Setting/Summary:  Takes place the day after “Older and Far Away.”  Dual POVs.  An attempt to fanwank a little light on how the train wreck of “As You Were” through “Seeing Red” could have come to pass.

Disclaimer:  You talking to me?  I don’t own any of these people.  I just write here.  And make no profit, etc., etc.

Distribution:  You want it, you got it.  Just let me know.

Rating:  R for adult content and language

Feedback:  Always appreciated.

Thanks:  Sylvia and Anne, that was beta-ing above and beyond the call of duty.  And this one is for Jodi – happy birthday, lady!

“Spike!”

Spike swatted away the hand poking at his shoulder as a cheerful voice trilled in his ear, “Wakey, wakey!  Rise and shine!”  He groaned as the intrusive onslaught continued, trying to preserve his dead-to-the-world status by flinging an arm across his face and scooting away from the jabbing fingers.

“Shut up already.  I’m awake, all right?” he grumbled, reluctantly abandoning the idea of further sleep.  “Just give me a minute.”

He peered cautiously through one half-opened eye and nearly tumbled out of bed.  Christ, where in the hell had she come from?  Spike rubbed his eyes, no longer shaking off sleep but very much awake.

He blinked.

No.  It was beyond impossible.

He gaped at her as she smiled broadly, her shiny blond hair framing her face.  Her eyes widened in delight at his shocked reaction, and she held out her arms as she twirled before him balanced on thigh-high leather boots.  Her skirt flared out, revealing a slit nearly up to the top of her hip.  Then he noticed that the skirt was positively sedate compared with the plunging neckline of her top.

“Do you like it?” she asked brightly.  “Does it make you want to ravish me?”

“What the—  How—?”  Spike closed his eyes again and shook his head.  Clearly a figment of his imagination.  Or wait, maybe he was still dreaming.  That had to be it.  When he opened his eyes, she’d be gone.

Nope, still there.  Still impossibly there, beaming at him and looking as though she really was waiting expectantly for him to tear off her clothes.  Unbelievably there, even though the last time he’d seen her she’d been in pieces, ripped apart by the biker demons.  He’d have bet that there was no way Willow could knit that mess back together, and yet…

Then he smelled her.  Heard her.  Saw her.  It was a good show, he’d give Buffy that.  But of course the robot had no heartbeat and had always smelled a little more like machinery than flesh.  There were some things that couldn’t be masked by a dazzling smile and the requisite attitude.

“Buffy, what the hell are you doing?” Spike asked wearily, settling the sheet around his waist.

Her smile never faltered even though an expression of confusion flitted across her features.  “What do you mean?  I’m trying to make you happy.”  She sat and placed a hand on his thigh.  “Doesn’t this make you happy?”

“Oh yeah.  This rates huge on the Happy-Meter,” he retorted sarcastically.  “Seriously, Buffy, what’s with the Stepford Wives routine?  Are we having multiple Halloweens this year?  Willow fall off the wagon and magick you into horny mannequin?”

“I don’t understand those questions, but thank you for asking,” she answered.  “Do you want to play a game?  I could wear costumes!”

“Whatever you’re on about, give it a rest, will you?”

“I’m trying to play with you, silly,” she admonished, her heavily glossed lips jutting into a perfect pout.  “I couldn’t stay away from you, Spike.  I tried and tried,” she purred, “but I just couldn’t.  I’m yours.”

Spike snorted derisively.  “Yeah, Slayer, that’s a good one.  Now I know you’re having one over on me.  Go play your little game elsewhere, will you?  I’m a bit knackered here.”

Buffy’s smile finally slipped.  “I’m just trying to be nice to you, you idiot.  Excuse me for trying.”  She scowled as she stood and turned away from him in a huff.

“Oh, well, gee, I’m so flattered that the only way you can be nice to me is by pretending to be a bloody machine,” he said to her retreating back.

She stopped, a mixture of quivering indignation and steely fury.  “You know, I came here with the best of intentions.  I put on this ridiculous get-up and degraded myself for you.  I wanted to make things up to you after…you know.”  She stumbled over the last words.

“Beating me to a bloody pulp?” he filled in, pretending to be helpful.

She ignored him.  “And this is the thanks I get.”

He rolled his eyes.  “What exactly were your intentions, Buffy?”

Buffy could have kicked herself.  When she was at home, thinking about the bruises on his face that seemed to be taking too long to fade, this had seemed like a brilliant plan.  She should have known it would all go to hell. 

“I’m sure you can guess.  This isn’t exactly subtle, is it?”  She gestured at her outfit and fell silent, waiting for him to interject some snotty comment, but he just lit a cigarette and stared at her.  She sighed heavily.  “I come over here, dressed like this, and then you get to do whatever you want with me.”

His eyebrows lifted upward.  “Whatever I want?”

“Don’t get all excited.  I changed my mind,” she said loftily.

“Well, now, don’t be hasty.  Don’t want to ruin your plans, what with them being so well-laid and all.”  He laughed when her eyes narrowed at his stress on the word “laid,” obviously searching for some latent double-entendre.  “I mean, you clearly put a lot of thought and effort into this.”

She sniffed.  “Hardly.  I just went to Sluts ‘R Us.  I knew they’d have some kind of ho wear that would appeal to someone of your refined tastes.”

He smirked and made a big show of closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.  “You think I can’t tell that you want to be here?”

She cursed his “I can smell your arousal” routine at the same time that she cursed her body for betraying her.  “You’re a pig, Spike.”

He opened his eyes and grinned at her.  “Yeah.  That’s why you’re practically trembling with anticipation.”

She glared at him as he rose and began to circle her.  Predatory.  Dangerous.  She started to turn her head to keep eye contact as he stalked behind her, but she forced herself instead to stare icily ahead.

“Whatever will I do to you, Slayer?”  The voice in her ear nearly made her jump.

“Do what you would do to her.  It, I mean.  Something you and I haven’t done,” she answered resolutely.  “I’ll let you.”

He stopped and studied her carefully.  Her chin was stuck out defiantly, and resignation lurked behind the challenge in her eyes.  Suddenly, his fingers literally tingled with the urge to smack the look of martyrdom off her face.

“Don’t need a charity fuck so that you can feel better about what you did,” he said grimly.

“I—  It’s not charity.  Not exactly.”

“Then what is it?  Exactly?”

She flushed under the intensity of his gaze.  “I don’t know.”

It certainly wasn’t about being sorry.  She wasn’t going to apologize.  There was nothing for her to feel bad about, after all.  Beating the shit out of Spike was not worth feeling guilty over.  Punching a corpse was like getting mad and putting your fist through a wall:  the targets were both just things, objects.  No harm, no foul.  She certainly wouldn’t have felt sorry for the wall, so why should she feel bad about Spike?

She’d reasoned it all out, carefully absolved herself of any wrongdoing.  And then she’d seen him at her birthday party, still bearing signs of her rage, and her tidy little justification began to disintegrate.  That was the one flaw that she’d managed to overlook in her perfect theory – the wall you punched didn’t walk around looking bruised and vulnerable afterwards.

And so she’d come up with this stupid scheme to reassure herself.  She’d throw some sex at whatever she was feeling and see if it went away.  It still wasn’t about being sorry; it was about restoring a balance, re-setting a tipped scale.

But she couldn’t tell him any of that, so she just repeated, “I don’t know.”

Spike wanted to lash out at her, say that it wasn’t enough.  That she’d have to come up with something better than that.  But he didn’t.

“So this is my fantasy, then?  I pick the plot, and you do your best robot impersonation.  That about the size and shape?”

He was a practical man after all.  This was a golden opportunity best taken advantage of rather than over-intellectualized.  He discarded a number of possible scenarios before settling on the one he wanted.

Buffy lifted her chin.  “That’s it.  You in?”

“Sure,” he said, sounding magnanimous.  “I’ll play.” 

Buffy fought the urge to punch him until she caught herself and remembered that’s why she was in this mess in the first place.  “Fine.”

Before his eyes, she became the bot again, and he was surprised at the speed of the transformation:  her shoulders relaxed, her eyes went blank, and she affected the pose of an adoring girlfriend.  But then again, he knew Buffy had plenty of experience playacting.  She’d been playing make-believe for so long it was probably just like stepping into another skin.  The only thing that marred the presentation was her mouth.  The bright, plastic smile looked positively manic through Buffy’s gritted teeth.

He tapped a finger against her chin.  A flicker of annoyance passed over her face, but she unclenched her jaw.  She started to sink down to the floor in front of him, but he grasped her by the arm to stop her.

“Come here,” he said, and she was all smiles and compliance as he pulled her down next to him on the bed.

On any other day, he’d tear her clothes off and leave the boots on, because, God, they were sexy, but this wasn’t any other day.  The boots clashed with his plans, so he bent and unlaced them.

He sat upright again and reached out to touch her arm.  He was surprised to find her shaking slightly, and he wondered whether it was fear or anticipation.  They’d set no ground rules, so maybe she believed that she had reason to be afraid.  Probably turned her on.

He slid his hand up her arm to her shoulder, fingers brushing lightly over her neck.  His hand moved into her hair, and he drew her closer.

She had anticipated candles or cuffs or whips, which made what happened next completely unexpected.  Somehow they ended up facing one another on the bed, a relatively foreign venue for them, and he was kissing her.  Not roughly or hungrily but softly, slowly, with deepening intensity, until she found herself clutching him and struggling for breath.

“What is this?” Buffy asked when he slid his mouth away to give her air.

“I’m seducing you, Buffy.  Now shut up.  You’re out of character.”

Buffy pushed him away, trying to clear her head.  “Wait, I said to do something you would do to the robot.  That was the agreement.  You expect me to believe that you got a sexbot to make sweet, tender love to?  Please.  The whole thing was depraved.”

“Quite frankly, I don’t care what you think, or whether you came here hoping and praying for a little depravity,” he said brusquely, ignoring her outrage.  “Sure, the robot did all the gymnastic stuff, although she did have a few range of motion problems…”  He trailed off as Buffy’s nose wrinkled disdainfully.  “Believe me, pet, you and I have done things that would have made the bot blush, so don’t sit there looking all superior.”

He felt a tiny rush of satisfaction when her disgust was replaced by a flush of embarrassment.  “But there were other times,” he went on, “when it wasn’t just about the rough and tumble.  And since it’s my game and my rules, you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

“Are you trying to humiliate me?  Is that what this is about?” 

He stared at her in disbelief.  “Are you capable of considering, even for a second, that the world doesn’t revolve around you?  You said this was about making something up to me, yeah?  That means it gets to actually be about me.  For once.”

“’For once,’” she repeated.  “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?  What, you haven’t enjoyed yourself?”

“I never said that.  I’m just saying that most of the time it’s like I’m your bloody wind-up toy.  It’s all about what you want.  What you need.  It’s not like the sex hasn’t been amazing.  I just want something else this time.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Bleeding Christ, woman!” he exploded.  “Buffy, if you’re gonna do this, then shut up and do it.  If you’re not, then just get the hell out.”  Spike couldn’t help but recognize the irony of the fact that a year ago he’d ordered the bot to “be Buffy” and now he was telling the real thing to play make-believe.  And he thought his relationship with Dru had been warped.

Buffy glared at him, fuming.  It hadn’t always been about her, she thought defensively.  She’d gone down on him plenty of times, and so, yeah, it had always been to shut him up or manipulate him, but still.  Was he trying to say she was a bad lover?  Because there was just no way that was true.  How dare he?  She’d show him.

“Fine,” she seethed.  “Do whatever you want.  It’s all about you.”

“If that’s settled,” he said while she nodded tightly, “I’ll just get back to where we left off.”

Spike eased her back onto the bed, and Buffy braced herself.  She figured it was only a matter of time before he began pulling at her clothes – God only knew what passed for seduction in Spike’s mind.  But he didn’t.  For what seemed like an eternity, one arm stayed tight around her waist, the other still in her hair as he kissed her.  And kissed her.  And kissed her.

She wanted to push him away, to object to the wrongness of it all.  This wasn’t their typical recipe of violent foreplay followed by frenzied lust and desperation; this was far more frightening.  There was pressure in the force of his lips against hers, but it wasn’t bruising in its intensity.  He was almost relentless in his gentleness, and it was as if he were peeling all of her layers away, stripping her bare.  She had planned on mindless physicality, not this strange tenderness that made her feel inexplicably vulnerable.

He dropped kisses along her jaw line as she caught her breath, and suddenly his mouth was on her throat.  She stiffened but somehow didn’t feel as terrified as she thought she would.  It had occurred to her on the walk over that this was what he might want.  To taste her.  And even as part of her brain had registered automatic revulsion, another part wondered if maybe she owed it to him, after the blood she’d drawn in the alley.  Besides, this she could deal with.  This at least was predictable.

Spike opened his mouth on her pulse point, and he could feel it throbbing against his lips.  He felt Buffy turn her head away from him as he ran his teeth over her skin, and he pulled back, moving his hand to tilt her face toward him, bringing his mouth to her lips again.

Pathetic little fantasy, really.  He knew Buffy would be as good as her word, that she’d go along with anything he tried.  Part of her probably craved something dark and twisted, another dirty little secret.  He’d felt her heart race when she thought he was going to drink from her.

He’d had her against a wall, on the ground, tied up – hell, they’d brought down a building together.  But this time he wanted something different.  Something ordinary.  That was the one thing she would never let him do.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, Spike!” Buffy replied.  That was it, she thought, just stay in character.  It doesn’t have to be personal.

But she couldn’t, and it was.  She was more in the moment than she had ever been before, and the touch of his hands on her skin when he slid her clothes off was electric.  If he was surprised that she wasn’t wearing anything under the skirt and top, he didn’t show it.

“Shall I make love to you, then?”

She heard the caution in his voice and knew that he was giving her one last out.  But she wasn’t going to take it.  Found herself instead suddenly unwilling to take it.  “Yes.”

His mouth moved lazily down her body, and she writhed beneath him, her hands tangled in his hair.  What was left of her rational mind toyed with the idea of throwing out a little robot-speak, some computerized narration of the sensations.  He probably would have liked that.  But her brain kept short-circuiting.  He wasn’t moving fast enough to bring her off, and she felt as though she might explode if he didn’t let her come soon.

Buffy bit her lip to hold back the moan that threatened to spill out of her.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Spike said.  “We had a deal.  Being the bot means I get the full soundtrack.  She was never shy about the noise.  Let it out, Buffy.”

She might have protested but his tongue and his fingers were working at her, in her, again, and she arched into him as she cried out.

“That’s my girl.”

“Yes, Spike, your girl,” Buffy echoed, but not so automatically.  It was getting much more difficult to speak in someone else’s voice, and so much easier to forget why she should have ground out an “I could never be your girl” like she had that night in the alley.  Not when she felt so warm and safe.

It startled and perplexed her to recognize what it was she was feeling.  She felt cherished.  Almost worshiped.

She didn’t know it could be like this.  She couldn’t even remember what it had felt like to be with Parker; the only emotion that lingered as a testament of their night together was shame, and that colored the memories of anything she might actually have been feeling at the time.  With Riley, she had always felt oddly alone.  There had been passion, but he never seemed to be able to reach her.  Not really.  Maybe she’d just never tried hard enough with Riley.  And those moments with Angel, her first time, had been a hazy blur of awe and joy and pain.  But then everything was just over.  She went to bed with an angel and woke up to a monster.

Before, with Spike, it had been all about the physicality.  Sensations.  All the while, her mind went blissfully, mercifully numb.  It was never really about him.  Not until it was over, and then it was intensely about him.  What he was. 

But she couldn’t focus on any of that now.  She watched him, thinking that he was something, someone other than she expected.  Someone she didn’t quite recognize.  Realizing that there were so many things about him she’d never thought about, never noticed.

He tried to look away, almost uncomfortable by the way she was looking at him.  Like she was seeing him for the first time, instead of staring through him as she always did.  Maybe she felt it, too, what he was feeling.  That this was all new.  The way she felt, the way she tasted.  And it wasn’t about the pretense anymore.  She was different now, like he was pulling someone out of her, someone other than who she had been when they were together before.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are you.”

She’d been thinking it but had no intentions of giving voice to her thoughts.  Somehow the words just slipped out, and then there was no taking them back.  It would have been one thing if she could play it off as the character, just a part of the game, but she hadn’t even done the voice right.  She’d forgotten to sound mechanically cheerful, and he’d picked up on it right away, hovering motionless above her, stunned.

And, just for a moment, an expression of fear passed through his eyes.  How was it that he could shrug off her beatings with a grin and a smart-ass comment, but kind words from her provoked sheer terror?  Buffy felt something twisting in her gut at the look on his face, but there wasn’t time to name the emotion because he was moving again, sinking into her, obliterating conscious thought.

She heard her own voice, babbling.  A steady stream of breathless confessions that she couldn’t believe she was actually saying but couldn’t quite bring herself to regret.  About how good he felt inside her, how much she needed him, how the only time she could breathe these days was when he was around.  And she knew every comment was bringing him closer to the precipice, knew because he was pulling her with him, reaching deeper inside her than he ever had before.  She felt him everywhere, surrounding her, under her skin.  Finally, all the way inside.

And suddenly she knew why she’d really come to him.  What she could admit just this once.  She brushed her fingertips across his face and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

And suddenly, she was free.  In that moment when she rose to meet him and they began tumbling together, she was finally free.  Her blood was loud in her ears, but her mind was quiet.  For the first time since she’d come back.  And she’d never known it could be like that.

He collapsed onto her, tangled in her warmth.  He could feel his body shaking, heard some distant sound, and wondered idly whether he was laughing or crying.  He felt a little like doing both.  But then he realized with a start that it was Buffy’s voice, Buffy’s chest heaving with spasms of laughter and gasping for air through her tears, and he held her as she gripped him tightly.

Buffy tried to concentrate on the echoes of her laughter because she knew that when they faded, the spell would be broken.  All the thoughts she’d pushed aside would come rushing in.

Already it was all sliding away.  She couldn’t push the recriminations back.  All the boundaries that bent when he was inside her were resurrected, and the shades of gray separated out into black and white again.

All she could think now was that she’d found a moment of what felt pretty close to perfect happiness with a soulless monster.  What did that say about her?  That she could never be normal, could never be with anyone normal?  Or that she was a monster herself?

Whatever it said, it proved that she was wrong.  That all of this had been wrong.

She pushed him away suddenly.  “I can’t do this.  Can’t feel this.”  She fought to free herself and knelt on the ground searching for her clothes.

“Yes, you can.”  He moved to grab her hand but was halted by the look of panic on her face.

“No, I can’t.  Not with you.”

He flinched.

“You don’t understand,” she said hurriedly, dismissively.

“So what now?”  Spike had an odd sense of déjà vu.  He felt like he was always asking her that question.  He wanted to be angry that this was turning out to be just another “so what now” moment, but really, what had he expected?

He knew that was a question better left unanswered.  But he’d had to try.

After all, a man’s gotta do what he can.

“Not this,” she said, sliding into her clothes.  “Never this again.”

“So we’ll just go back to the whips and chains, then?”

When her eyes flashed threateningly, he knew that this wasn’t going to be the last time, and the tightness in his chest eased.  They’d go back to rushed, groping fucks, and he would be grateful for them.  She would need to prove that this night didn’t matter, hadn’t really touched her.  To show that she was the one in control.

It wouldn’t happen right away.  He’d have to cajole or shame her into some illicit rendezvous.  Pull her up against a tree, push her down into the grass.  But she’d give in one of these days.  She had to.

And maybe sometime after that he could make her feel the way she’d felt tonight, and maybe that time she wouldn’t want to let it go.  Wouldn’t push him away.  And he’d finally get it right for once.

Buffy pulled on her boots, leaving the laces dangling.  Anything to expedite her retreat.  She had to get out and put this behind her.  She’d just been confused, caught up in the game.  Nothing more.  It didn’t have to mean anything.

One day someone normal would come along, and she would try harder, that’s all.  Make up for the mistakes she’d made with Riley.  She wouldn’t let someone like him get away again.