A New Kind of Sorry

by templemarker

Notes: Improv #36 (fur – spill – gender – salt). Between “Dead Things” and “Older and Far Away.” Seriously, don’t you think the Buffster would have apologized?

***

I should really apologize to Spike.

Buffy’s nose twitched as the unwelcome thought flittered into her mind. She had been doing her best to avoid thinking about her beating the shit out of him the other day.

He hadn’t been around much, and his absence was surprisingly noted. Dawn had immediately asked what she had done to piss him off, in the few moments she deigned to talk to Buffy. Even Willow had come out of her general haze to inquire about him.

I should really apologize.

She squinched her nose up and sank farther down into the couch in the living room. Batting away the constant stream of thoughts as to why she should give a damn about how Spike feels anyway, she gave a short sigh of defeat and started to wonder what exactly she could get him without feeling like a complete idiot.

Get him a present.

Damn, she wished her subconscious would shut the hell up.

Fine. A present. What kind of present do you get a vampire? Especially such a weird one? A houseplant – but he would, of course, kill it. A CD? Nah. She never really figured out what music he would deign to listen to anyway.

Maybe a TV to replace the dinky one he had. Great present, really, except for the fact that she was FLAT BROKE. Another sigh slipped her lips. What to you get your annoying sex buddy vampire to apologize for beating the crap out of him when he was trying to protect you?

What she’d really like to do is go through his stuff and get rid of some the more crappy of it all. Like the pleather chair with a layer of fur over it – that would be gone. And maybe the rickety table that had seen more than its fair share of blood and alcohol spills.

Really, though, his crypt was rather nice, she thought offhandedly. With the candles, and the perfectly squishy couch, and the nice unbreakable walls …

She shook her head, clearing her mind of recent events that took place against those walls. Right. Present. What was that soccer team he was always going on about? Manhole? Manchester, that’s it. Manchester United. She frowned. Why couldn’t they name the team something normal, like the Bears or the Lions or some other growly animal? She stifled a grin as she thought of the Manchester Vamps. Spike was certainly growly enough, especially when -

Grr. Spike-filled thoughts again. Present. Maybe she could get him something to do with Manchester United. But where? Sunnydale was not exactly noted for carrying a high supply of British products. Though she had noticed that the owner of the local grocery store kept an ample supply of Weetabix. Ick.

So much for sports-related.

She hopped up from her seat, grabbed her coat, and walked out into the slightly overcast day. At the very least, she could get him a bottle of something from Willy’s. She’d recently broken up a bar fight at his place on her patrol rounds, so she figured he owed her one.

Buffy was pretty much walker-bound. Not that she minded; Sunnydale was really a very small town, and you could get to pretty much anywhere on foot. If she needed a ride, she would usually hitch on with Spike, on his motorcycle or that ratty DeSoto. But otherwise it was nice to traipse through the streets of SoCal. She felt the sunlight play on her skin and idly wondered how it would look on Spike’s face.

Which is when she blinked and remembered that she’d be watching vamp dust float away if he ever stepped into the sun to see how it would look. And she had before, when the idiot had that Gem thing on. Oh, good, there’s Willy’s; she can stop thinking about Spike and what losing him might actually mean to her in order to scare some booze out of Willy. Sometimes life cuts you a break.

The bar was, of course, dead right around this time. Mid-afternoon, sun out, people everywhere. Not really demon-friendly, though there was one scaly, pale thing of an indeterminate gender hovering in a darkened corner. She climbed up onto one of the barstools, grabbing a handful of peanuts and trickling them into her mouth. Her hair bobbed just a bit below her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Willy turn to see who was there, and then quickly spin on his heel. She gave a grin and shouted, “Hey! Willy! Customer here!”

She saw the smaller man’s shoulders sag as he walked behind the bar. “Whaddaya want, Slayer?” he asked worriedly, looking around for escape routes.

“Relax, Willy. Just me. Your pal, the Slayer. The chick who kept your bar from being smashed into many tiny pieces last week when those two Ch’flak idiots tried to prove their lack-of-manliness.”

He gave a defeated sigh. “So you think I owe you?”

“Willy, I know you owe me.”

He grabbed his towel from the bar and started to nervously wipe down some of the pristine glasses behind the counter. “Fine. Fine, whatever. What do you want?”

Her eyes glanced over the mirrored wall behind them, looking for something good. She finally shrugged her shoulders, admitting to herself that she knew jack about alcohol. “What’s Spike’s favorite bottle?”

Willy shrugged. “He likes a lot of things, a few pints of Guinness, bourbon, whiskey, tequila-”

“Right. Tequila. Gimme your best bottle of that, and we’ll call it even.”

Buffy noticed Willy’s fingers twitching a bit as he reached for a bottle beneath the counter. She gave him a small glare. “The best one, Willy.”

He groaned and his hand moved to grasp another bottle. “Man, Slayer, this is a damn expensive bottle-”

“Excellent. Thanks Willy. See you later.” She hopped up from the bar and sauntered out of the place, not noticing the thunk coming from behind her – Willy slamming his head onto the bar.

From there she stopped at the grocery store just down the corner from Willy’s, grabbing a package of Marlboro Reds (when did she learn what kind of cigarettes he smoked?) a lemon, and some cheese balls. While she was there, she asked for a pair of scissors and an envelope, treating the clerk to a faint smile when she was finished.

One more stop, she thought, swinging the brown paper bag in her hand. She slipped into the store with the blackened windows, and popped out moments later, a small smile quirking the corner of her mouth. I may be apologizing, continued her mind, but I’m going to have some fun with it while I do.

The walk to Spike’s crypt went quickly. She felt herself picking up speed and there she was, outside his door. She never knocked, but she didn’t kick the door in either. Instead she slipped inside, trying to keep the bag from rustling. He was usually asleep by now, in the bottom half of the crypt. Sometimes he left candles on, when he knew she was coming, but mostly it was dark. Which was rather how she wanted it this time.

She left the bag on the counter, and crawled down the ladder to what she considered to be his bedroom. Using every Slayer instinct she had, Buffy silently slinked up to the bed and onto the mussed sheets that half covered her … well … she didn’t know what he was to her. The thought was pushed from her mind as she angled her body over his, letting her breath mist over her face. She was rewarded for her efforts when a single blue eye opened halfway, giving her a pointed glare.

“Come to beat the shit out of me, Slayer? I see you’re not in jail, so you must have taken my advice and kept your ass out of the pokey. Or maybe the effort it took to pound my face in left you too tired to go and screw up your life.”

She didn’t respond, just stared at him and let her breath make contact with his face. The other eye winced open, and she felt a pang go through her body realizing the it was still swollen to the size of a golf ball. I though vampires healed faster than that, she thought achingly to herself.

Buffy felt him shift underneath her, and then his cock was pressed against her thigh. She willed herself not to lose her cool, but pretty much any thought she had was buggered once he whispered lowly in her ear, “Didn’t he ever tell you that vampires get off on pain, pet?”

She hauled his head up to her mouth in a bruising kiss, ignoring his throttled growl of pain at having his head mashed up against hers. Just as roughly she pulled away, steadying her breathing and sitting up on the bed. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I came here, Spike. It’s not the way I want to play today. Come upstairs. I have something for you.” With that she hopped off the bed and scrambled back up the stairs, only letting out a whoosh of breath when she thought he couldn’t hear her anymore.

Loosening the laces that held her blouse together, she let the cool air play on her exposed skin as she opened the brown paper bag. She pulled out the tequila and the lemon, along with the small white box at the bottom of the bag. She started to rummage around Spike’s makeshift kitchen, giving a low hum as she found what she was looking for.

When she turned around, she saw Spike perched on the edge of the couch, eying her warily. He’d pulled on a loose pair of pajama bottoms ­ black, of course ­ and a hand was running through his hair, trying to smooth back the sleep-mussed curls. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, taking the knife that lay on the table and slicing up the lemon into wedges. His gaze flickered to what she was doing, and a guarded confusion was evident in his eyes.

Buffy grabbed the bottle of tequila, ripping the paper from its neck and screwing the cap open. She let her voice go low when she said, “Thirsty, Spike?”

She was immediately rewarded when he almost fell off the couch.

Buffy sauntered up to him, carrying a lemon wedge and the salt shaker she had been searing for earlier. She handed Spike the bottle, and pulled her blouse open a bit wider, angling her chest to his face. His swollen eyes sucked her into a heat-filled gaze, and a rush of breath was knocked out of her when his tongue darted out and licked across her collarbone.

She remembered the shaker in her hand and did her best to control herself as she sprinkled salt onto the wet line on her chest. Her voice husky with need, she said, “Take a drink.”

Never letting his eyes move from hers, Spike met the bottle with his lips and swallowed heavily. He let the bottle drop when she held the lemon to his face, and then he tugged her closer to him, sucking the salt from her body in a slow, languorous lap.

She let her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the overwhelming sensation of his lips on her skin. After a few moments, she wrenched herself from his arms, panting slightly. She cocked her head, staring at him. “Spikey, this is for you. No fair playing with the presents before they’re meant to be opened.”

She almost broke out into a grin as that eyebrow of his shot up practically to his hairline. “You got me presents, Slayer? What’s the occasion?”

She moved back to where the paper bag was still resting, treating him with a smoldering glance. “Because I felt like it.”

Spike held up the bottle approvingly. “At least you know what I like, love.”

“Oh, I do,” she murmured lowly. Taking the package of cigs and the cheese balls out of the bag, she tossed them on the counter next to the box. “These are for later,” she said, noting that his eyes widened a bit when he saw his favorite brand.

Turning to face him, she slowly started to unlace the ties that held the flimsy excuse for a shirt together. She wondered if he had noticed that all the clothes she had been wearing around him lately were designed for easy access. She’d had to throw away many a shirt because of their anxious hands.

Buffy let a languid smile creep up her face when she saw his eyes were glued to her breasts and the slip of fabric that was covering them. With a small flick over her wrist, the barrier was gone, and she was left bare-chested in front of him. She saw his hands shake, knowing he wanted to touch her, but she wagged a finger in his face.

She let her skirt slide to the floor, slipping off her shoes in the process. She shook her body a bit, getting used to the feeling of the night air on her skin. She stayed like that for over a minute, letting his gaze wash over her body.

The white box she had taken from the paper bag still lay on the counter, and Buffy made sure to put a little extra wiggle in her step as she walked over to open in. Opening the box, she reveled its contents to Spike, who nearly fell off his perch.

“Slayer …” he hissed as she removed the slender silver vibrator from its case.

“Yes, Spike? Oh dear. Don’t you like it? I though you’d be pleased.” Oh, yes. Coy was her game.

“Trust me, love, I am … pleased,” he ground out from pursed lips. “Just what are you planning on doing with that, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A bit of this ­” she pinched her nipple hard, watching his reaction, “a little of that,” she said as she ran the vibrator through her pussy, letting a slow breath of air release as she did so. She was more than rewarded for her efforts when she saw the look of barely controlled pain on his face. Apologizing is fun, she thought to herself.

“Now, there, Spikey, I’d like you to just stay right there while you watch the floor show.”

He nodded mutely. Oh, she had him.

She started to work her self with her hands, letting the vibrator rest between her legs, held tight by what she referred to as “Slayer muscles.” Her hands roamed over her body, and her head fell backwards as she remembered the way her flesh burned when Spike touched her. Her sensitized skin screamed out at the roving hands that stimulated her closer to the brink she was always hunting for.

With a breathless gasp she flicked the vibrator on, sliding it in and out of herself, feeling Spike’s eyes on her, turned on more by his naked, wanting stare. She came very soon, shaking and moaning, sliding the humming tool from her slick body and tossing it to Spike. Not letting her eyes fall on him, she pulled her clothes on and slipped out the door.

After she left, Spike sat there holding the thing that had so easily penetrated the Slayer in his hand. He let his eyes fall to the tequila, the smokes, and the cheese balls, and the greedy fellow inside of him went over to the bag to see if there was anything left inside.

Reaching down, he pulled a basic white envelope. Frowning, he put the vibrator down and opened the thing up. Inside was a lock of golden-brown hair.

Spike chuckled to himself softly. “Apology accepted, Slayer.”

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