Title:  Pillow Talk

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  PG so far, unless references to Christina Aguilera really terrify you

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

Notes:  Currently a standalone fic taking place during early Season Six.  Expect that like most of my fics, this will go AU as it continues.

Thanks: To Keswindhover and revdorothyl for the beta.

The story begins here.

Chapter 5

"Buffy."

Buffy rubbed her cheek against something soft and wished the voice would go away. 

"Buffy."

Diligently ignoring the voice, she cuddled her pillow to her cheek.  The couch was harder than usual, but the pillow was softer.  Squishy, squashy soft.

No.   It wasn't.  At least, it was soft.  But it wasn't her pillow.

Not unless her pillow had picked up a bad cigarette habit and started using after-shave. 

The voice was a shade sharper now.  "Slayer!"

Buffy jerked up to a sitting position, swinging around and throwing out an arm to catch Spike squarely on the nose.  He tipped over from his position squatting next to her and landed a few feet away, his legs spread wide and his hands cupping his nose.

"Bugger!"  He held his hands out in front of his bare chest, revealing streaks of blood on them and a matching smear running from a nostril across one cheek. "You're going to twist my nose out of shape one of these days."

Buffy stared at him.  "Spike, why are you half-naked?"

He picked himself up off the grass and snatched the soft cloth she was holding from her fingers.  She realized she'd been using his black t-shirt as a pillow.

Now, he used it to wipe his hands and face and then put it on, bloodstains and all.

"Ewww!" she commented, standing up, and noticing as she did so that a heavy weight fell from her legs.

"Don't 'ewww!' me, Slayer!  You're the one who almost broke my nose!"

"I didn't mean to!  You startled me.  I told you I wanted to rest for a few minutes. Why'd you wake me up?"  She stared at the ground.  Spike's ancient leather duster was puddled at her feet, its arms outspread as if it wanted to hug something.

"Because I can't stay and watch over you any more."  She didn't realize how blank her stare must be until he rolled his eyes, and gestured towards the cemetery entrance.  "It will be dawn in a few minutes.  I couldn't leave you lying here asleep, on your own."

"I-"  Something like anger woke in her.  "You let me sleep all night? You—you- sat there and watched me sleep all night?"

"A minute ago you were yelling at me for waking you up." But now the exasperation in his tone was muted, and he was looking at her with something that could have been tolerant amusement.  "Now you want to be pissed off at me because I let you sleep?"

"Don't you dare talk to me like that, Spike.  Because I don't take tolerant amusement from vampires!"  She drew herself up to her full 62 inches.  "I will not have you putinize me!"

If anything, his smile grew.  "I think you mean 'patronize,' love.  Putin's some Russian arsehole."  He bent over to pick up a cigarette pack from the ground, and reached a hand into his jeans' pocket for a lighter.  "Unless you meant "puta," which is Spanish for—"

She cut him off with a wave of her hands that turned into a clutching of her hair.  "Spike, what the hell is wrong with you?  Is this the latest way you deal with your unfortunate enchiperation?  Reading the 'Expand your Vocabulary' section of the Sunnydale Herald every day?"

He was tapping the last cigarette from the crumpled pack and didn't bother to look up as he began to reply.  "Pet-"

"I am not your pet!" She dropped her hands to her hips, confronting him.  How dare he look at me like a helpless kitten to be stroked and coddled?  "I am not anyone's pet, Spike, and especially not yours.  Maybe Drusilla was your pet, and you took care of her and treated her like a baby, and used that super-soothing tone with her, but I'm not some sappy psycho psychic with a weapons-grade manicure!  My skills may be a little rusty from being dead and all, but I'm still the Slayer, and I am not a pet."

        "Your alliteration skills are in good form, at least.  I'm sure the puns will be back up to World Cup levels soon."  At least he was looking at her now, but he still hadn't done her the courtesy of getting angry.  He should be shouting and waving his hands around or balling them into fists by now, not picking up the duster she'd been using as a blanket and shaking it out while holding it well away from the cigarette dangling from his lips.

        Buffy opened her mouth to yell some more, but Spike glanced upwards, swung his coat over his shoulders, and said in that infuriatingly calm tone, "Keep your eyes open on the way home, love," before literally dashing off.  She was only surprised he didn't say, "Ta,ta for now."

        She walked home, trying hard to concentrate on counting the number of paces, but her mind kept running back to her argument with Spike, and her traitorous legs kept trying to run back to him so that her stupid mouth could apologize for yelling. 

        I really did come back wrong if I can't enjoy giving Spike a hard time.  What is wrong with Buffy?

        She raised her head to check the traffic before crossing the street.  But not because Spike told me too!  I can remember things I learned before kindergarten without his stupid advice.  A black van cruised by, and disappeared into the morning mist.  She frowned, wondering why it seemed familiar.

        There was a van like that when I was working with Xander, and after Spike's kitten poker game, and yesterday when I put out the garbage.

        It was gone now. She shook her head, crossed the street, and forced herself to begin counting the paces to Revello Drive.  35, 36, 42, 47.  Maybe she should try telling Spike about the van again.  Then he'd laugh at her and they'd argue, and he'd wave his arms around…   

Damn it! Forget the vanishing van.  This is suburbia, land of the minivan and SUV.  Think about how many vans even a vandal like Spike could see parked on an ordinary evening on Buffy's own street.  Mrs. Alvarez has a big black van, and remember the Witkowskis' vanity about theirs because it has a TV and DVD player, and satellite radio.  It's so fancy it's probably in the vanguard of the vans. 

There are lots of black vans in Sunnydale, but only one platinum blond vampire with a stupid crush on Buffy.

        Damn it, even word games weren't helping.  She was thinking about Spike again, and the expression on his face when she'd yelled at him.  Why hadn't he yelled back?  Something was seriously wrong with her personal stalkerish vampire when he didn't engage in name calling.

        He was probably plotting something.  Maybe she should go back and beat him up to find out what.  But she didn't feel like punching him, at least not exactly.  There was that weird impulse to apologize.

        And talk.  That was it.  She wanted to talk to Spike?   That was silly; she wanted to argue with him, of course.  To get him mad too, so he'd wave his arms and get in her face and maybe pull off his shirt again …no, that was silly.  Why would she want his shirt off?

She just wanted an argument, of course.  Because when Spike had pissed her off with his stupid vampire-knows-best attitude she'd felt alive for a minute.  She'd almost been really angry. Almost as really angry as that moment in the training room behind the Magic Box, when she'd been thinking about bills and loans, and she'd hit the punching bag over and over, and for a few seconds she'd been the real Buffy again.  But then—

"Buffy!  You're okay!"  Willow had opened the door of 1620 Revello Drive and was stepping out to greet her.  "We were so worried."

Willow, her best friend, smiling at her.  Willow, standing on Buffy's porch a few steps above her, dressed in her sexy and slightly witchy trailing black blouse and fashionably tight jeans.  Willow, with the slanting rays of the sun peeking through the morning mist and turning the top of her hennaed head into a reddish halo.  Willow, looking pleased because Buffy was home safe.

Buffy went dead inside again.

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