling strangely. "So, you're back. We were very worried when you suddenly disappeared without a trace. We missed you."
She walked towards him. The folds of her kimono parted revealing a bra and a delicate pair of lace panties in black and burgundy red. Which answered the question he had asked himself earlier, namely whether the underwear he'd nicked for her fit. It obviously fit her...very well.
"Yeah?" he replied, more than slightly distracted by Anya's breathtaking appearance. "I mean, I...um... missed you, too...um... both of you," he answered a little less articulate than usual. God, she's beautiful! To touch those pretty breasts, to feel her nipples harden under his caress... His cock which had been quite soft and lazy, content to just absorb the warmth of the water, made its growing interest known.
She bent over him as if to kiss him on the cheek. Her hands clasped his wrists that were resting on the rim of the bath tub. There was something cool and slippery to her touch that startled him out of his daze, but it was too late.
"Shackle," she said and withdrew. The smile on her face was gone and replaced by a cold mask. Suddenly, where her hands had touched his wrists there were thin metal bands that instantly turned into sturdy iron shackles, which welded themselves to the bathtub, effectively manacling his hands to the tub.
"Bloody hell! What is this? Anya?" Spike scoffed. He resisted the urge to fly into a rage. Instead, he forced himself to stay calm. He tried the manacles, without success. "What is this?" he asked again, studying her resolved face. "Is this some kind of game? Hadn't figured you to be into chains 'n' stuff."
But he already knew this wasn't a game. He felt a cold chill spreading through him.
Anya studied his efforts with grim concentration. Satisfied that the shackles would hold, she pulled a wooden stake out of her robe.
Oh, bugger! Spike tensed. He doubled his efforts to break free. The manacles cut into his flesh but they didn't give.
"They're enchanted," she informed him. Her voice was strangely flat. "You are wasting your time."
"Anya..." he said, searching her face for a sign of hesitation. "What's going on?"
Spike had no doubt that Anya was capable of staking him. She wasn't exactly suffering from an excess of conscience.
God I always knew I'd get done in by a woman. Just reckoned a Slayer would give me the send off, not a mortal ex-demon ten times my age. And for what? For shagging her boytoy. For a not-quite-all-the-way-shag, to boot.
What a way to go down! Not in a good fight, slashing and bashing at overwhelming odds, but staked while soaking naked in a demon girl's bathtub, with a soddin' erection, too, that was fortunately concealed by copious amounts of scented bubbles. An' my ashes flushed down the drain smelling like bleedin' coconuts. I'll never live it down, not in a million years of burning in hell.
Anya was watching him closely, her face expressionless. Her detachment was much more unsettling than any display of righteous anger could have been.
Spike swallowed, feeling genuine fear rushing through him. He wasn't ready to die the true death, especially not now. But he wasn't going to beg. Big Bads don't beg, not unless it's part of a cunning plan. He braced himself for the brief stab of pain and whatever came afterwards, while wracking his brain for the right words to say.
What on earth is she waiting for?
"Did you seduce my fiancé?"
His first reflex was to deny everything. Not that denial ever helped. He ALWAYS took the rap. Still, old habits die hard and he opened his mouth to do a verbal back-pedal, when he realized that A) he didn't really want to lie to her - Why start now?, and B) he wasn't quite sure who had seduced whom, so C) being truthful was a bit tricky and oh fuck D) he was taking too long to answer because Anya was unceremoniously climbing into the tub for better leverage, causing water and foam to slosh onto the bathroom floor. Using a strategically placed knee and her left hand to pin him down she took aim and without much further ado Anya plunged the business end of her stake into his chest.
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