Pillow Talk

Title: Pillow Talk

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. Most of the tale will be from Buffy's point of view.

Thanks: To Keswindhover and revdorothyl for the beta.

The story begins here.

Chapter 8

It was an hour before Buffy had a moment to speak with the older waitress, who she now realized was one of the owners of the shop. The police had stormed in, much too late to be useful, and everyone present had made statements to Sunnydale's Finest regarding the gunman's attack. The younger waitress, whose revelations had consisted mostly of assurances that her ex was completely batshit, he'd probably fainted from whatever drug he was taking this week, she'd moved twice to get away from him, and she was quitting this shitty job and moving again as soon as she could to keep away from the boyfriend from hell. ("Oh, please," muttered Buffy. "Don't come whining to me about boyfriends from hell.")

Hardly anyone seemed to have noticed Buffy's role in disarming the crazy boyfriend. No one at all had mentioned attack tongues. After five years on the Hellmouth, Buffy wasn't surprised, although she still wasn't sure how many people simply refused to believe the evidence of their own eyes and how many had come to the conclusion that the authorities were helpless before magical forces so there was no point in discussing them.

The unconscious gunman had been taken to the hospital to be kept under observation by both medical professionals and the police. The man Buffy had observed earlier calling 911 had closed up the coffee shop and gone to fetch a ladder and broom so that he could fix the ceiling and clean up. Buffy found herself still in possession of the chair she'd nearly been evicted from before all the fuss started.

"Will that guy die?" asked Buffy.

"Nah." The woman gestured to a chair near the counter and stepped behind it to pour out two cups of coffee. "He'll sleep until morning, that's all. Cream or sugar?"

"No, thanks." Buffy accepted the cup, watching the woman closely as she sat down next to her. She had short, curly dark hair and light brown skin, and she looked completely human at the moment. Also amused, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

"My name's Nancy. I'm a Luzorian."

Buffy nodded. Luzorians, she had learned during a brief burst of fervor for her Slayer studies, were powerful but peaceful demons with mostly defensive magical skills. Over the past few decades, many had emigrated to the United States from Eastern Europe, masquerading as humans and successfully integrating into human society. According to Giles, Luzorian-Americans had produced successful entrepreneurs, a number of professional baseball players, and at least one Farscape scriptwriter. He'd suspected it was only a matter of time before they established a colony in Sunnydale, but they weren't anything for a Slayer to worry her head over.

Buffy was feeling worn out again, so she decided not to worry about Nancy.

Nancy, however, was more curious. "There's something I’d like to know about you."

"I'm the Slayer," said Buffy wearily, wondering if the torches and pitchforks would now appear.

Nancy waved her hand impatiently. "I know that. I should have recognized you before you kicked that guy, but the shop was full and I was distracted. What I want to know is, what's this new job of yours and how much are they paying you?"

"Excuse me?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I have an urgent need for a new waitress. Preferably one who won't run off at the first sign of trouble." She set her elbows on the table. "I can't afford to go much above minimum wage, but you'll get all the free caffeine you want, one biscotti a day, and you can haul off your fair share of the leftover muffins at closing time. Interested?"

Two job offers in one day.

Of course, they were both crappy jobs, but working at the coffee shop was clearly the least crappy option. True, the pay was only slightly more than at the Doublemeat. Nancy wasn't all that desperate, and she'd pointed out that in her shop Buffy would have a share of the tip jar contents, while such a thing was unheard of in the fast food world. The work would probably be as hard, but coffee smelled better than Doublemeat burgers, which turned Buffy's stomach. And nobody at the Hill of Beans boasted of five or ten years of service to a soulless corporation. There was no corporation; just Nancy and her family, who might or might not have souls, but who certainly didn't have two-hour orientation videos.

And the clothes were much better. Not exactly Paris fashions, but they didn't glow in the dark either. Plus, no nametags, and no stupid hats with farm animals on them. These were small blessings, but not to be sneezed at.

The Scoobies wouldn't sneeze. They'd cheer and pat her on the back for doing something that seemed almost normal. She'd have to tell them as soon as she got home, of course.

Except it seemed she wasn't going home. She realized suddenly she was headed to Spike's crypt.

Well, yeah. She had to check up on him, to make sure his strange behavior yesterday didn't mean he was up to something. If he had some new plan, it was possibly evil, probably criminal, and certainly stupid. So it made sense for her to check on him. The fact that checking on him postponed her checking in with the Scoobies was just a coincidence.

It was still light out, so there was a good chance Spike would be in his crypt. He might even be sleeping. Buffy wondered where; she knew too much about vampires to imagine he was dozing in his native earth, and he'd said he had fixed up the lower level of the mausoleum. Did he have a bed? Would she surprise him there? Would she go down there and wake him from some creepy vampire dream, or, worse, some creepy dream about a Slayer? It would be dark, but there were candles upstairs. She could light one and make her way down to the next level, and…

And why was she even wondering about this?

It must be her Slayer instinct again. Yes, that was it. The Slayer in Buffy naturally thought of the possibility of taking a vampire off-guard and defenseless, lying asleep, unaware of her approach, possibly naked…she bet Spike slept on his tummy, and it would be just like him to go to bed nude, with that too-pale, round butt up in the air..

She wrenched her thoughts away from that image. She was being just silly. A vampire's rear end, however curvaceous, was a stupid target. If her inner Slayer wanted to get back with the program, she should be thinking about that nearly hairless but surprisingly muscular chest, Spike lying on his back, perhaps covered by a sheet, perhaps not..

She'd reached the crypt. That was good, because she must be in even worse shape than she thought; she was breathing a little bit fast. She paused a moment to make sure her hair wasn't too wild and her t-shirt was tucked in so the stain didn't show; then she pushed open the door.

Spike wasn't sleeping. He wasn't alone either.

Chapter 9

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