Assume Buffy and Spike made their truce a bit earlier than in canon - leaving them some time before Acathla - and that Joyce still doesn't know Buffy's the Slayer. Memories have been adapted to include Dawn.
The front door was locked.
When had the front door ever been locked? Buffy honestly couldn't even remember whether she owned a key. She certainly never carried one.
And why tonight? Of all the nights for Mom to start locking the door, why did it have to be the one night Buffy hadn't left for patrol via her bedroom window?
She briefly considered kicking down the door, but she really liked this pair of boots, and she wasn't sure the heels could survive it.
Plus trying to explain coming home at 3am and a broken front door would definitely not be of the good. She sighed. Ditto broken window.
Muttering under her breath about the terrible unfeeling evilness of mothers in general – and hers in particular – she started out to see if the back door was also locked.
She was so absorbed in her internal diatribe, she put the first stirrings of vampy tinglies down to a breeze against the back of her neck.
"Bit late for you to be out, innit, little girl?" Spike drawled. He looked her up and down, a lascivious smile hovering over his lips.
She was suddenly acutely aware of how pathetic and awful she must look. It had been a particularly gruesome patrol. Her hair was muddy and birds-nest-y, full of twigs and tangles. Her clothes were torn and stained. And beneath her ruined clothes, her skin was all sweaty and grotty.
Embarrassed and defensive, blood rushed to her face and she spat out, "What are you doing here?"
"Was following one of Angel's boys. Led me here." Spike spun a stake around in his hands. "Dust now."
His eyes kept being drawn to the graceful line of her collarbone, and the bra strap peeking out through a rip in her shirt. She smelt of sweat and adrenaline and delicious, tantalising Slayer blood. And, he thought, just the very barest hint of arousal.
Buffy glowered at him. "Why should I believe you?"
He shrugged. "Why should I care if you do?"
Buffy huffed and set off towards her back door. He found himself tilting his head to better admire the sway of her hips, before giving himself a shake.
Absolutely not attracted to the Slayer in that way. Mite peckish is all. 'S all about the blood.
The back door was locked, too. Buffy slumped down against the wall, nearly in tears. She was icky and sticky and stinky and oh dear god how she needed a hot shower and clean clothes.
"Locked out?" Spike asked, his leer morphing into a grin, his eyes dancing with mirth.
She jerked her head up, swiping at her eyes to ensure no moisture escaped. "Are you laughing at me?" Buffy's eyes were hard and vicious, but it was impossible to take her seriously with that pout. She looked like a five year old.
He started giggling. He just couldn't help himself.
Her right hook to his nose put a stop to that.
"Oi! Thought we had a truce!"
"Then stop laughing at me!"
He growled at her. "Christ! What the hell's wrong with you? You've got Slayer strength! Break the bally door in."
"I can't!" she wailed – quietly, so it wouldn't carry into the house.
Spike stopped. "Your mum doesn't know?" he asked incredulously.
She shook her head no.
Spike looked up at the sky and made a frustrated groan. He stripped off his boots and socks, then his coat and over-shirt, leaving a skin-tight t-shirt and even skin-tighter jeans.
My god, Buffy thought, unable to look away. He might as well be wearing spandex.
She felt her inner muscles begin to flex and flutter.
I need to pee. That's all this is.
"Wait here," Spike said, and then leaped up onto the porch railing, landing in a crouch, quick and agile as a cat. From there, he sprang up against the side of the house, only just grabbing onto the bathroom windowsill with his fingertips.
He was all grace and economy of motion, and Buffy couldn't help admiring the very, very nice view of his backside as he bunched and stretched.
Absolutely not attracted to Spike in that way. It's … it's lack of sleep. A-and I need to pee.
But she was still sucking and chewing on her lower lip as she watched him slowly walk his feet up to reach his hands, and then hang, suspended, for a few seconds, fingers and toes both gripping the windowsill.
She found herself moving to get a better view.
He could feel her watching, so he decided to start performing.
She gave an involuntary gasp as he drew in his knees, wiggled a bit, and then slowly pushed upright until his feet were taking his weight, ending with another little shimmy. It was … mesmerising.
He left his hands resting near his feet for a few seconds, listening to her heart speeding up.
It shouldn't be allowed for anyone to look that good bent over.
She felt the tiniest suspicion of drool spilling out of the corner of her mouth.
His face split with a smug grin, Spike straightened up and threw the window open to slide inside.
Buffy's heart stopped, suddenly, at the idea of this evil, deadly vampire inside her house, alone, with her poor defenceless mother and sister.
For seconds that seemed like an eternity, she dithered about whether to damn the consequences and just break in to go make sure they were safe.
But then she heard the snick of the lock, and there he was, holding the door open for her in a mockery of a romantic gesture.
"See anything you like?" he leered at her as she flew past him to check on her sleeping family.
Her scent now carried a much stronger note of arousal.
He breathed in deep, head tilting to watch her retreating, bouncing bottom.
He gave up trying to convince himself he was just peckish. He was hungry, yes, but not for blood. So he closed the door, with him on the inside.
He waited in the kitchen for a while, just listening, as Buffy opened and closed doors, checking on her mother and sister, then moving around in her own room for a few minutes.
Neither noticed that Dawn had woken up.
As the shower went on, he started up the stairs, visions of a soapy, naked, Slayer dancing in his head. He wondered whether her hair would match, and what colour her nipples were.
As he stepped into the hallway, he came face to face with Dawn.
The just stared at each other in shocked silence for a few seconds.
Dawn seriously considered screaming, but … she could always tattle in the morning. And even at twelve she could recognise sex on a stick when she saw it. This guy was totally drool-worthy.
Spike could hear stirring from Joyce's room. Not really wanting to face maternal rage just now, he thought he'd best charm l'il sis. "'Lo Snack-size," he whispered huskily, giving her a wink. "Wanna show me your room?"
Dawn's knees went a little weak, and Nick Carter's place in her heart was forever usurped.
Her subsequent (misguided) obsession with blink-182 stemmed entirely from this experience.
Spike coaxed Dawn back into bed with the sort of over-the-top flirtation most dear to the teenybopper heart – all sparkle and no sex. To his surprise, he actually had fun – once Dawn recovered the wherewithal to speak – although he found it more than a little disturbing he had no desire to eat her. She was just his type, too.
As soon as he heard the shower turn off, Spike slipped out of Dawn's room and into Buffy's.
Buffy felt soooo much better. Not only was she now clean, but a few minutes with the showerhead on full power had taken some of the edge off of her totally inappropriate arousal.
She opened her bedroom door and only just bit back a yelp of surprise when she saw him lying – no, lounging – on her bed.
With no shirt on.
Her body went poised and rigid, ready for a fight. It was invasive and dangerous and what the hell was he doing inside the house!
She ignored the inner voice screaming that his chest was the most lusty-awe-inspiring thing she'd ever seen in … ever!
He slid off the bed and got to his feet in one smooth motion.
How can he do that? How can anyone look so … yummy and fluid and graceful getting out of bed?
He could see drops of water running down her neck, travelling along her chest and down into the cleft of her breasts, where the towel was folded and straining slightly. He took his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down.
Just one little tug….
His cock jerked, straining against what were now painfully tight jeans. He took a gliding step towards her.
She bumped into the closed door at her back with a gasp.
He could smell her recent orgasm now, under the soap and hair products, and it made him even harder.
Achingly hard now.
He took another step, now standing close enough he could feel the steamy heat from the shower radiating off her body.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "I should stake you," she whispered.
He placed his hands on the door on either side of her, and leaned his upper body in. "You still can't fight them both alone," he whispered, his lips tracing the shell of her ear as he spoke.
"What about your ho girlfriend?" she asked, shakily, her voice high and breathy.
"What about your evil boyfriend?" he replied, placing his bare toes over hers and thrusting into her with his hips, grinding. Then he tugged her earlobe into his mouth and started to suck.
He could smell her blood, her heartbeat thrumming through him. It was so close.
But he needed her alive and fighting-fit if he was ever going to get Dru back.
Buffy whimpered, the scent of her arousal now so strong he could taste it.
Okay, so maybe not such a hardship to keep from drainin' this one. Bet she'll go off like a firecracker….
He moved back from her slightly, releasing her feet and nudging her into a wider stance with his knees.
He lowered his head, grabbed the edge of the towel with his teeth and tugged.
Then he smirked.
"You don't match," he said softly.
Buffy really intended to come up with a suitable quip, and she almost had one, but then his soft, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone turned into his tongue lapping and teasing at her nipple, and she gave up on thinking.
He moved lower, taking her wrists with him, until he was crouching in front of her, kissing along her abdomen and biting down gently on her hip.
She wasn't sure how much longer her knees would keep holding her up.
It was terrifying and exhilarating and so damn hot all at the same time.
He could feel her trembling so he let go of her hands, and ducked one shoulder behind her knee, flinging her leg over.
She started rubbing her foot along his back, and he moaned into her curls like a starving man.
The vibrations were delicious. So much better than the showerhead.
He licked and nibbled along her lips, and she shuddered at the sensation.
Every brush of his teeth against her made her panic – in part because having anyone's mouth down there made her skittish – but also, hello! Vampire!
But they needed each other. And sort of, kind of, very temporarily trusted each other.
Then he starting sucking on her clit like it was candy, and she lost herself, her hips starting to gyrate against his face.
Her supporting leg finally buckled, but he caught her before she fell, swinging her around and dumping her on the bed.
He didn't miss a single stroke.
She was so hot. He'd never done this with a breather before.
And she smelled and tasted so good he was almost panting just to saturate himself in her.
He ploughed into her with his tongue, and she started making a keening noise in the back of her throat that he thought might make him come all by itself.
He could feel he was just on the edge of the right spot, and then he found it and started pressing and stroking it and she went totally rigid, back arched, gasping in gulps of air, and thrusting a pillow over her face to muffle the screaming.
Only it wasn't muffled enough, because suddenly Joyce burst through the door and stopped, open-mouthed, and apoplectic with rage.
"Buffy Anne Summers!" she shouted.
Spike fell back on his heels, lips and chin glistening with Slayer juice.
"Mrs Summers," he said, grinning and flicking out his tongue to clean himself off. "Or can I call you Joyce?"
"OUT!" she screamed. "NOW!"
Still grinning, Spike grabbed his shirt off the floor, and opened Buffy's window.
"Ta-ra … Slayer," he said, and jumped out.
"Slayer?" Joyce asked venomously.
Buffy never left the house without a key again.