Summary: Buffy and Spike and ice skating.
Word Count: 1184
Author's Note: This is for penny_lane_42 who wanted Spuffy skating fic.
Buffy’s dancing. That’s what it is. Spinning round, twirling, her arms rising up—his ballerina pirouettes, scarf whipping around to trail behind her like Salome’s veils. Riveting temptation and all manner of grace that makes him want to chase her down and take her in his arms, just hold her close and feel, just to feel (or maybe chase down a pen and paper to chronicle the artful lines of her beauty—what’s another word for graceful beauty? Splendor?).
She slows her spin and glides toward where he stands on the edge of the rink, whipping her body to the side and scraping the edge of the blades on ice till she jolts to a halt. Cocking out her hip, she jams her toe into the ice and announces, "Toe pick."
Grinning, know-it-all show-off. She gives him a saucy wink before flittering off, her hips swaying with each furious push for purchase across the sleek surface of the rink.
She spins around, skating backwards, and laughs at him, at the world, at gravity for trying to hold her down. Then she bends her knees, kicks her right leg back and leaps, twisting in the air—once, twice, thrice—before tossing out both arms to catch her balance, her skates snicking against the ice. Circling back around, she flies past him once more, turning to blow him a kiss.
And that’s about all the teasing he can take from the sidelines.
Grunting, Spike checks the knots on his 'borrowed' skates (sodding boots are pinching his toes and you’d think it’d be the other way around, wouldn’t you? His feet aren’t exactly bulky clunkers. Not that size means a bloody thing). He wobbles across the mat, grips the wall and takes his first tentative step, his chest catching on the air he’s just gulped down in a moment of fraught anticipation.
It’s not that he’s afraid. Oh, bollocks that. He just hasn’t done it in a long while and he’s out of practice. Dru and Angel were the big skating duo, Darla’d found it too common—and him? He was sure getting your rocks off by strapping bits of metal to your feet so you can float around on ice while holding hands and singing kumbayaa was the definition of ponce and that was reason enough to sit it out (even with Angel taunting him, hands wandering all over Dru and that leering grin that made Spike want to smash his face in).
It’d have been funny if it weren’t so bleeding tragic to see the Scourge of Europe sallying about like a dandy taking a stroll round the pond during the Twelve Days of Christmas. Is there anything less terrifying than Victorian Vampires on Ice?
Good thing Spike’s (mostly) over that phase of needing to strike terror. Gripping the wall, more like clinging to the wall—oh, just get on with it, nancy boy—he shoves off. All feels a bit like he’s a newborn fawn, teeter-tottering through his first awkward steps. Then he finds his footing, no doubt due to his natural vampire grace and manly skills, and sets about on a slow glide forward.
He hears an appreciative whistle coming from behind and then Buffy’s hand slaps his ass as she sails past. Her laugh trickles on air and then she’s skating circles around him, grinning. She gives him a sultry, doe-eyed look worthy of a 30’s silver screen diva, saying in a low and breathy voice, “Hey there, Mister. You come here often?”
He snorts. “Oh, yeah. I’m a regular”—he glances down at his still-wobbling legs—“can’t you tell?”
Buffy glides in closer, hands brushing his waist, her glance trailing up and down his body, leering at him like he’s a piece of meat. “Mmm hmm,” she hums, “lookin’ good to me,” before she grabs him by the ass—both hands—and squeezes. Then she’s off, giggling like a banshee as she races away.
Why’s he always fall for the provocative hussies? Well, guess that’s an answer in itself.
She’s running, so what’s he to do? Chase. Chase her as best he can in these sodding blades. Good thing he’s always up for a challenge.
The hunt is on and his Artemis is a wily creature, zipping in and out, slowing down to mock him with a grin or stick out her tongue then laugh—his girl’s clearly having too much fun on this lark, but he’d be lying if he said her laughter isn’t contagious, settling warm in his gut and flowing outward till the hairs on his skin sing.
Then he remembers, in an instant faster than an instant, the joy of movement and the fearlessness of diving into the dance—and he’s after her, his feet cutting a swath across the ice. He flies in her wake, catching her off-guard with her back turned (silly minx had let the distance close between them to taunt him—joke’s on her). He takes her by the arms, his hands sliding down to clasp her own, then he pulls and banks right, their joint momentum sending them spinning into the center of the rink.
"Spike!" she shrieks, feigning protest with a grin. His girl's always gotta put up a fight, even when she's more than willing to let him have his way.
Her fingers curl around his tightly and the world whips by in a blur of rainbow colors, her face his only stalwart true. She smiles and laughs her delight, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, letting the twirl take them until they’re both too delirious to stand up straight.
She collapses in his arms and he in hers, both leaning on each other so heavily he’s not sure who’s keeping who from falling. Her arms are looped around his waist and his hands have settled at her lower back, and they just linger there for a minute, linger and let the world sink back to its usual order.
Lifting her head from his shoulder, she brushes her forehead against his chin, her fine blond hair at her crown brushes his lips. Then she leans back to look at him, eyes soft, and whispers, “That was fun. Let’s do it again.”
His thumb catches her chin, caressing her jaw and trailing up to brush the curve of her cheek. “Sure, love. Next time. Later. Got plans, you see. So your dance card’s full.”
She raises an eyebrow and pushes out her lower lip, all flirty-like, the wanton tease. “Oh? For how long?”
“Can’t say. As long as this takes,” he murmurs and tilts his head to the side, capturing her lips. All hail the conquering hero.
She’s warm, flush from exertion and thrill, a heady contrast to the cool air rising from the ice beneath their feet, drawing him in like a lodestone. Moth to the flame, moth to the flame, and god yes, he’ll burn for her.
He’ll burn from her heat, lighting him up inside, absorbing her warmth only to send it right back till they burn together, gasping for life, moaning from each aching press of delirium. Dive in, dive in and never look back because the here and now is in her arms, her lips, in the curve of her breasts and the cradle of her hips. Her eyes, oh her eyes...
Fire and ice, they are. And yeah, it’s a lovely way to burn.