Patrolling-Schmatrolling

CHAPTER 6

Spike awoke to the sound of birds. This was something he hadn't experienced in probably several years, possibly decades. You can't hear morning birds underground as a rule, and ... his eyes flew open.

"Bloody Hell!"

The sun was almost up, he probably had 5 minutes at the most. The feel of it was singing it's warning on every inch of his skin. He tried to roust the slumbering Slayer next to him.

"Slayer," he was soft at first, then more urgent, "Slayer!" He slipped from her grasp and gathered his clothes, which were impressively scattered about rather than in the neat little pile he thought he had left. They must have thrashed over them several times during the night. He couldn't help but smile at that a little. He tried one more time to wake Buffy, but she was sleeping so prettily he really hated to. Her expression was one of calm and fulfillment such as he had never seen on her face. He hadn't the heart to force her to wake up just so he could get his own arse to safety, though at this particular moment it might have been worth bursting into flames to hold her naked against him for just awhile longer.

He dressed quickly, then gathered her clothes as well, nudging them up against her body and then covered her with his duster, tucking it in tightly around her. She stirred a little, murmuring, "... don't ... go ..."

"I have to, luv." He bent down and kissed her softly on the forehead, whispering across her ear, "Come to me when you wake up." With that he broke into a dead run back to his crypt, making the entrance just as the first rays of morning sunlight hit his doorway.

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Buffy dragged in just in time to get Dawn off to school with a breakfast of cold cereal and juice. She was still wearing Spike's duster. She could pretend it was because it was a chilly morning, but in actuality she enjoyed having it wrapped around her. It smelled of cigarettes and leather and Spike. It was comforting, a cozy reminder of their night together.

"Rough night?" her little sister asked.

"Sorta. Why?" replied Buffy, trying to hide any hint of defensiveness.

Dawn was matter-of-fact, "You have grass and pine needles in your hair. I'm going to the Magic Shop after school to help Tara with a project, then we're going out for pizza. Is that okay?" Buffy nodded, she liked that Dawn still spent time with Tara. "See fterfter then." She grabbed her book bag and was off.

Buffy went upstairs to change and shower. She could feel him all over her, every inch of her skin, her hair, the intimate parts of her which had been touched and fondled and licked by him throughout the night. She was a little reluctant to shower him off of her, as if doing so would take away the memory of what had happened. She had no idea how she was going to "deal" with this, or even if she was. It had happened. There was no real reason for it other than she needed to feel, needed to be touched, and he had been there. "It could just as easily have been someone else," she thought to herself, and even as she thought it she knew it was a lie. He was exactly what she had wanted.

She'd spent these months, and many months before her death, belittling Spike's professed feelings for her. She couldn't bring herself to believe he could be capable of anything more than entirely self-centered insts.sts. But since she came back, she had noticed the little things. She never commented about them, but she noticed them. He never hesitated to watch over Dawn when she asked him to. She knew he had been her almost constant companion and protector over the summer, but he had also been her friend, and that almost meant more to Buffy than his determination to keep her safe. Dawn had lost so much last year, it had to be a burden on Spike to spend so much time with her, yet apparently he never complained and was always there when he was needed.

She had also noticed how, even when she was patrolling alone, she wasn't really alone. She could feel him close by, watching over to be sure she wasn't outnumbered. Several times he "happened to be in the neighborhood" at just the right time to bail her out of a marginal mess. He never mentioned it, never brought it up to her, never considered it a debt. He kept his feelings for her to himself. He had learned that the more he spoke of them, the more annoyed she became and the more she denied it. So he had kept it to himself. She noticed. She appreciated it, too. She had too much to deal with as it was already to have to contend with a lovesick vampire stalking her.

Last night changed things. Sure, as much as she hated to admit it, she had needed a man last night. She had needed big strong arms to hold her, hands to caress her, lips to kiss away the fears and doubts. It had been so long and she had felt increasingly vulnerable and alone, but it had been more than that. At least after the first time. They hadn't just had hours and hours of mind-blowing sex, there were hours of making love, and not just once either.

She started the shower warming up and began to undress, noticing right off and remembering the paintings on her arms and chest. Blood. It was his blood. The initial thought made her cringe. Blood. But then she looked at her body in the mirror, the detailed patterns and artistry. He had done this with blood and his fingers. It was amazing; she couldn't imagine what he could have done with a brush and real paints. She hated the thought of washing it off. Somehow it was a way of keeping him with her.

She brushed off some of the dried flakes and climbed into the shower watching much of it wash away under the warm water, going down the drain in brown swirls.

She felt his hands slide around her waist, caressing her stomach, washing her with delicately scented soap. His hands were gentle and glorious on her, tracing her ribs, her belly, her hipbones and finally reaching her breasts. Her nipples hardened immediately from his cool touch, the suds coating her skin and his hands and making his fingers slide over her softly. She gasped and leaned back into him ... then startled when her back hit the cold tile of the shower wall. Damn.

She washed her hair, rinsed off and got out of the shower. As shied ied off, she noticed a slight residual pattern on her skin from his painting. It was shadowy and hardly noticeable and would no doubt wash off soon enough. She wished it wouldn't. She liked that he had made a work of art from her body and his blood. Something about it made her feel a part of something important, a part of him. In the meantime, though, it would probably be best not to show it off too much. She smiled at herself in the mirror and slipped on a long-sleeved top and decided to wear her hair down to at least partially conceal the patterns on her neck. She looked closer at it and smiled again. He had included Angel and Dracula's bite marks into the pattern to the point they were invisible unless you knew they were there. He had, in this strange way, erased their marks on her. Her lips spread into a shy, secretive smile.

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Spike had found it iculicult to sleep when he got back to his crypt. He had laid down upstairs, downstairs, on the bed, on the floor, in a chair, anywhere he thought he might be able to get comfortable enough to sleep for a little while. It wasn't happening. She was haunting him, the Slayer. He could smell her and feel her everywhere, all over him, all around him. It was Drusilla's prophesy all over again. "Poor Spike," she had said.

After awhile, he gave up and pulled out one of his favorite volumes, settled into the ratty, overstuffed chair next to the bed and began to read for a spell.

Buffy came in upstairs and announced herself before climbing down to his bedroom. She usually just barged in, so he noticed and appreciated the difference. She looked somewhat fresher but not nearly as contented as she had been when he left her asleep in the woods. His duster was tossed over her arm. She tried to say something, but it got caught. She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat, "G'morning. I, um, thought I'd return this." She placed his coat over a chair and stammered a little more. "Um, thank you."

"You're welcome, pet." His voice was calm and controlled and silky. "Did you get some sleep?" She started to bristle. How dare he be so coy about it. Of course she hadn't slept much, they'd humped liked bunnies all night long, what on earth made him think she had slept at all, leaving her in the forest alone like that, naked and abandoned, where anyone or anything could have found her. She ought to beat him senseless ... except ... right now, she was the one with no sense.

"A little," her voice was annoyingly soft and peaceful, she hated it, but it just kept coming out like that, all girlish and happy. "I woke up when the sun hit me in the face." Okay, so he had a good reason to leave her there alone. Waking up next to a big pile of dust would have been decidedly worse than waking up a. ". "Um, thanks for leaving your coat." She felt stupid. Thank you for the coat? She wanted to say, "Thank you for the incredible night, for your tenderness, your depth, your touch, your sensitivity to every breath I take, for every part of you that touched every part of me ....," but all she had come up with was, "Thanks for leaving your coat."

Spike nodded. He wasn't really sure what to say to her. He was trying to let her set the pace, it was just safer that way. He wanted to ravage her right there ... throw her over that chair and continue where they left off last night, discovering any parts of her he might have missed and any other lovely ways he could find to make her come over and over again for only him. But ... she was playing it cool, so he did, too. As much as it pained him. She looked and smelled good enough to eat, not in that way, well, yes, in that way, but not in a grrrr-argh kind of feeding way. Bollocks, how could he be babbling in his mind?

"You looked so peaceful, I didn't want you to get cold," he said. Inside, he taunted himself, "Way to go, Spike, could you be any more lame?"

An awkward silence hung in the air. She looked at him, then when he looked at her, she'd look away, and vice versa until Buffy finally started shuffling toward the trap door up to the main crypt.

"Um, I guess I should be coming, er, going," she stammered, then screamed inside her head, "Please, God, tell me I didn't just say that!"

Spike stifled a smirk, it wasn't easy. It was, her, er, very easy to see where Buffy's head was this morning. He stood and approached her, standing just a little too close, pitching his voice a little low but not really seductive. He still had this ingrown fear that she would kick his arse if he tried to seduce her. Again.

"Thanks for returning my coat, pet," he said. "You didn't have to, I could have gotten it later." The hidden meaning was there, she didn't have to bring it back, but she had, and in so doing had managed to see him again only a few hours after they were soundly sleeping naked in the forest. It was almost amusing how neither of them was saying anything about it, this vain attempt to pretend it didn't happen.

She could smell him

"Oh, well, um, it was no bother. Um, thanks." She started to leave.

"Buffy ...." Spike started to say something.

She stopped and turned back toward him finding herself in his arms. Her breathing became shallow and her heart quickened. Spike could hear it and feel it and it made her that much more enticing to him. His eyes closed involuntary as he let the delicious scent of her surround him, then he pressed his lips to hers, just to taste her again, just a little.

"Spike ..." she murmured his name into his mouth, "We can't. We ...," she gasped, "... shouldn't."

"As you wish, luv," he pulled back and looked into those hazel eyes. "You say 'can't' or 'shouldn't', but Buffy," he used her name again, rather than spitting out 'Slayer' as he had a million times before, "what do you want?"

Looking up into the sky that seemed to live in his eyes, she didn't know how to respond. She wanted to say she wanted him, that she wanted things to be less complicated, that she wanted to spend more time like they did last night, touching each other in such a way that connected them more than just sexually. She kept searching his eyes and finally just replied honestly, "I don't know ... that's why we shouldn't"

"I can accept that, luv," he said with a playful smile. It wasn't a rejection, she wasn't kicking his arse,was was a very murky "maybe" she was giving him. He could wait.

As she turned to go up the ladder, he followed her up. He didn't want to press things, he didn't want to make her think about it too much. He knew she'd start talking herself into believing this was wrong somehow, that it was really empty and just interlockiodieodies filling a need. He knew better. She did, too. He'd give her space and let her come to him when the time was right. He had all he time in the world to wait for her.

He watched her walk toward the heavy wooden door, the heels of her boots clacking against the stone floor. If she turned back toward him, he'd say goodbye or smile at her or some other appropriate pleasantry ... even though he still really just wanted to ravage her for several hours and then sleep tangledin hin her hair and limbs for about forever.

As she opened the door, she turned back toward him, a tiny smile playing on her lips. "Spike?"

"Yes, pet?" He met her eyes.

"Patrol with me tonight?" She was shameless. She could have meant really patrol with her, for him to be her back up, or she could have meant he should back her up into the nearest tree and revisit last night. It was noncommittal and safe and in the hours ahead she could make it mean whatever she wanted it to.

Spike nodded at her, pushing back the smirk that was trying to force it's way onto his face. He could be noncommittal, too, dammit.

"Oh, and Spike?"

"Mmm?"

She smiled at him with a mixture of vixen and coyness. "Bring your coat."


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The End
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