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 11

            The next morning, Buffy woke up and reached out to grab her pillow, and discovered that the soft, comforting one that usually resided on the couch had somehow migrated to her room. 

            She closed her eyes in shame.  I was terrible last night. 

            The pillow cuddled back, implying that it was sure she hadn't been any such thing.

            I only had one or two beers, but I still can't remember everything.  That shouldn't even have been enough for a headache or regression to a Neanderthal.  Why the amnesia?

            The pillow still refused to condemn her.

            Okay, now I remember Spike.  He was tempting me.  Yes, there was a clear and shameful vision of Spike, down on one knee before her, as she leaned towards him.  He tried to sway me.

            The pillow pressed gently against her cheek, prompting for more information about Spike.

            I'm afraid there was swayage. Buffy's hand went to her belly, remembering.  Maybe he drugged me or bewitched me somehow? 

            The pillow declined to speculate on Spike's guilt, and Buffy was forced to admit that she had participated willingly.

            She had indeed smiled at Spike and opened her mouth for forkful after forkful of cheesecake oozing with strawberries and syrup.   She'd savored every bite, down to the graham cracker crust.  And she'd uttered no objections when he'd turned to cut her another calorie-laden slice.

            She must have eaten half the cake, most of it from Spike's hands, and she hadn't stopped there.  She'd helped Dawn finish off a package of fun size Snickers bars and tried some new cinnamon-flavored soda before letting Spike talk her into tasting some weird, dark beer that he'd insisted was supposed to be drunk at crypt-temperature.  It had been surprisingly good, and she'd been disappointed to find out he didn't have any more.

            Her shame eased a bit when the pillow took these revelations in stride and curled comfortingly around her bloated stomach.

            It was all coming back to Buffy now.  She'd finished out the evening by getting into Spike's stash of licorice.  He must think she was a real pig!   And Dawn too.  Buffy vaguely remembered Dawn by-passing the licorice to grab a pile of anchovy flavor Slim Jims, just as if she hadn't already helped with the cheesecake and divided a package of some horrible purple marshmallow things with Spike earlier.  

            Not that Buff cared what Spike thought, but still. 

            And Clem and Lulu.  They had stared at the humans in amazement, their bag of cheese puffs forgotten as they watched the orgy of consumption.  Damn, her binging had managed to creep out a couple of snack food demons!

            The pillow cuddled back, and Buffy called up another memory, that of Spike leaning against his fridge, sipping a mug of blood.  He was keeping his distance but smiling at her, his expression surprisingly peaceful, as if he were happy just to see her enjoying herself. 

            Crazy vampire.

            She patted the pillow in gratitude and slipped out of bed, making her way into the bathroom, expecting to find her belly and thighs had doubled in size from her overnight indulgence.

            Although she felt bloated, she was able to fit into her clothes without any difficulties and her face didn't look too puffy when she applied makeup.

            At last, her hair was brushed, braided, and pinned up.  She had showered and was dressed properly for work.  Black jeans, black boots, white shirt.  The Hill of Beans would provide her with an apron bearing their logo and name. 

            Buffy knew that soon she would have to go down into her basement and look through her mother's things to find something she could take in or tuck in, because she couldn't afford new clothes right now, and one white shirt wasn't going to be enough to get her through the work week. 

            But not just yet.  Today, she was wearing the shirt Dawn had found for her the night she came back, and it had been hard enough to slip her arms into it again, remembering that first shock of her return.  One bad memory at a time.

            Spike had stared at her that first night back, and she'd suddenly been conscious of the fact her blouse was unbuttoned.  Funny, because he hadn't been staring at her in that way, but she'd felt a rush of blood to her face.  And to other parts of her—in fact, for a moment it seemed like she'd clawed out of her coffin into the safety of his and Dawn's company, and as if she were back in the world instead of just hell.  But then—

            But then the others had rushed in, and Spike had taken off instead of staying to help Dawn chase the noisy people away.  Why had he left her?

            That's stupid.  Stupid Buffy.  They were your friends, so he wasn't abandoning you. 

            Everyone will abandon me.

            Not Spike.  He didn't even abandon you when you were dead.

            She crept down the stairs with all the assertiveness of a neurotic cat burglar.  She peeked nervously over the banisters.  Willow and Tara were asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, each clutching a crumpled bag of potato chips.  The coffee table was littered with beer cans and pizza boxes.  Buffy retreated cautiously to the kitchen, not wanting to wake them by opening the front door.

            She stopped in the kitchen doorway, shocked by the piles of dirty dishes, empty boxes and bags of food.  It wasn't just the chaos that surprised her.  More provisions must have materialized here last night than she'd been able to afford at the grocery store for the past month.  Expensive stuff too.  Ice cream that saved endangered species and potato chips that boasted their organic, earth-preserving nature had rubbed shoulders with juicy cheeseburgers for which whole steers had died.

            She made her way around the clutter cautiously, avoiding a pile of Blow-Pops (all grape) and a small stack of Oreo tops and bottoms.  (That must have been Xander; he had a disgusting habit of screwing them open, licking them clean of filling, and then asking if anyone wanted the rest.)

            It's going to take forever to clean this up.

            For a moment, the stultifyingly boring chore rolled towards her like a tsunami, but another, firmer voice startled her by saying, So what?  Someone else is going to have to do it.  You didn't make this mess.

            Buffy snatched up a carry-out bag from a local steak house, tore it open and flipped it over to make a large writing surface.  She used the marker from the board by the phone to scrawl, "You made the mess, you deal with the consequences!"  She spread her sign carefully over the shambles of the kitchen island.

            Her satisfied smile faded as she realized that she would be facing other kitchen duties in a few minutes.  She looked down to make sure she hadn't stained her clothes in a sticky puddle of what had once been premium chocolate ice cream and marshmallow sauce.

            No, she was neat and clean for once. 

            She'd done good, getting ready for work even though she'd felt terrible when she woke up and was still tired.  In fact, the whole thing had been enough of an effort that Buffy felt as if she deserved a reward.  Maybe she could take the day off to celebrate?

            Maybe not.

            She took a deep breath, opened the back door, and stepped outside. 

            Then she stepped back in, snatched up the discarded Blow-Pops, and started sucking on one as she made her way down the driveway.

Chapter 12
 

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