Title: Soft Center
Version: 1.01, posted 2/3/05 (version 1.0 posted to the Bloody Awful
Poet Society mailing list 4/8/01)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: It's the Jossverse, we just slay in it. (See full
disclaimer on previous page.)
Summary: A slight change to Blood Ties. On Buffy's twentieth
birthday, Spike hopes that the way to the Slayer's heart is through her
stomach.
A/N: Written for Clairel, who asked for a story in which Spike
actually gets to give Buffy those birthday chocolates.
Soft Center
by Mistral Amara
Spike crushed his latest cigarette underfoot and squared his shoulders.
It was time to get this over with. Nothing to it, right, just march
across the yard and knock on the back door.
He hadn't counted on the house being full of people, though. Just like
Buffy's friends, to throw her a party and forget to invite him. Not
that he actually wanted to go to a party with those annoying Scoobies,
but it would have made it easier to give her the gift he'd brought. If
she'd even accept a gift from him--they weren't exactly friends, were
they? But he had to try. Maybe she'd see that he didn't exactly think
of her as an enemy any more, either. She ought to be pleased he
remembered; after all, it's not as if any of them ever remembered his
birthday.
Maybe he should wait until they all left; there was no need to make a
spectacle of himself in front of the Watcher and that idiot Xander, not
while he had this chip in his head and they could smirk with impunity.
Better yet, he'd just wait until tomorrow night--yeah, that would look
more casual. Tonight he'd just make the rounds of the cemeteries and
dust a few vamps, as the Slayer was otherwise occupied.
But as he turned to go, he caught a glimpse of a certain blonde in the
window. Buffy had come into the kitchen alone, and was digging in the
freezer, looking for something. The next thing Spike knew, he had
sprinted across the lawn and was standing on the porch, knocking
quietly on the door--just loud enough for her to hear, but nobody else.
He was rewarded--or perhaps punished--by the sound of her quick, light
footsteps crossing to the door. It swung open to reveal a puzzled
Slayer, whose expression quickly became wary when she saw him.
"What do you want?" she asked sharply. "I'm busy, Spike."
As always, his carefully rehearsed speech evaporated like mist before
her blazing sun, and he struggled to recapture words that were long
vanished. As the silence grew, she looked around impatiently, and then
stepped outside, pulling the door shut. "Look, whatever it is, just say
it and go."
"Well," he said, finding his voice. "That's a fine greeting for someone
bringing you a present." He thrust the box at her. "Happy Birthday.
Congratulations on another year of not getting offed by some demon or
other."
"What," she asked, not taking the box, "you mean by some demon other
than you?"
"Well, yeah. That's fair, isn't it? I mean, there's no point you being
killed if it's not me doing the killing, now is there?" Ouch. Not quite
what he'd meant to say.
She stared skeptically at the package, and for the first time he
noticed the crushed box and the sad, rumpled bow. "Where did you steal
it?" she asked.
"I bought it."
"Bought it with my money, then," she retorted.
Ungrateful chit. "Paid for services rendered. That makes it my money. I
could've bought blood with it, you know, or smokes." He waved the box
at her. "Look, do you want it or not? I could always give it to
Harmony. She may not be all tough and clever like you are, Slayer, but
at least she knows how to accept a present gracefully."
Whether it was the thought of Harmony getting her present, or the
effect of the left-handed compliment, Spike didn't know, but Buffy
unbent enough to reach for the box. He watched hopefully as she undid
the bow and lifted off the lid, but his hope drained away as she stared
at the contents blankly for a moment, and then began to giggle.
"What?" he asked, confused.
"Chocolates?" She laughed harder. "What century are you living in,
Spike?"
"I thought you birds are supposed to like chocolate." In fact, he'd
been sure of it. "My mother liked chocolates. It was her favorite
present."
"Your mother? Spike, you never had a mother."
"Hey! Did too. You know, I begin to think that she would not have liked
you one bit." He snatched the box out of Buffy's hands. "And I'm dead
sure that you don't deserve these."
She frowned and snatched the box back. "Those are mine! You gave them
to me, and you can't take them back. It's not polite." She looked the
chocolates over greedily, finally reaching for the biggest, fanciest
piece of candy in the box.
Yes! his mind was shouting. She likes them! His mouth, however,
couldn't leave well enough alone. "I don't have to be polite," he heard
himself taunt. "I'm evil, remember?"
Her hand froze, hovering above the chocolate. She looked up at him, her
eyes narrowing. "Are you sure these aren't poisoned or something?"
What?! "Poisoned? You stupid--look, if they were poisoned, the bloody
alarms would be screamin' in my head, now wouldn't they?" He fought to
control his frustration before it edged over into anger, into
violence--mustn't set off the chip, mustn't give her another reason to
see him as an animal that ought to be staked. Give a bloke a chance, he
was trying, wasn't he?
"Oh, here," he snarled, grabbing the chocolate she'd been reaching for
and biting off half. It was buttercream, sweet and delicious, almost as
delicious as biting into her creamy white neck was in his dreams. He
chewed viciously and made a great show of swallowing. "There, all
right?" he asked, offering her the other half of the candy.
She took it without comment and nibbled along one edge, appraisingly.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Delicious," she pronounced it, and popped
the rest into her mouth.
"You don't have to sound so surprised about it," he said. "Serve you
right if the things really were--" he broke off suddenly, gagging and
clutching at his throat. He staggered backwards; his foot went off the
edge of the porch and he tumbled down the steps to sprawl face down on
the lawn.
He lay as still as only the dead can.
"Spike? Spike?!" He heard the box of chocolates fall to the porch,
heard the Slayer fly down the steps, felt warm hands on him, flipping
him onto his back. An ear pressed down on his chest, listening for a
heart that couldn't beat. A hand hovered by his face, feeling for
breath that never stirred.
Small, strong hands shook him by the lapels, pounded on his chest.
"You're not dead, Spike. You can't be dead, you're not dust." Her voice
was harsh--it figured she'd be angry at a time like this; always
thinking of herself, that one.
"Great," he heard her mutter. "If you live through this, Spike, I am so
going to kill you. Okay, the chocolates weren't poisoned, because I'm
still fine. What, then? Something stuck in your throat? Would it
matter? You don't breathe." She sighed. "Only one way to find out, I
guess." He felt her hands on him again, tipping his head back and
pinching his nose closed. Unbelievable! She was going to try artificial
respiration.
As her mouth came down to cover his, he tasted her sweet, warm lips for
only a moment before he could control himself no longer. He opened his
eyes and burst out laughing; she recoiled as he sat up and gave her his
most mocking smile. "Oh, Slayer! I'm flattered, but a simple thank you
would have been enough."
"You--you're--"
"Undead? Yeah. Thanks for the concern, anyway."
"Oh! You!" Fists clenched, she jumped up and glared down at him.
"Spike, you're bad! Bad!" Then she turned and bolted into the house,
slamming the door behind her. A moment later, the door opened again,
and a hand reached out to retrieve the fallen box of chocolates, before
slamming the door a second time.
Spike sat on the grass, savoring the moment, marvelling at the curious
lightness in his chest, where once upon a time his heart used to beat.
She hadn't wanted him dead--had actually tried to save him. Now there
was a revelation. He got up and dusted himself off, rearranged his
clothes, ran his fingers through his hair, carefully restoring the
Spike image.
Yeah, baby, I'm bad. And that's just the way you like me.
As he put his hands in his pockets and turned to walk away, he saw a
slender figure disappear around the corner. It was the Nibblet, off on
her own in the darkness. What could she be up to? She should know
better, growing up the Slayer's sister. Spike glanced back at the house
and considered telling Buffy about Dawn's nocturnal excursion.
The bright lights and laughter spilling out of the Summers home decided
for him. Let Buffy enjoy what remained of her birthday. He could follow
the Nibblet at a distance and protect her from all the uglies in the
Sunnyhell night, and no-one the wiser. The Big Bad, protecting Little
Red Riding Hood. The Slayer would never believe it. Right, then, he'd
never tell her. It would be his own private joke.
Spike snuck into the shadows behind Dawn, grinning. Sometimes, it's
good to be Bad.