Title:  Pillow Talk

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  PG so far.  That will change.

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Notes:  A Spuffy story that starts in early Season 6 before deviating from canon.   

Thanks: To Keswindhover and revdorothyl for the beta.

The story begins here.

Chapter 14

Wayne didn't look much like a teenage girl's ideal "older man."  He was only thirtyish, with warm brown eyes and a nice smile, but he looked like he’d been working on his beer belly for most of Dawn’s lifetime.  His hairline was in full retreat, while his overbite would put many a vampire to shame.  He wore a stained apron and held a metal spatula in one hand.  He greeted Dawn with a shout, waving her in through the broad loading dock at the back of the butcher’s shop. 

"Sorry about the smoke," he said, reaching down his free hand to help Dawn climb onto the floor of the dock, which was a raised block of cement large enough for a semi to pull up and unload lots and lots of dead cow. 

Buffy jumped up on the dock unassisted, intent on finding the source of the flames she’d seen as they approached.  It wasn’t a job that required much in the way of detective skills.

"That’s some barbecue you’ve got going," she said, staring down at the grill just inside the door.  It was loaded with several very thick steaks, all oozing red juice and sizzling grease.  

Wayne flipped the huge slabs over, splashing blood on his already soaked apron and briefly surrounding the three of them in a cloud of smoke.  "Yeah.  Gotta cook with charcoal.  Propane’s easier but it just doesn’t give the right taste."

Waving aside the fog, Buffy saw that a large crate had been pulled up next to the grill.  On it sat a plate, a knife and fork, a bottle of Worchester sauce and many bottles of beer.   Most of the bottles were empty.  Closer inspection revealed a large pile of charred bones next to the crate.  The bits of meat clinging to them were still red-tinged. 

"More steak will be up in a sec," said Wayne amiably.  "There’s plenty, if you want some. Everyone else took the day off.  Said they were tired of meat. "  He shook his head sadly. "Can't imagine that.  Terry actually said he was going to the vegetarian Indian restaurant."

Buffy looked around at huge carcasses of cows and pigs hanging from the ceiling, and the enormous gutted corpses left half-disemboweled, draining blood and worse onto the huge stainless steel tables where the butchers worked.  Off to one side, another table was covered with a pile of dead chickens that had been abandoned before more than three or four of them had been chopped into neat bits and sorted.  Buckets full of what Buffy resolutely refused to think of as anything but "inside parts" were waiting to be discarded or (she shuddered) made into something sold for actual human consumption.  Note to self: never eat sausage again.  "People are strange that way."

"I'll have mine medium well."  Dawn's voice was eager, but any positive reaction Buffy's stomach might have had to the smell of barbeque had been canceled out by her inspection of the premises.  Just as she thought her stomach was finally settling, she saw something that made her gut lurch.  Huddled back against a wall, partly hidden from her view by the hanging carcasses, was a figure in dark clothes.

"Can I toss one on for you?" Wayne's amiable voice repeated.

"Not my kind of 'steak,' thanks," said Buffy, her eyes still on Spike.  She stepped forward cautiously.

"Oh, yeah, the vampire." Wayne’s tone was vague.  His interest in the topic of Spike seemed to have waned since his phone call.  "He gave me some money to visit the liquor store, and he’s been sulking back there ever since.  Damn near drunk up the supply of blood we had set aside for the evening rush.  Hey, Dawn, do you want me to cook yours plain or with sauce?  I don’t have any fancy stuff, just the Worchester.  I don't like masking the taste of good beef."

Buffy had dodged her way around a dangling cow and she was standing in front of Spike now.  He was sitting with his back to the rough wall, one arm resting on an upraised knee, his other leg stretched out along the stained floor. From one hand he dangled a squarish bottle that held a few inches of amber liquid.  Beside him were a half-dozen, red-stained, cheap plastic containers, each apparently dropped as it had been emptied.  Tilted against the wall was a paper bag with another bottle peeking out of it, and a third lay empty on its side near his boot.

She squatted on his other side, watching him carefully.  He seemed to be working very hard at not meeting her eyes.  "Well," she said at last.  "Wayne seems kind of nice.  Pretty much taking this whole thing in stride."

Spike's laugh was bitter.  "This is Sunnydale.  The butchers don’t just sell blood, they run weekly specials and put up signs out back when they’ve got veal or lamb to offer instead of just cow or pig."  He stubbed out a cigarette.  "Sometimes, they even get the real exotics, like otter.  Those nights, Wayne slips me a free sample to keep rest of the clientele polite."

"You don't stake the other vamps who come here?"

He felt around in his pockets, scowling when he came up with nothing but an empty, crumpled cigarette pack.  "Sorry to disappoint you, Slayer, but I'm in the fight for the fun of it, not because I have a sacred mission.  There's no joy in staking some poor little sod who's afraid to take a nip straight from the veins."

Buffy was about to protest when she remembered an emaciated, desperate vamp in an alley.  It was no use kidding herself.  That creature had died because she'd touched Buffy's boyfriend, however willing Riley had been.  It had nothing to do with sacred missions.  My moral high ground has been sinking for a long time.  "No," she agreed.  "I suppose if they're not killing or making more like themselves—"  She stopped.  "Why is everything always so hard?  Not just doing it, figuring out what to do?"

"Buggered if I know."   He held out the bottle.

She pushed it aside.  Spike's cheap booze didn't fall under the category of things she craved.  It brought her memories of a brief drunken respite from pain, but those were trumped by a more searing recollection of a very long hangover. 

"Not what I’m hungry for, Spike."

He held the bottle before his face and stared at it.  "It's losing its charm for me, too.  Don't know what's gotten into me today. Woke up needing blood, and a half-dozen pints later I'm ready to puke it back up but part of me is still empty.  I'm almost two bottles down, but this rot-gut doesn't even take the edge off.  And—"  He looked at her.

"What?" She heard her response as an anxious croak.

"Doesn't do to even ask, does it?"  A slight slurring in his words contradicted his insistence that the whisky was having no effect.  "Woke up wanting three things.  Blood, booze, and a lady.  The first two don't work, and the lady only tolerates me because she can't get up the courage to tell her tales of woe to anyone she really cares about.  That's the smorgasbord of my unlife: stale, flat and unshaggable."

He stood up and began pacing back and forth, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands.  Crouched on the floor below him, Buffy felt as if the blood were draining from her face.  "I don't—"

"You don't what?"  He whirled to face her for a second, then went back to his pacing with a dismissive gesture.  "Put up with the pet vampire because he's so besotted he'll keep your secrets?  Let him entertain your sister so you don't have to pretend you're alive?  Let him follow you around on patrol so you don't have to be bothered paying attention?  That way, if some nasty, bad monster takes you out, it's not your fault.  Spike can take the blame."  He had stopped a few feet away, and was staring at her with cold anger now.  "After all, the guilt will just keep reminding him to take care of Dawn when you're gone.  It doesn't matter that he'll be dragged through hell again.  It doesn't matter what a dead man feels."

She winced.  "No, Spike I—"  I wouldn't.  Would I?  Would I make him go through that—again?

I've been careless enough.  Yes, I could have done that. 

He turned away from her and paced deliberately past the rows of hanging carcasses towards the open door of the dock.  There was no truck blocking the door now.  It was a rectangle of bright sunlight that splashed across the nasty stains on the concrete and cut through the smoke of the barbeque grill.

Every scuff mark on Spike ancient boot was clearly visible when he set it down in that patch of sunlight, although the rest of him seemed to waver in a cloud of smoke.  "’Tis not so deep a fall as a bloody treacle well, but ‘tis wider than any church door, and ‘twill serve…"  He raised his other foot. 

Buffy had been so horrified by his words, it took her almost too long to realize his intentions.  She felt the world around her blur as she sped to grab his arms and pull him safely back, deep into the darkness, shoving him against a wall in the icy shadows near the freezer.  "What are you doing?  You can’t—"

He shoved her back, hard enough now to make her shoulders twinge.  "Why not?  Why the hell not, Slayer?  Oh, that’s right, I forgot.  You have the monopoly on swanning about showing off your pretty death wish, don’t you?"  Another shove, harder than the last one.  "Yet another thing a vampire doesn’t have a right to do in your sunny world, because it trespasses on your sweet, souled, sanctimonious Slayerhood."

"Spike—"

"You never have to stop to think about what I'm hungry for, to worry about my hurt, because I'm dead, and the dead don't count, do they?  Must be convenient, that!" 
 
Buffy decided this was not the time for rational discussion.  They were halfway to the loading dock again.  She tackled him, taking them both down to sprawl on the horrible cold floor, lying almost directly under one of the bovine corpses. 

He didn't fight her, as she had expected.  The anger in his eyes had changed to something else.  "Hungry.  So hungry."  There were flecks of gold in his avid stare.

She was crouching over him, hands against his chest, clutching the thin fabric of his shirt.  Her cheeks grew hot and wet.  "Me too.  Me too."

He placed gentle hands on her shoulders, pulled her closer and began to lick the tears from her face.  She felt her whole body shudder, and before more tears could flow, she turned her head slightly.

There was still a metallic tang of blood in his mouth.  She could smell other blood all around her, too, but its aroma had to compete for the attention of her senses with the taste of whisky and the acrid bite of burnt cigarettes, stronger now than the clean charcoal scent of Wayne’s fire.  The ashy smell reminded her of staked vampires, except on him it was inextricably mixed with the fragrance of old leather and—something else. 

She couldn’t believe how good he tasted, blood, bad booze, cigarettes and all.  Better than mocha with whipped cream good.  Better than strawberry cheesecake good.  Better than cheesecake with dark chocolate drizzled on it when you were supposed to be on a diet.  She opened her mouth wider, wanting to taste more, wanting all of him.  Her arms had gone around his shoulders at some point, and she pulled him tighter, drowning in sensation. 

After months of feeling nothing, it was overwhelming to suddenly feel everything, all her senses alert and every nerve letting her brain know that it was there and, oh, yeah, this felt good.

They rolled over on the floor, Buffy long past caring how filthy or cold it was, or what the strange stains and stranger sticky puddles were.  Her body was too busy responding to the insistent pressure of his for her brain to be do anything except catalog sensations.  The full length of his body was pressed against hers, his arms were tight enough to hurt, his kisses were lasting so long that they started cutting off her breath, so that she had to gasp painfully for air—

Buffy came back to herself to hear Dawn calling her name in what might have been fear but was more likely utter embarrassment.  She gave Spike a good shove, which thanks to Slayer strength meant he flew through the air a few dozen feet before banging into the wall behind him.  Thanks to vampire resilience, he didn't collapse, but somehow managed to regain his balance, staring at her in bewilderment that was about to turn back into anger. 

"Shut up, Spike!" she yelled.

"I didn't even say anything, you damned bitch! I—"

"You were about to."  Buffy jumped to her feet and balled her hands into fists to keep her own anger level up, even as she tried to deflect his.  "You're going to blame me for everything that's wrong with your stupid unlife, up to and including the sun coming up each morning, and we don't have time for that now.  You can call me names later, when we're not under a spell."

He opened his mouth, shut it again, and stood up straighter.  "We're under a spell?"

"We must be.  Everyone in town is eating like crazy.  Looting, fighting each other for food. " 

"Food."  His gaze went unfocused for a moment and he touched his lips.  "Yeah.  Started last night.  But, just food?  Are they shagging in the streets too?"

"Uh, no."  She moved away from the thoughts that followed as fast as she could.  "It's eating. And drinking.  Not just anything, though.  Everyone seems to be chasing after their favorite snacks."  She stopped.  "Well, except for some of the demons.  Most of the demons, maybe.  But you—"  She stared at the bloody food containers and the whisky bottles. 

His eyes flickered, following her gaze.  "Hybrid.  I'm a hybrid.  Half human.  If this thing goes after humans, it's going to play merry hell with vamps too.   With a few twists and not as strong, maybe."  He was quiet for a moment, concentrating with a visible effort.  "If I'm any judge, fear of the sun may be stronger than hunger in them, but once it's dark, they'll hold an early Carnivale."  He was staring at the loading ramp again, but this time his expression was calculating as he ran his hand through his hair.  "We've got a few hours, or so says the angle of that light." 

Buffy was looking at her wrist.  "My crazy modern device here says the same thing."  Her head snapped up, and she found herself meeting his gaze directly.  He's pulled himself together, pretty much.  How'd he manage so fast?  Is it just because it's easier for him to resist magic because he's a demon?  Or maybe he's concentrating because he knows I need his help?

Spike stepped over to the small pile of garbage he'd created, picked up the unopened bottle of whisky, and threw it hard and far, so that it landed with a faint chink of shattered glass somewhere beyond the edge of the dock.  He stood staring outside, his back to her, his voice grim.  "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's being fucked about by some stupid, conniving witch or wizard.  Let's get the bastard."

Well that answers that.  It isn't always all about Buffy.   "Okay.  Here’s the plan. We don’t give into this whatever it is that is making us crazy.  I don’t eat cake, you don’t drink—"  She reached over, picked up the almost-empty bottle of whisky and disposed of it in less dramatic fashion by spilling the contents onto the floor.  "You don’t drink anything."

But as Spike turned to watch her, she saw his expression soften and his eyes lose focus a bit.  He reminded her of the people on line at the Hill of Beans, demanding their frappuccinos and Napoleon tortes.  Except that on him, that expression made her hungry, but not for cheesecake and mochas.  Do bewitched Slayers hunger after vampire hearts? 

"If I can’t drink, what about--?" Spike began in a tone she found unbearably seductive, his hands reaching out towards her.  "You said that snogging wasn't part of the spell."

She tried to draw pull back with dignity, but it felt more like scuttling away in panic. "No eating, no touching!" Buffy paused to slow her breathing.  "You said it might affect vamps differently. So blood and Buffy are both off-limits for you.  We research first.  Find out how to break this thing."

Spike slouched against the concrete wall, his face deep in the shadows.  "It's probably a talisman." He sounded sulky at first, but then perked up.  "We research first?  And then?"

"It usually is." Dawn's sudden assertion cut through the fog of barbeque smoke and inappropriate lust.  "A talisman, I mean.  Hey, Wayne, give me another slice and pass the Worchester sauce."

The sound of her sister’s cheerful voice hit Buffy like a shot of iced coffee.  A shot of iced coffee that had been tossed in her face, maybe.  She'd completely forgotten that she and Spike weren't alone.  Dawn and Wayne were seated on either side of their improvised table, watching the drama unfolding in the back of the shop with almost as much interest as they addressed their steaks.

"Bloody hell, we’re dinner theater!"  Spike smoothed back his hair and straightened the set of his duster.  "All right, Slayer.  This isn’t over, mind.  But first we deal with this thing, and when it’s over, me and you are having a talk about this."

Buffy blinked.  "Which this and which over is which?"

"Balls, how do I know?  I’m pissed and bewitched!"

Absurdly, Buffy found herself laughing, with Spike doing the same.  It was all just too crazy not to be funny, and she was still smiling as she pried Dawn away from an enormous helping of cholesterol and made sure Spike was well-covered by his blanket before waving good-bye to Wayne and making a dash for the Magic Box.

And all the while she was hoping desperately that Spike could only hurt her because the spell was making the chip malfunction.  And that he would stay too distracted to realize that the implications of what had happened between them went well beyond a "snog."

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