Unwrapped

Rating: Extreme R (For explicit sexual content and language)
Timeline: Christmas Eve, in an alternate S.6 wherein Buffy never jumped off the Tower.
Summary: After issuing Spike a series of subtle hints which he hasn’t noticed, Buffy decides to take a more direct approach to let him know her feelings have drastically changed.
Prompt: From 20hotprompts, #3 chocolate

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of love and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

---

It had jolted her at first, but Buffy was now very much accustomed to seeing Spike’s face the second she stepped out for patrol. He was a frequent visitor, even though he’d chalked it up to coincidence the first five or six times he was there when she’d shut the door. Five or six coincidences which somehow melted into habit.

A habit she’d come to cherish.

Still, an opportunity to tease Spike missed was an opportunity wasted. Teasing Spike was one of life’s simple pleasures, one she’d ignored far too long. She’d never before known how playful he could be, and had since decided she should make up for lost time.

“Lurk much?” she asked with a grin, tossing her hair over her shoulder. A quick twist of the front-door handle confirmed the house was properly secured. It was officially safe to patrol.

“’S not lurkin’ when you know I’m here.”

Buffy arched a brow. “I think you just happen to be lurking around my house the same time every night.”

“When you tell me, ‘See you tomorrow,’ pet, it rings more as an invitation. You invited me to see you tomorrow.” He paused, frowned, then clarified. “Or t’night, more properly. So here I am.”

“Excuses.”

“Well, if you don’t want the company, I’ll jus’ be on my merry way, then.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and seized his arm, effectively ending what would have been the world’s most unconvincing storm off. “Give it a rest.”

“I would, but you’re holding on to me.”

“And get over yourself.”

Spike just grinned and reached into his duster pocket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. It served as yet another testament to how much she’d grown as a person when she failed to grimace and pluck the cancer-stick from his lips. The first few nights he’d spontaneously showed up to accompany her patrol featured a few play-wars over his smokes—wars which, to the innocent bystander, likely resembled one hell of a sloppy grope fest. Buffy had since come to appreciate the way Spike’s lips essentially had sex with whatever was between them. If she had to stomach watching him orally fornicate a cigarette, so be it. He certainly wasn’t orally fornicating anything else.

And he hadn’t made mention of it. Not once. Not his love for her, not naughty, naked aerobics, not anything that would pave the way toward the end of their song-and-dance. Not anything to grasp and make her own with an innuendo to beat all innuendos.

It had started as a crush, really. A harmless little ‘okay, so Spike’s not nearly as grotesque as I thought he was’ crush. There was really no other way to look at him after what he’d done for her. For Dawn. After the way he’d fought tooth-and-nail to save her sister’s life. Of everyone to face Glory, Spike had certainly walked away with the most bruises. His stomach had been an endless pit, his arm broken, and his face resembled the work of Picasso’s whimsical years. All for fighting a little toad of a man who didn’t know how to die.

Buffy had been occupied with Glory. Spike had been on the Tower. Spike had saved Dawn nearly at the cost of his own life. He’d freed her, and she’d run. And then he and the Doc had fallen from the Tower’s plank and tumbled to the earth.

And the amazing thing was…after it was over, the first thing Spike had said to anyone was directed at Buffy. He’d looked at her and whispered, “Are you all right?” before passing out.

Thus beginning the crush which, in all honesty, Buffy had to admit had been building for a while. At least since he’d allowed Glory to torture him in ways that made the Spanish Inquisition look like a Barbara Walters special, and likely longer than that. But she’d been so wrapped up in propriety and good-girlfriendness and the normalcy of Riley which she was supposed to welcome with open arms—and legs—that she hadn’t noticed her changing feelings. She hadn’t noticed Spike. Not like she did now.

It was a crush. Just a crush. A harmless, nothing-will-ever-come-of-it crush on Spike. She was a full grown slayer. She was allowed the one naughty fantasy as long as it never transcended a crush.

Which, inevitably, it did. It took a while before she realized how much she smiled when she was around him. How often he made her laugh. How she looked forward to patrols in ways she hadn’t since the dateage with Angel, though for reasons which struck her as thoroughly adult. There was nothing sordid or teenager-y about her feelings for Spike. They were simply there. In her. Always. Developing. Sparking. Growing.

She didn’t mind when he smoked.

She just wished she could be the cigarette.

And she had no idea how to tell him.

“Where we off to, kitten?” Spike asked as though he was perfectly unaware of how every molecule in his body was driving her absolutely insane with lust.

Which he probably was. Typical.

“No suspicious deaths in the paper this morning.”

He smirked. “Prob’ly ‘cause I took them to school last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“You remember. You were there.”

Buffy blinked at him. “I remember saving your ass before Tiny the Vamp made you someone’s hay-fever.”

“Anyone ever tell you you got a god complex, Summers?”

“I have a vague recollection of you saying something to the same extent every time I save your ungrateful dead—”

Spike blew out an amused breath. “An’ here it comes,” he murmured. “Some undoubtedly inventive story…”

“I do not tell stories!”

“Y’know, they’d sound a lot more impressive to a bloke who wasn’t there an’ didn’t know how the whole thing actually panned out, right?”

Buffy frowned. “Well, I’m not up for meeting other…blokes right now, so you’re kinda it. And you will listen to my not-so-inventive stories about things that actually did happen, and you’ll like it.”

Ideally, this would be the part where Spike seized upon her admission that he was the only British-word-for-man in her life. Knowing her vampire, he would spin it to make the point that he was the only man who both loved and hadn’t fled from her when the going got rough. Then he’d leer, make with the eye-sex, and suggest they head somewhere cozy to consummate their new and exciting relationship.

That was ideally. Namely in the place where Buffy’s fairy-dream fantasies lived.

The real world wasn’t so accommodating, even with never-know-when-to-quit vampires and their sudden lack of anything resembling an innuendo. Or a hint-detector.

“Think history’s shown I’ll do pretty much whatever you ask, pet,” Spike replied, meeting her gaze. And for a second—for a fleeting, shot in the dark second—she thought the love-drought might be over. He hadn’t as much as danced around the words since the night they saved the world. Since he’d opened his broken eyes and asked if she was all right.

Maybe tonight…

“…’m thinking Harper’s. Then Restfield. We din’t hit Harper’s last night, an’ Restfield’s a bloody demon playground.” He grinned. “’S why I like it so much. Never a dull moment.”

Buffy deflated. She really didn’t know what his problem was. Silver plate, much? She was practically handing herself over.

“Slayer?”

“Sounds good,” she replied, trying to mean it. It was difficult to sound jazzed about slayage when the only kind of violence she wanted involved no clothes and an Olympic-sized mattress. “Harper’s then the demon’s playground.”

Spike frowned as though sensing her mood, but made no comment. He, the walking mood-ring, made no comment.

Just when she wanted him to start hitting on her, he stopped.

Men. All talk. Same result. Looked like the night would end with yet another cold shower.

---

“Of course he doesn’t get it!” Anya shouted over the could-be music roaring from the stage of The Bronze. “He’s a man!”

Buffy blinked dumbly, certain she’d heard wrong as no one else she knew actually relied on clichés to explain behavior. “What?”

“He’s a man. He doesn’t know how to read the signs!” When the Slayer failed to look immediately enlightened, Anya rolled her eyes and slammed her drink onto the table. “Look, you spent most of last year telling him how there was no way in this world or the next that you would ever think of him as anything more than the annoying vampire against whom you couldn’t get a restraining order because you can’t take non-persons to court.”

Willow snickered. “Amazing how she can talk so fast without succumbing to that nasty breathing habit that impedes most humans.”

“The point is,” Anya said, “Spike doesn’t know things have changed.”

“I’m not hitting him like I used to,” Buffy protested, frowning. “I don’t call him disgusting or wipe my hand whenever he touches me—and, and the last time he offered me a drink from his flask, I took it.” She made a face. “Not something I’m going to do again, but I was trying to make with the grand gesture.”

The redhead sighed, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Well, maybe that’s it?” she suggested. “Maybe the signs stopped so he…”

“How can my stopping the signs—signs that I told him point blank were meant to be taken as the mother of all brush-offs—be interpreted as, ‘really, I’m serious this time?’”

Willow shrugged. “He’s a vampire.”

“And a man,” Anya agreed. “Don’t forget the man part.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Buffy observed, her treacherous mind wandering to the magical way Spike’s lips massaged a cigarette, then frowned when she realized she was actually depraved enough to go to that place. “So what are you saying?”

Anya’s brows perked. “Obviously, you need to step up.”

“Step up?”

“Be more direct.” The former demon turned to Willow for support, and it surprised everyone when she nodded her accord.

“I haven’t dated men in a while,” the redhead admitted, her tone indicative of one confessing to some high-status crime. “But I do remember directness being an issue. Even with the smart ones, like Oz…he was so quick and attentive, but there were things he’d only get if I literally waved it in front of his face.” She froze, a blush spreading across her pale, freckled skin. “Not that I…not that there was ever any waving…of anything. At all.”

Buffy nodded, smothering a grin. “Of course not.”

“I believe Willow’s vaguely sexual confession supports my original hypothesis,” Anya declared. “Spike has obviously reached the conclusion that your relationship is at a stalemate. He’s adapted to a situation he doesn’t believe will ever benefit him personally.”

“Benefit him personally?”

“He doesn’t think you’ll ever love him, which you’ve told me he actually said to you the night before the world didn’t end,” Willow observed. “And since the world didn’t end and you did nothing to correct him in the many, many days thereafter, he’s come to the conclusion that nothing will happen, but he’ll take you any way he can get you because he loves you.”

Anya blinked. “I believe I just said that using much more economic language.”

“You’re economic with language now?” the redhead drawled.

“There’s very little in which I am not economic.”

Buffy smiled into her drink. “You can say that again.”

The former demon frowned. “Why would I want to say that again? It wouldn’t be particularly economic.”

“It’s an expression,” Willow supplied helpfully. “Buffy was agreeing that you’re very economic. But, point. I think we should get back to a general point.” She turned to Buffy. “Spike doesn’t think there’s any chance you could love him. Ever. So he’s stopped looking for things that would tell him otherwise.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Now we’re just being redundant.”

“But it’s not like Spike to give up,” Buffy argued. “He’s the most annoyingly persistent not-dead guy I know. He’s never just thrown in the towel and been all, ‘Okay, mate! Done with that. How’s about I pop in Passions an’ toss back a few?’”

Willow and Anya exchanged a glance. “Is it possible he’s heard you attempt an English accent?” the latter asked. “Because that could be a deal-breaker.”

A long sigh rolled off Buffy’s shoulders. She fought the urge to smack her forehead against the table several times in rapid succession. “This stinks,” she moaned. “Why do I always fall for the bad boy?”

There was a long pause. “So you did?” Willow asked softly.

“Did what?”

“Fall for him. You’re in love with Spike.”

Buffy glanced up wearily. “What? I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did. You just said ‘why do I always fall for the bad boy?’” The redhead’s brows arched. “You really did, didn’t you? You fell in love with Spike.”

“I—”

Anya shrugged. “It makes sense,” she observed. “You’re a vampire slayer. You’re inherently drawn to the darker side of demonic forces. Spike has been there for you in many ways since he discovered he was in love with you, therefore you get the exciting vampire aspect as well as the loyal boyfriend for which you have been searching.”

“Not searching! There has been no search!”

“Not really, since you had him on a very short leash,” Willow muttered, grinning when Buffy poked her tongue out and aimed a kick at her under the table. “You’re in love with Spike.”

The words chilled her to the bone, but this time the immediate retort didn’t roll off her lips. Lack of conviction loomed overhead. Unbridled desire was one thing—liking Spike, enjoying his company, wanting him in her bed…those were all things she admitted easily now. To her friends, obviously, who exhibited no surprise at her change of heart. Even Xander knew; Xander knew and to everyone’s shock, he didn’t care.

Hell, he encouraged it.

“The guy saved the world, Buff. No one asked him to do that.” A careless shrug. “Not saying I approve, but if things were to develop…”

He’d never finished the sentence. He hadn’t needed to finish the sentence. She knew what he would say. The unmitigated support she received was nothing short of astounding. Suddenly her very anti-Spike friends were rooting for a Buffy and Spike relationship. All because he’d saved the world.

As though they hadn’t known he would all along.

Like Buffy had.

Buffy had known. She’d known if it came down to saving her or saving himself, Spike would save her every time. Not for the right reasons—not to save the world as much as to save her—but who was to say the motives behind doing the right thing were that important in the long run?

Spike had changed. He really had. Granted, not when he said he had, but in the space between those stolen moments at the beginning and where they stood now, something radical had shifted within him. He wasn’t a saint and he never would be, but he was a better man than many of the soulful men she knew. He’d saved the world and he’d done it for her.

He’d done it for her and he hadn’t told her he loved her since.

And Buffy’s feelings had changed. Buffy wanted Spike. She wanted him in both a raw, naked sort of way and a hold-hands-on-patrol way. Those were the only ways in which she knew to want anyone anymore. For a year, she’d deluded herself into believing the combination equaled love, but Riley had taught her otherwise. Riley and the extreme way she’d cared without really caring about what happened to him or their relationship. Ever since Angel literally turned his back on her and rode off in the non-sunset, she’d shut her heart down and refused admittance for the possibility of love. It wasn’t conscious—it wasn’t something she even wanted. It took saving the world two times, earning a sister, and realizing what love truly constituted before she gave up the ineffectual fantasy of her youth.

Fondness for Angel remained as it would forever; she would always like him, but she wasn’t in love with him. The girl who had been in love with him had grown into a woman when she wasn’t looking, and in the process she’d fallen completely out of love.

Angel wasn’t the issue, though. Not loving him didn’t make it any easier to love Spike. It was the scars Angel had left behind. The way Buffy had been hurt so bitterly and how reluctant she was to make the leap, even with a sure thing. Though she knew Spike would never do anything to willfully hurt her, the fact remained she’d done the vampire thing before. She’d done the vampire thing with someone who wasn’t supposed to be capable of hurting her and found herself utterly devastated in the process.

Measuring Spike to the barometer set by Angel was unfair. Her head knew it.

Her heart wasn’t so easily convinced.

“I don’t know,” Buffy said at last, unaware of how long she’d been silent. “I don’t know if I’m in love with him or not.”

Anya nodded, sucking on a lime-green straw and examining the lemon wedge hooked on the rim of her glass. “You just know you want him to give you lots of orgasms and call you the next day.”

“…yes.”

“You want a relationship with Spike that’s not so much casual as it is permanent.”

Buffy huffed a breath. “Yes.”

A casual shrug. “That sounds like love to me.”

“It would,” Willow muttered.

Anya ignored her. “Look, you want Spike to take notice of you again, right?”

“Again implies he actually stopped taking notice,” the redhead retorted. “And there’s no way of that. He’s just in a place where he knows—rather thinks—things will always be this way between you. So you need to be forward.”

Buffy quirked a brow. “Forward?”

“Tell him how you feel.”

Anya nodded. “Spike would like that. He’s very much attracted to power.”

“Yeah,” the blonde murmured. “Let’s list the many ways that will not happen.”

Willow sighed. “Buffy—”

“I’m not good at the forward thing. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I suck at the forward thing. Every time I’ve attempted the forward thing, it’s involved me, a very red face, and contemplating certain memory spells so I only have to relive it sixty-two times or so before I can move onto the next thing.” Buffy shuddered and averted her eyes to her glass again. “I can’t be forward. I’ve done it. I tanked.”

“You didn’t tank,” the redhead protested.

“Okay, I bombed. Next question, please.”

“Spike is different. He loves you. He’s just waiting.” Willow’s brows perked upward meaningfully. “He’s always going to be waiting for you, Buffy. You just need to tell him you’re done with men who aren’t him and he’s the one you want.”

Buffy licked her lips. “He’s the one I want, huh?”

A long moan rumbled through Anya’s lips. “My God, we’ve really been talking about this the whole time, haven’t we?”

Willow tossed her a quick glare. “What else could we be doing?”

“Dancing? Calling Xander? I am wasting valuable orgasm-time with Xander discussing the pleasure-time Buffy could be having if she just sat up and grew a pair.” Anya shook her head in disgust. “And Willow—you and Tara—”

“Tara’s in Portland,” the redhead reminded her, pouting slightly. “Visiting her aunt and her aunt’s cats.”

“She take Miss Kitty Fantastico?” Buffy asked.

Willow nodded. “The dorm is very lonely.”

“I could be having orgasms right now, but that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone,” Anya grumbled.

“How would I go about being direct, if direct was my intent?” Buffy asked, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “If I was going to…do this thing?”

Anya mimed a phone with her hand. “‘Spike? This is Buffy. Let’s have sex. Be at my house in five minutes. I’ll be the naked one.’”

“And if sex was the only thing on her mind, that’d work. Buffy wants a relationship.”

The former demon batted a dismissive hand. “Boring relationship talk can come in the post-coital lounging. We need them to uncork first.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Anya!”

“Fine!” The mime-phone returned. “‘Spike? This is Buffy. You know how I used to hate you and beat you up a lot? That’s changed. Turns out I am indeed secretly in love with you, except it’s not so much a secret now. How about we have sex and then discuss our future? I’ll be the naked one when you come over.’”

“You managed to get that naked line in there again,” Buffy observed dryly.

“It’ll make sure he gets there in record time.”

Willow snickered. “I think she could tell him she has an itch on her arm, and he’d get there in record time.”

“You guys are having a lot of fun mocking my not-boyfriend, aren’t you?”

Anya shrugged again. “Why not?”

“It’s what friends are for,” the redhead agreed. “All joking aside, you really need to just put yourself out there. I know it’s scary and stuff, but it’s also Spike, who would die for you and in fact nearly did just that. Hell, he scored so many points last May that he has all of us—Xander included—rooting for him. Just tell him. He won’t laugh. He’ll proclaim his love for you and then we won’t hear from you for a little while.”

Buffy’s nose wrinkled. “Why?”

“Lots of sex,” Anya said.

Willow nodded. “There it is.”

“And how do I bring this up?” Buffy held up a hand before the former demon could chime in with another imaginary phone call. “I mean in a way wherein I feel I’m controlling the situation.”

There was a long pause. A devious grin slowly stretched the redhead’s lips. “How about some innocent misdirection?”

“Misdirection?”

“Invite him over. Tell him it’s for a thing, but have it be for this instead.”

“What thing?” Buffy asked.

“Christmas party,” Anya suggested suddenly, brightening. “The Bronze Christmas party.”

“…is suddenly at my house?”

Willow was nodding, and it wasn’t in accordance with Buffy’s confusion. She suddenly had the look of someone completely in awe of Anya, which only happened once every millennium, so it lent the Slayer to believe they were on to something. “No. No, but you could tell him you need a sitter for Dawn.”

“And in actuality?”

“Dawn’s at Janice’s.”

“Are we going to tell Dawn this?”

The redhead’s eyes narrowed. “Dawn’s only been wanting you and Spike to happen for the past ever, so I don’t think having her see Janice for the sake of you and Spike getting together’s going to be much of a stretch.”

“And if Janice’s parents don’t want her over?”

“There’s me and Tara. Don’t think you can wiggle out of this, missy.”

Buffy’s hands came up. “I’m not wiggling!”

“No, I think that’s the problem,” Anya noted.

“Have him come over and surprise him,” Willow continued. “How…I’ll leave it up to you, but you’ll have the home turf, you’ll have surprised him, and…God, Buffy, it’s Spike. He’s going to drool all over you and then he’s going to do stuff I’m not interested in hearing about until it’s actually happened so it’s vicarious fun and not hypothetical.”

A short pause. Music continued to blare. Buffy was silent for as long as she could reasonably stand, looking rapidly between Anya and Willow for any sign of misgiving. There was none.

“This is the plan?” she asked.

“The plan,” Willow concurred, nodding.

“We are agreed. The plan to many happy endings.” Anya beamed. “I need another friend who likes penises.”

Buffy frowned. “Just because I’m not having sex doesn’t mean my fondness for penises is on hold…and I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

Willow snickered. “Neither can I.”

“I’m infectious like that,” Anya said. “And isn’t the reason you wanted to talk to me to begin with was because of my unusual tendency to be frank and straightforward?”

Buffy grinned. There was nothing with which to counter the truth.

As it was, she couldn’t be bothered. Her mind was already racing toward other things.

Better things. Naked things. Things involving her and Spike, and lots of loving.

In every sense of the word.