Cigarette Tips

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© 2005 Sara Parker

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Disclaimer: Most of it belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I, Eccentric Banshee, only own the general plot and any characters I happen to create along the way.

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WARNING: The following is a fluffy bit in which there will be mild Spike/Dawn, an annoying store clerk, a crazed peroxide-blonde vampire, a disgruntled slayer’s sister, a motorcycle, and cigarette cravings. If you like, you may picture this about two weeks after the previous chapter, Cough Medicine, though neither must be read to better the understanding of the other. You have been warned.

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It was after midnight when the craving hit.

He’s just finished beating up some random vampires that had decided to pick on him when he felt it, sudden and hard. He needed a cigarette, and he needed one badly. Dropping the piece of wood he’d broken from a pallet to create a makeshift stake, he looked in the pocket of his black leather duster that usually contained cigarettes, and a look of surprise crossed his pale face when he realized that it was empty.

An expression of comical panic that would have had Faith in stitches had she been there came over his face as he began rapidly searching the other pockets of the coat and, in a last-ditch effort, the pockets of his black jeans before facing the fact- he was completely and irrevocably out of fags.

Needless to say, this realization did not make Spike very happy.

Five minutes later, he was scanning a convenience store for a pack, finally selecting the one he wanted and pointing it out to the clerk, a bored-looking blonde who raised an eyebrow challengingly at the vampire, chomping on her gum.

“ID,” she requested.

Spike froze. Please, oh please, oh please, he thought, searching his pockets one at a time, but the investigation yielded no results. He groaned as he realized that he’d left his fake ID in England, in a lodge nightstand.

“Listen, luv,” he said, laying on the charm and leaning across the counter with an appealing smile, “I seem to have left it at home… there’s no need, though. I’m twenty-one and then some.”

One of her perfectly-tweezed eyebrows darted upwards, and as a small smile came over her face he thought that he might be getting through to her. Her next words dashed those hopes. “Uh-huh, right. Why don’t you tell me your real age, sporto?” His grin faded.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he mumbled, pulling back.

“Try me.” He regarded her with a raised eyebrow, but his temper was quickly getting the best of him.

“One hundred and twenty-seven,” he responded snappishly. “Just let me buy the bloody cigarettes.”

“Nice try, Billy,” she said skeptically.

Bloody hell, another Idol reference? Can’t these people get more creative?

“Come back when you’re twenty-one,” she finished.

Spike fumed, but turned and stalked out of the store, climbing on his motorcycle and debating on what to do next. There was no time to go create a fake ID that would work. He was already going slightly catatonic from loss of nicotine. He missed the feel of the smoke in his closed mouth before the exhale. He took it for granted.

Rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he inwardly cursed. He really needed a fag. He blamed his soul. If he didn’t have that damned conscience now, he would have just stolen a box, like he’d done for decades. Now, it apparently wasn’t allowed.

Dawn.

The name hit him like a ray of unexpected light. Dawn! She was twenty-one, right? Oh, right, she was only twenty… but she did have a very realistic fake ID, issued to her by Wolfram and Hart (she had convinced Peaches to pull some strings) in case she had an emergency. She could buy a box of smokes for him. She might be a bit peeved at being awoken at 12:42 AM, but she’d get over it and he was certain he could sweet-talk her into doing what he wanted.

Cranking the bike, he revved off towards Dawn’s house.

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Dawn was fairly certain that whoever was throwing rocks at her window deserved an ass-kicking, and very soon. Growling to herself and wondering if she should wake up Buffy in case it was some weird rock-throwing demon- and then remembering that Buffy was gone tonight, something with Angel- she tumbled out of bed, still in her silky pajamas.

Rubbing her head with a scowl, she moved over to the window and pushed it open, fully intending to bawl out whoever it was and to hell with the neighbors. She didn’t expect the peroxide blonde vampire on the lawn, looking up at her with pleading eyes that made her resolve instantly melt. He was in distress, obviously. She poked her head out.

“Spike,” she whisper-yelled. “What’s wrong?”

“Niblet, I need you,” he said, his voice almost a whimper as he shifted from one foot to another. Her concern grew.

“What’s happened?”

“Please, just grab your wallet and get dressed and come down here.” She sighed, realizing that he wasn’t going to tell her anything else, and pulled back, shutting the window.

A wallet, her keys, a pair of flares, an elastic band to hold back her long hair, and a square-neck tie-back top later, she crossed the lawn to him. “What’s wrong?” she repeated, honestly afraid for him.

“I need a pack of fags,” he said, blue eyes shifting back and forth. She stopped short, crossed her arms, pulled her slack jaw up and looked at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“You… what?” she said carefully.

“Fags! I need some smokes, Dawn, really badly,” he said, giving her the beseeching look that could melt through stone. Well, Dawn wasn’t stone; she was a glowy green ball of energy currently encased in the skin of a very pissed-off twenty-year old.

“You woke me up after a very tiring night for cigarettes?” she demanded, voice lifting. “What is your problem!”

“Please, Bit!” he begged. “I’m going bloody mad here!”

“You’re really addicted,” she said in an undertone, before she said, “Why didn’t you get your own?”

“ID,” Spike said, almost growling. Bad experience, obviously. Dawn rolled her eyes.

“You can wait. I’ve already wasted five precious sleep-minutes, and doubtless it’ll be twenty more until I get to sleep. I’m out of here,” she said, turning away. Spike’s hand shot forward.

“Dawn! I’m begging you!” he cried. She turned towards him, eyes wide.

“Wow. You’re having a bad craving, aren’t you?” she wanted to know. He just intensified the pleading look, and she found herself softening. Still, she had to let him know that he couldn’t just take this for granted. She rubbed her chin. “Okay, you’re paying for this, right?”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed earnestly, sensing that she was thawing.

“Would you cover some twizzlers for me?”

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon, I’ve got to have some compensation.”

“My gratitude isn’t enough?” She gave him a what-do-you-think look. He raised his fists to his temples. “All right, all right! Let’s just go!” He began pulling her towards the motorcycle, but she yanked back.

“My car!” she insisted.

“Fine,” he said, giving into anything now. She gave a happy squeal and raced for the vehicle.

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Five minutes later, Dawn stood in front of the same store clerk, having selected the cigarettes and twizzlers and handed over her ID and money. The clerk seemed suspicious, eyeing it from every angle, and Dawn just rolled her eyes, fingers in her back right pocket, playing with the lighter Spike had left at the house a few days ago and that she’d tucked into her pocket to return later. The clerk wasn’t going to find anything. The ID had been made by an actual law practice- not necessarily legally, but everything was in order.

“Have a nice night,” said the clerk grudgingly, finally sliding the ID, twizzlers, and cigarettes over the counter towards Dawn. The brunette gave her a sweet smile- after all, the woman had managed to tick off Spike, a plus in Dawn’s book.

Dawn left the store, fingers of her left hand hooked in the pockets of the slightly tight jeans that showcased every curve- in a decent manner, though; these were her no-freaking-out-Giles jeans- right hand holding to the items she held. Taking her time, she strode towards her car, pretending not to see the panic-stricken vampire in her shotgun seat.

A positively evil idea struck her and she quickened her pace, fishing out the lighter with her free hand as she slid into the car. Spike was on her like white on rice.

“Give ‘em to me!” he insisted.

“All in good time,” she said, cranking up the car and rolling down her window before drawing a fingernail along the package and opening it. He watched in muted impatience, and horror slowly crossed his face as he realized what she was doing.

Slowly, she drew out a cigarette, and setting the pack to her side where Spike couldn’t reach it, she lit up.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Spike said, staring at her in disbelief. Dawn had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette when she was stressed, though it was by no means a habit- she didn’t like the way it made her hair and clothes smell, though she pointedly ignored that when Spike was around.

She put the cigarette in her mouth and drew very, very slowly on it. Spike watched in extreme frustration. Turning her head, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment, she then aimed and exhaled it towards him. He breathed in, thankful for anything- even secondhand smoke- at this point.

After a few more moments of this, watching her mouth transport the smoke his way, he became aware that his craving for cigarettes was becoming secondary priority, and that his craving for Dawn was taking precedence.

One more puff and he lunged for her. She mistook his sudden attack as desire for the cigarette, and immediately ducked to the side with a squeal, sheltering the pack from his reach with her body. “Back off, dead boy!” she shrieked.

“Bloody hell,” Spike grunted when her elbow dug into his stomach. “Just… come… here!” He got a grip on her shoulders and forcibly turned her towards him, moving forward immediately to close the distance between their mouths.

She quickly realized what was tormenting him, and using her free hand, reached up to the back of his head, pulling herself closer to him, and finding that it wasn’t enough she reached out the window with her other hand and flicked the cigarette out onto the pavement before curling her fingers around the back of his neck, deepening the kiss even further.

A few minutes later, the cigarette burned out on the concrete, completely forgotten by the otherwise occupied inhabitants of the car.

Finis

A/N - As you can see, I've given in to some requests by reviewers to continue this, and so I will- this will now be a series of one-shots, probably not updated regularly, but hopefully fun when a new shot is put up. Enjoy :)