Chapter 3
“Wow! This is pretty swank!” Buffy commented as she took in the view from their suite.
“’Bout bloody time the Council shelled out some dosh for ya,” he muttered under his breath. Thankfully she hadn’t heard him; she was still staring out the opened window at the panoramic view.
“Mind if I take this room?”
“What?” she asked distractedly, finally turning away from the window to look quizzically at her temporary roommate.
Spike motioned with his duffle towards the bedroom that faced away from the morning sunlight.
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
“Right… then. I’ll just get my stuff unpacked.” And try not to muck up this up.
He didn’t know whether to kiss the Council’s feet for getting only one suite – albeit one with three bedrooms – or kill them all slowly for putting him so close to temptation. How he’d managed to get the Slayer all to himself, without her ever present GI Joe tagging along, was anyone’s guess. And he wasn’t going to tempt fate by questioning it.
What was really strange was that the Slayer didn’t seem to mind being alone with him. Heck, even the fact that there’d been only one giant suite reserved in her name hadn’t caused more than one delicate brow lifting ever so slightly as she handed over her passport to the desk clerk. The elevator ride to the fourth floor had been accomplished in silence, neither looking at the other. The slight ping as they’d reached each new level seemed overly-loud in the tiny space.
Spike had been grateful when the doors had finally slid open and he’d escaped into the hall. He’d trudged off in the direction of their room, unwilling to bring up the rear and be forced to watch the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. There was only so much a vamp could take.
She’d opened the door and gasped, and Spike swore the sound had gone straight to his dick. It was a good thing he’d been holding his duffle in front of him; he’d given up wearing his duster so as not to draw undue attention – a long leather coat being worn in mid-eighty degree weather would make even the most clueless person look at him rather funny.
The bag had kept him from embarrassing himself… and her.
Though, he really hadn’t cause to worry, because she’d only had eyes for the windows that dominated one whole side of the suite, and the spectacular view that enabled one to see the ocean, and how it seemed to go on and on in the distance.
Buffy mumbled her assent, her eyes already returning to the sliding glass window. The suite came with a small balcony, complete with iron mesh bistro table and two chairs. It was perfect. Everything was perfect.
Right down to the company.
Spike had been quiet for most of the flight, not feeling it necessary to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Instead, he’d pulled out a well-worn book and read most of the way.
She’d spent her time watching him. Trying to figure out what made him tick. And why he was being so anti-Spike-like of a sudden.
Then there was her own behavior to consider. If he was being anti-Spike, she was definitely being anti-Buffy.
First there was her startling confession. Something not even her watcher was aware of. Then, the leaving behind of her boyfriend and instead shacking up with her enemy – and not even caring that they would be sleeping not ten feet apart from each other.
Maybe the super strong skank had addled her brains. After all, she’d done a header, or four, into the abandoned warehouse walls thanks to the bitch.
“Here you go, Slayer.”
Buffy was startled out of her reverie and turned to see Spike standing there, holding out a glass to her. She eyed the glass speculatively.
“You trying to get me drunk?” she asked, seeing the type of glass he held, if not the contents.
Spike snorted.
“Not unless you can’t hold your water.”
He grinned and Buffy found her lips turning up at the corner, unable to prevent her own answering smile.
“Thanks.”
Buffy took a sip, thinking to be polite, but ended up finishing off the whole glass in a few short gulps, not realizing how thirsty she was.
Apparently Spike had.
It was eerie, the things he knew about her, could sense about her. If he wasn’t chipped and unable to harm her in any way, it would be cause for alarm. Even now, his uncanny ability to read her should have given her the major wiggins. Instead, she was oddly comforted by his perception, how he looked after her without coming across as overbearing.
Like Riley did. Or tried to do, anyway.
Beneath the table, Buffy used her foot to push out the remaining chair, a silent invitation for the vampire to sit.
“Ta, luv.”
Spike lounged in the chair, staring out across the balcony to the beach below.
“Got any ideas of this ‘on high’ place we’re supposed to be looking for?” he asked after a time.
“Giles thinks it’s one of two places. Either the lighthouse at the northern end of the island, or Castillo Real. He’s leaning more towards Castillo Real since it’s of Mayan descent… and apparently this prophecy is from some Mayan codex.”
“I can go take a look around. It’s still several hours before daylight.”
Buffy shook her head. “No. We can do it tomorrow. I think we can hit both places in one night, don’t you?”
“Island’s small enough… yeah… don’t think it should be too hard. Any idea what we’re looking for?”
“A sign that says ‘X marks the spot’?”
Spike gave a bark of laughter.
“Would make matters rather simple,” he agreed.
“Yeah.” She sighed wistfully, knowing that nothing was ever that easy – at least not with her.
“You should probably get some rest, Slayer. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“Is that your way of saying I look like crap?”
“No… I like my nose just where it is. You look tired, is all. And, if we’re not going to play tourist tonight, you should take advantage and relax.”
Buffy opened her mouth to argue, but closed it at his next words.
“They’ve got a Jacuzzi bath.”
“Really?” she whispered, something akin to awe in her voice.
“See for yourself.”
“Maybe a hot bath would be good.”
Buffy got to her feet and walked the short distance to the sliding glass door. It was on the tip of her tongue to thank him for looking out for her, for forcing her to take better care of herself. Instead, she slipped silently inside the suite and walked to the bedroom she’d chosen to retrieve her nightclothes and toiletries.
~*~*~*~*~
Spike was watching television when Buffy reemerged from the bathroom. She made a quick trip to her room to drop off her dirty clothes, then joined him on the couch – not close enough to touch, but no so that they were on opposite ends either. She didn’t question the abrupt one-eighty their relationship had taken; baring one’s soul tending to remove the barriers of mortal enemies. Though she had to admit, Spike’s behavior was unlike any enemy she’d ever come across; he was acting more like a long-lost friend.
No snarky remarks. Just a quiet presence in her life.
“What are you watching?”
“Nothing really, just flippin’ through the channels. Something you wanna see?”
“No… I don’t watch a lot of TV.”
“Guess with your slayin’ and school, your time’s pretty much taken, huh?”
“Yeah.” She sighed and glanced at Spike. “I’m thinking about dropping out of college. With mom being sick…and then there’s Dawnie. It was a pipe dream anyway…”
Spike debated moving closer to the Slayer. The girl could definitely use a shoulder to lean on, perhaps even to cry on. But theirs was an uneasy truce and any untoward action on his part would probably be met with a fist to his much-abused nose. So he sat there, one eye on her, the other on the screen that was touting the latest exercise gimmick.
“Don’t think you’re mum would like to hear of you doin’ that, Slayer. I know she was pretty proud that you were go—”
Buffy swiveled on the couch to stare at Spike. “What—?”
“Bloody hell,” he groaned at the same time. He could have kicked himself for bringing an end to their temporary truce. As soon as the Slayer found out he was keeping company with Joyce, she’d be back on the defensive, and the relaxed, almost pleasant person that he’d shared time with these last two days would be but a memory. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?” he asked hopefully. He sighed and shook his head. “Yeah… I didn’t think so. Look... didn’t mean any harm, Slayer. Joyce was lonely, what with you being away at college. I’d stop by from time to time, have a nice cuppa and a chat. Nothin’ to get your knickers in a twist about.”
“And you guys talked about me?” Buffy didn’t know whether to be offended, hurt, or pleased.
“No!” he rushed to reassure her. “Not like that. Just in general. She’s damn proud of you, pet. And, it’s not like she can share with her mates that you’re the Slayer… and that you manage to attend classes and still save the day on a regular basis. With me… well…”
“She can,” Buffy concluded.
“And ‘s not like I can turn down a spot of cocoa. She even puts these li’l marshmallows in it.”
Buffy grinned. “I suppose I’ll let you off the hook, just this once.”
Spike quirked his brow at her.
“What? Her hot chocolate is the best. I’d listen to her harp on at me to clean my room if I had a cup of hot chocolate in front of me at the time. I guess being forced to hear her gush about me probably has the same effect.”
Not bloody likely.
But he didn’t tell her that.
He was still wrapping his mind around the fact that he was in love with the Slayer. Couldn’t have her staking him because she didn’t take too well to the idea of her once mortal enemy now feeling anything other than a deep loathing for her. He’d have to listen to her speech about him being evil and soulless, and how a monster like him couldn’t possibly have feelings – especially love.
That conversation would require a lot more than Joyce’s cocoa in order for him to sit through it without complaint.
By some unspoken agreement, the two turned back towards the television. Spike resumed his channel surfing, finally deciding on a comedy playing on one of the movie channels – the Slayer was due for a bit of laughter.
An hour into the movie, Spike felt her slump against his arm as she drifted off to sleep. He forced himself not to move and perhaps startle her awake in the process, though his arms ached to pull her onto his lap and cradle her against his chest. The scent of her shampoo teased his senses, his arm burned where her face pressed against his bicep.
It was torture of the worst sort… and it was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.
~*~*~*~*~
Spike felt the person lying on his chest shift slightly. Eyes closed, not ready to wake up, he muttered a complaint, and his arms tightened their hold, unwilling to lose the heat box keeping him warm. Not even the uncomfortable position he was in was enough to make him give up his prize.
Thankfully his bedmate was of the same opinion, who snuggled closer and stilled, content to lie there and be held by him.
~*~*~*~*~
Buffy let herself back into the suite, her arms laden with groceries for both Spike and herself, trying not to disturb the vampire still sleeping on the couch. She watched as he switched from his back to his side, but other than that, did not stir.
It had been a shock when she’d woken a few hours ago to find herself sprawled all over Spike. Oddly enough, it had been one of the best night’s rest she’d had in a long while – not having been plagued with unsettling dreams, or the more common restlessness, typifying her sleeping patterns. That it had been the chipped vampire responsible, well, it just added one more thing to the mystique known as Spike.
She’d obviously fallen asleep sometime during the movie, him too. They’d both been fully clothed. And he’d not taken advantage; all of her buttons were still buttoned, the hands holding her were resting lightly on her back. Even his cock – which she couldn’t help but make out the outline since her stomach was lying so intimately against it – had lay dormant. He’d obviously been asleep, deeply asleep.
Either that, or she just didn’t do it for him.
Praying all the while not to wake him, she’d carefully extracted herself from his hold and escaped to her room, where she threw on a tank top and a pair of shorts and snagged a pair of flip flops. She’d paused only long enough to grab one of the key cards to the door before escaping on bare feet.
Since then, her mind had been plagued with thoughts of the vampire… and thoughts of Riley. Finding herself comparing the two as she’d walked along the beach.
It had been a revelation of sorts, one in which she determined her feelings for Riley, or lack thereof. How her boyfriend couldn’t handle her being the Slayer. Not really. His clinginess – something that she’d mistaken for affection – and his constant need to protect her. Like she wasn’t capable of doing it herself. Then there was the real reason she was with him: her friends, and what they felt she should have in a relationship. Only problem with that was she wasn’t normal, would never be normal.
With Spike…
What was it about Spike? She would like to say vampires in general, but knew that wasn’t the case. There was something about the peroxide pest. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that had gotten her thinking of him after he’d stormed out of Sunnydale, leaving her to pick up the pieces of Willow and Xander’s betrayal of their respective boyfriend and girlfriend, and her own twisted relationship with Angel.
He was annoying as hell and evil to the core, and never missed an opportunity to remind anyone of the fact. Yet, in the last two days he’d been a protector, a confidant, an ally… and a cuddly pillow.
He’d been a friend.
The thought had drawn her up short; she’d stood there on the beach, her gaze unconsciously seeking out the window of their room, knowing he was still sleeping on the couch, safe behind the drawn curtains.
Now, as she set the pamphlets down on the counter and rummaged in the bag for something to munch on, Buffy couldn’t help but marvel at how she and Spike had changed from the mortal enemies they’d been, to actually getting along.
She took a bite from an apple and set about putting the meager groceries she’d purchased away in the fridge. Forgetting the loud crunch would most likely wake the vampire.
It did, and she watched him bolt upright on the couch and hone in on the sound, offering him a guilty wave once he spied her standing in the kitchen.
“Blood?” she asked, holding up a container in her hands.
Spike relaxed his rigid stance and ran a hand through his hair, trying to process why he was still on the couch. His eyes strayed towards the container the Slayer held and his mouth began to water.
He nodded and climbed to his feet.
“I am a bit peckish…”
Buffy went through the motions of pouring him a mug of blood and warming it in the microwave, pulling it out and handing it to him once the machine chimed.
“Ta, luv.”
Buffy inclined her head to acknowledge his thanks and finished off her apple.
“Oh! I picked up some brochures… on the island… tours and stuff.”
Spike finished off his mug and rinsed it out in the sink, leaving Buffy to eye him with astonishment. He saw it and grinned.
“Your mum doesn’t like blood stains. I learned early on to clean it out. One axe to the head was more than enough…” He held out his hand. “Let’s have us a look then.”
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