Life Serial Revisited

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Chapter 5: Holding On
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I don’t understand how he does this to me. He asks the question that everyone else has been asking me over and over and…well, a lot. ‘Are you okay?’ When thsk, sk, I have to grit my teeth and force out an answer and a nice fake smile. He never asks me that. Only he just did. And it didn’t make me crazy at all. It made me actually feel kinda…warm and fuzzy. And safe. He makes me feel so…

“Slayer?”

Oh shit. Earth to Buffy. Spike is talking to me and here I am just standing here all doe-eyed, staring at him like a lovesick puppy. He can probably see me thinking about him, it’s so obvious. I blink rapidly, trying to cover up. He looks at me curiously over his shoulder and I realize he is already on the bike and waiting for me.

“Works much better if you actually get on the bike, Buffy.” His smirk is all sassy. I roll my eyes and take the last few steps to the beat up machine.

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Slayer is about to send me right around the bend. She’s here and then she’s gone. Lost in thought, I guess. Or just really blazing drunk. Bit hard to tell. But the way she was just looking at me. Well. That was something to remember. All soft and tender. Must be the booze. Slayer is so rarely soft and tender and certainly not in my direction. I can’t help but smile as she sidles up to the bike. Nibbling on her bottom lip as she looks it – and me – over. Good thing I can hold my liquor better than her or I’d be cashing in a one way ticket to staking by grabbing her right about now. Also good she can’t read my thoughts or again, staking.

“Is there a problem, luv?” She looks positively confused. And god, adorable.

She cocks her head at me, eyes wide and dark in the night. “Um. I’m not sure where to put my feet. Or foot. You know – to get on.” I look back and point out the peg sticking out by the back wheel.

“Right there, Slayer. One foot in and then swing over. Just like a bicycle.” She leans down, squinting a bit before spotting it. Definitely can’t hold her drink.

“Oh yeah, there it is. Was hiding from me.” Her grin is almost too much. Never get to see her happy and it makes me ache. Makes me happy. I’m such a bloody ponce.

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I can’t stop looking at him. I wonder if he can tell I’m stalling. It didn’t occur to me ‘til right about now how…intimate…riding a motorcycle is. I have to hold onto him. Right up against him. I don’t usually do that. Ever. And right now, it seems that bad things might happen if I do. Or gooingsings, depending on your point of view… No. NO. Bad things. Not with Spike. Not going there. But I am.

“Right foot, pet. Start with your right foot.” Oh, duh. I plant my right foot firmly and then realize my hands go somewhere. His shoulders. Dear god, this was a stupid stupid thing to agree to. I put both hands on his shoulders and swing my left leg up and over. And nearly swing right back off the bike. Too drunk and overly strong for that maneuver. I clutch harder into his shoulders and Spike’s right arm shoots back to steady me. I freeze in place, kind of halfway down to my seat as I feel his hand dig into my hip. My whole body shivers in place and I pray he can’t feel it.

“Alright, Buffy? Can’t have you falling off back there, now can we?” He shoots a look at me and I feel my legs return to their jelly-ish state. I slowly slide all the way down to my seat, causing his hand to slide, to rise up and brush against…whoa! He lets go quickly before it gets more…interesting.

“I’m…I’m fine.” Oh yeah. Way convincing. I mimic my timid little voice in my head. I sound like a delicate little flower. And I’m not. I’m the freakin’ Chosen One.

“Hold on then. I’m starting ‘er up.”ike ike stands up a little before dropping down to kickstart the bike. On the second try, it roars to life and I feel the whole thing vibrating between my legs. Damn. That feels…ahem…well. Moving on…

As I just kind of get used to the rumbling shaking my whole body, I take an inventory. Feet, firmly planted on pegs. Legs, tightly pressed against his. Arms, wrapped around his waist like I won him at the state fair. My upper body in full contact with his leather clad back.

Holy shit.

I unclench everything all at once, nearly flailing my way off the bike. Thank god we weren’t moving yet or I’d be Slayer-shaped roadkill. Now, here’s the tricky part. It’s very hard to sit on a motorcycle behind someone without actually touching that person. Inevitably, my legs find their way back against his and I have to decide where the hands go. Safe would be a light grip on the duster, just enough to steady myself. Actually, safest would be placing my hands on my own thighs, so naturally, I put my hands on his.

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I nearly kill the engine in surprise when I feel her hands light on my thighs. Bloody Slayer is going to make me lay this bike down and we’re not even moving yet. I can almost hear the gears in her mind working. For just a moment, she relaxed her body against me, her warmth rapidly seeping through my clothes. In the next, she was gone. I almost checked behind me to see if she fell off. Then, the barest touch of her legs against mine and now this, the flutter of two little hands lighting on my thighs. Damn. If I react, she’ll definitely pull back.

“Ready, luv?”

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“And willing.” Oh my GOD. If I didn’t have my hands, um, settled, I’d smack myself right in the forehead. Where is this voice coming from? Am I trying to flirt with him? Like, on purpose? This is why I don’t drink. That way leads to badness. Ooh, he has the tightest thighs ever.

Argh.

Hmm, he hasn’t said anything. Maybe he didn’t hear my little comment. No, he so heard me. One curious blue eye just caught me over his shoulder before facing forward again. He heard me with the sassy, flirty-ness and I am so… I brace myself for his snappy comeback.

“Hold on, Slayer.”

Wha? That’s not snappy. It was just…instructional. With that, he hits the gas or releases the brake or whatever the heck you do to make a motorcycle go. To keep from falling to my death…okay, to bumps and bruises….I grab on. Tight. Yipes.

After the first burst of speed, it become easier to hold on. I realize that I have his thighs in a death grip and try, I really do, to let up. Only, I can’t. And I don’t want to, either. The crisp night air starts to clear my head of the liquor somewhat, but I still think the world is going a bit fast and blurry for my taste. Wait. That could just be the motorcycle ride. Anyway. Back to the holding onto Spike. Those hands of mine have a mind of their own and it is naughty naughty. By the time I’ve regained my sense of balance from our initial takeoff, I determine that my hands have somehow moved from the tight hold on his thighs to his hips. Only I don’t even want to contemplate the path they took to get there. Fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging on the soft cotton of his well-worn tee. We take a turn and I clutch tighter, apparently untucking the shirt. How do I know that? Well, here’s how. When my hands relax again, my little finger touches flesh. His flesh. His undead, smooth-as-silk skin. He tenses. I feel it run through me as, of course, I’ve now leaned into him again. My chest pressed against his back, my cheek resting on aged leather. I take a breath and take in the scent of Spike. Of old leather and whiskey and faint tobacco. Plus something indefinably him. A scent I know in the dark walking through a cemetery, something I can recognize as this one particular bleached bloamp.amp. And the part of me that is becoming increasingly bold tonight announces that it likes it.

But hey, back to the skin. That brazen pinky finger brushes his cool skin and the other fingers push and shove to do it, too. Before I can string together a screaming protest, there’s a whole hand touching him. Touching those rock hard abs and trying desperately not to move. For some feeble reason, I am still pretending that I am just holding on. Not feeling him up, noooooo. Just holding ON. Y’know, it would be more convincing if the other hand was doing the same thing…

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Bloody fucking hell. What is she doing? I glance down and confirm what I could already feel, what made me tighten every muscle in my body. Her hand, under my shirt. Does she even know it? Is she that drunk? I can’t tell at all without looking at her. I can feel the warmth of her body coursing through mine as she relaxes into me from behind. For once, I curse my duster for getting between me and Buffy. I could really feel that pulsing heat if this damned coat was gone. OKAY. Two hands under the shirt. She has to know she is doing this. What is she playing at? Is she playing?

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Spike hasn’t said a word. Has he not noticed? Do I want him to notice? God, I need another drink, another shot of liquid courage. Inhibitions be darned. Would it be so bad to just touch him a little bit? Buffy’s drunk! Doesn’t know what she’s doing! Just wants to see Spike naked! Big deal!

And then, despite the haze of booze, guilt. Oh guilt, you bastard. I can’t use him. He loves me. I can’t just be all touch-y and stuff unless I feel something for him, too.

And there’s the million dollar question. What do I feel for him? I turn my head, letting the other cheek meet leather and letting my eyes try to catch the buildings blurring past us. We are going wicked fast. Or I’m wicked drunk. Or both.

Probably both.

I let my hands just rest there against him, not moving, while I think. But thinking is a foggy, tricky thing at the moment. Every lucid thought slips through my fingers. The roar of the engine dims, fades into the background as I think a little harder. I feel us turn, feel the vibration continue to rattle my bones, but it’s all kind of dull. And I find that when you peel away all the negative, all the everyday thoughts that crowd my brain, just push them aside, things are different.

I stop thinking of Spike as a vampire, as an evil villain, as all those things. I end up thinking about the way his hair sometimes curls up on his forehead. The sound when he laughs, all low and rumbly. The gentle blue of his eyes when he looks at me and thinks I don’t see. The wetness I saw there when he told me that he saved me in his dreams every night after I died. He counted the days I was gone, expecting there to be no end. 147 and up. His expression when I came down the stairs that first night, bloody and scared and dying to curl up and well, die. And all I could see in his face was love. Shock, yes, but love. Took my hands in his, a touch light and careful. Almost holding hands. It was so calming, so…right.

It’s not just words. He loves me. Loves me with everything he’s got. If I just let myself see it, it is pouring from him, even when he is silent. When he is just listening to me. And me? What do I feel about all this? Would I notice all these things if I didn’t feel something, too? I sigh, touched by my own overdue, drunken realization about him and my utter confusion about me. This gets his attention where the groping did not. Oh, we stopped. I look up. A stoplight.

He looks over his shoulder, meeting my eyes. Our faces are inches apart and I’m afraid he can see my thoughts scrawled there. Except he just smiles a litand and says, “Still up to it, Slayer? The bar?” He cocks his head towards the demon bar he frequents, just a few blocks up the street.

I look the direction he gestured. I look back at him. Back towards the bar. Back to him. And then slowly, very slowly, I shake my head.

“No?” He knits his brow, turning a little bit more towards me. “What, then?” His expression is open, questioning. My thoughts continue to swirl as I try to figure out what I am feeling. My desire to keep moving, to let the world whip by us, is too strong. Too much what I need right now. On the bike, we are together. I’m allowed to touch him, to be near him. Off the bike, I have to retreat, be Buffy. Separate from Spike. Or at least it seems that way.

“Can we just ride?” I smile just a touch, corners of my mouth turning up. Eyes asking him not to ask questions. He simply nods with a little twinkle in his eyes and turns back around. The engine roars louder as we peel out of the intersection with a squeal. I grab on for dear life, thoughts of proper behavior and the burdens of everyday living left behind in our wake.