Title: No Talking
Summary: Buffy finds her escape in Spike's kiss.
Timeline: Post-Tabula Rasa.
Word Count: 856
Author's Note: This is for ladyofthelog for her birthday! I hope it was all kinds of joyful! She requested "Spuffy...Season 6! Too much booze! (smut is always welcomed, as is humor)" The humor is somewhat absent and while I'm wishing you joy, I'm realizing I've given you something else entirely here. *fingers crossed that you like it*
“God, Buffy,” Spike groaned, pulling back from her hungry lips to gape at her in amazement. He gripped her hips and pulled her tight into his body. She undulated against him, using the pillar behind her for leverage. “Buffy, god, yes.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.” She pulled him down into her kiss.
He tasted her, all of her, from her natural musk to the other scents cloying to her form – soap and sweat, cigarette smoke and peach schnapps. She’d been busy drowning her sorrows when he’d found her sitting alone at the bar. The cold shoulder she’d offered had sent him to the shadows where he'd spent the next hour puffing on a pack till she sought him out in his dark corner.
Now, the cigarette smoke on her lips was from him kissing her with such fervor that she took on his own flavor. He chuckled at the thought of a Slayer tasting like ashes – didn’t she always? – only to wince when her teeth clamped down on his lower lip and drew blood. Wince and then shiver from the pleasure-pain surging straight to his groin.
“Always figured,” he murmured, his words slipping past their dueling tongues, “you’d be into biting, love.”
Buffy pulled back, grasping him by the neck with both hands and digging in with her sharp nails. Her punishing grip reminded him of brats readying to flick off a dandelion’s head after blowing away all the spores.
“Spike, are you ever gonna shut up?” she demanded through gritted teeth.
He pretended to consider the question, weighing the hypothetical eventualities in his mind before reaching a conclusion. “Doesn’t seem likely now, does it?”
“Okay.” She sighed and turned away from him. “Then I need more drinks. More with the drinking and the fruity fuzziness. Now.”
He followed her to the bar and slapped down two twenties, nodding at a bottle of whiskey which the bartender grabbed and handed over.
“Blech.” Her reaction to his choice of drink.
“It’s what you drank last time we had ourselves an outing,” he reminded her, eyes warming at the memory. “Just the two of us. Hell of a night.”
She scoffed and grabbed the bottle from his hand, twisting it open and taking a quick swig. “Blech!” She licked her lips, blinked a few times and shook her head.
He was sure he had on a stupid grin, but he didn’t care – she was so damned cute when she did that. He could watch her for hours. Watch her expressions, her reactions – anger, annoyance, sarcasm, excitement – every face kept him on the edge of his seat, waiting to see what came next.
“God, I forgot how awful this tastes.” She took another swig. “Blech!”
“Don’t worry, pet, the more you drink it the easier it goes down.” He watched her frown at the bottle then tilt it back to take a larger-than-she-should-handle swig of whiskey. “Hey now! Easy. Diving in that fast’ll only make it dive back out even faster.”
“I’m good, I’m good,” she coughed out, blinking back tears. Her head lolled forward, her eyes growing dull. She released a heavy sigh. “I’m… good.” She looked at the bottle in disappointment. “I don’t think it’s working.”
“It just got into your system. Give it a sec.”
“No, I—I just—” She shook her head. “I think I wanna go home. Except I don’t. That’s the last place I wanna be. I dunno.”
She avoided looking at him. No, it was more like she didn’t even see him. If she’d been looking at him dead on, her gaze would have bored right through him. Her eyes were distant and hurt as if there was a pain inside she couldn’t express or contain or even understand, but still she searched ...
For something. For anything that would give her ease.
Killing those vampires before obviously hadn’t helped and he was witness to the failure of booze. If violence and alcohol weren’t getting it done, he was out of ideas on how to avoid the issue.
He fumbled for the words to comfort her then settled on the only weapon left in his arsenal – blunt insight. His specialty, after all. She shouldn’t be avoiding her friends. If they were the cause of her pain, then she needed to confront them and set it to rights. She needed to have her knockdown, drag out fight with Willow and the rest of her ragtag team. She needed to tell them they’d hurt her and they didn’t have the right to control her life. Her life and her death. It was the only way she was gonna earn herself back.
He cupped her cheek and readied himself for the plunge into being the bearer of brutal truth. “Buffy.” He sighed, waiting for her full attention before continuing.
She placed a finger across his lips, stilling his words and staggering his voice. “No,” she whispered. “Just kiss me. Please. And…”
“What?” he whispered back.