InsaneJournal

FIc update: THE PROPER SLAYER (pt 10 of ?)
Buffy's back home in Sunnydale after her AWOL summer with an unhappily-souled Spike.

And now they together together again, struggling with a mutual love that isn't making anything better for either of them.

Fic set in an AU early season 3. Sequel to Let's Get Lost.



Previously ....

"How do you say 'I want your cock in my mouth' in French?"

Dru had certainly been moody, going from laughter to tears in the space of a heartbeat, but then she'd been mad as an experienced hatter. Buffy wasn't mad, but she was certainly capricious. She'd come in all doomy, stayed that way all through their lovemaking, and now it was over, here she was all flirty.

It's 'J'ai envie d'avoir ta bite dans la bouche.'"

"Zhay envy devour tah beet don la boosh."

"D'avoir. Not devour. Though suppose it comes to the same thing."

"I know 'bouche' so I guess the beet part is the cock."

"Spelled like bite." As soon as he said it, Spike wished he hadn't. The whole biting thing was still hanging between them—unmentioned this time but not, he was pretty sure, forgotten by her any more than it was forgotten by him. He hastened to add, "An' the French for cunt is 'con'. Or 'la chatte'."

"Pussy."

"Exactly."

"Well, aren't you a fount of filthy information." She squinted at him, like she was trying to figure something out. And then she was on her knees, yanking his buttons open again. "J'ai envie d'avoir ta bite dans la bouche. Dans ma bouche."

And what a bouche she had on her, and what a pair of hands. She'd learned him, during their weeks together, she knew how he liked it, and went at him hard, eyes squeezed shut like she needed simultaneously to pretend she wasn't doing what she was doing with such gusto.

"Christ, yeah. Yeah, that's brilliant. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." He thrust into her encircling hands, into her mouth, legs trembling as he went up and over.

She sat back on her heels, running her tongue into the corners of her mouth. "Sometimes I wonder what the Good Slayer Fairy would say if she could see me."

"Who's that?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant as he did up his buttons.

"I made her up. Just now. She's like the Tooth Fairy, only she's the one who anoints the slayers. She comes in when you're asleep and taps you with her glittery wand and you wake up all strong and angsty and ready to kill vampires and also tear yourself in two over them."

"Them?"

"Well, certain ones. He-whose-name-we-don't-seem-to-be-saying-to-each-other-anymore-and-that's-just-fine-thank-you. And now you. Which better be all. Because it already looks like one of those unfortunate habits."

He opened his mouth to say he wasn't going to be anybody's goddamn unfortunate habit, but Buffy again looked so miserable—the playfulness of a few moments ago gone as quickly as it arose—that he held back. She rose and went to the door.

"I have to go now. By myself."

"An' what am I supposed to do?" The idea of a threat leapt forward—telling her he'd go out and kill a dozen blighters if she left him. That was the kind of coercive drama he and Drusilla traded back and forth, jealousy waxing and waning, keeping their passion engaged across the decades. But he sensed that wasn't going to brighten her love-light any, and besides, it wasn't like he was actually going to do it. It wasn't that he didn't entirely want to. Just that he was certain he'd never be able to keep it a secret from her, and she'd never touch him again if she knew he was unleashed. When he thought that he never ever again could look forward to a good satisfying kill, drinking some punter's blood down 'til he expired, it made him want to throw over love altogether.

Kill the bitch and just get on with it. Maybe there'd be some other vamp girl would come along, who'd take Drusilla's place in his heart and his car and his bed, and everything would go back to normal.

Kill the bitch, yeah. Same one who, having grasped the door knob for a moment, was now ricocheting back to him, all warm and quivering and mewing sadly, adorably, as she slipped her arms around his neck. "Kiss me so I know you're not mad," she murmured, as if she'd read his mind and as if she had absolutely no remote idea that he'd ever made her death his business. She knew, she knew, but love made her forget. Made her want to forget it.

Kissing her made him want to forget it too.

"Okay, look," she said, when they'd kissed and kissed and kissed again. "come with me if you want."

"If I want?"

"I want you to. I just—"

"Think you shouldn't."

"Yeah." She plucked at his shirt with her little fingers. "God. Why does this have to be so hard?"

Fucking hell. Whoever said being in love made you happy needed his head examined.

The only time he'd been happy since Angelus came back, was with the slayer in New York. A happiness he hadn't recognized as such, until they'd achieved that moment of perfection that whisked the soul out of him and supposedly set him free. Free, all right, free to be anxious, lonely, angry, stuffed full of longing for a girl who was far far far too good and strange for him, far too above him.

He hadn't known when he was well off.

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