Mountain Dew 8/?

Author: dutchbuffy2305, aka db2305

Rating: M

Betaed by: mommanerd and thedeadlyhook

Feedback: I never tire of it!

#8

"You knew I was longing have the house to myself, didn't you?"

"I know my big sister. You want to do your Mommy rituals and your Buffy home alone rituals in piece. Go on, enjoy them, and you can tell me all about you adventures later."

Adventures! The Bhutan memories shoot back into slot number 1 with a painful clang. "Yes. I really do have to tell you about them. And ask you stuff. How does tomorrow sound? "

"Whoa. It must be important.  I figured you'd be hibernating for at least a week."

"In summer?  Please, I'll be in the pool all day buying my daughter ice cream and throwing her inflatable balls. No hibernating for me."

"Metaphorical hibernating. You know-"

"Evidence to the contrary, I do know what metaphorical is," Buffy says with dignity. "I simply don't choose to use that word a lot."

"Absolutely. Saturday, your place, four-ish?"

"I'm probably gonna ask Willow to come along, too. Kinda big."

"Really?"

"Really."

Buffy sees more questions playing over Dawn's face, but Dawn's sticking to her perfect-sister mode and stuffs them.

Once the door shuts behind her, Buffy sags against the wall of her own hall and sniffs up the fragrance of home and it's the best thing she's ever smelled. Oh God, she's a homebody. She's a thirty-three years old single mom homebody who's been dreaming of her own bed for weeks. Pathetic. She drags her suitcase to the laundry room and upends it. Is she actually going too wash her disgusting travel clothes right now? Yes, she is. She is that woman now. Organized, decisive, the perfect homemaker. She strips off her wrinkled, sweaty outfit and adds it to the pile. Is any of it even savable? She'd prefer not to wear that cold-weather gear ever again, but Andrew did suggests in his inimitable, subtle, yet totally crass way that they'd need to be repeating the sacred marriage thing every year?

A bolt of heat shoots up her spine and tears up her eyes. Oh. She's so totally jetlagged that although it's six in the morning she doesn't feel sleepy at all and her mind cartwheels into acrobatic fantasies of Spike. Why has he been avoiding her? How long should she wait before calling him, and he hasn't even given her his phone number or address. The jerk. Walking off like that just because she had her attention on her daughter for a couple of minutes. Childish, petty, that's what it is.

If she knew his phone number, she'd send him an angry text or possibly beat him up in cyberspace.

Buffy changes her mind about washing her clothes right now. Garments revolving behind a glass door would only make her think of penises bursting form the sky and thunder crackling and Spike painting her breasts.

Instead, she decides on a long lukewarm bath while the morning is still cool. She looks in on Aura's sleeping form under the thin cover and breathes in the sweet smell that rises from her the down on her narrow little neck.

#

Buffy wakes up, shivering, in a cold bath. The expected heat of the English summer day hasn't arrived after all. The sky is gray and there is actual drizzling. Ew. Like the summers of old, the ones Giles used to mention, when living in England was different from California. Bad portents. She dries off hastily and goes to see if Aura's still sleeping. Nope.

She clatters down the stairs on cold feet and finds Aura contentedly stuffing her face with cornflakes. She's dressed in her usual pants and T.

"Mommy, can I play with Pierce? "

Piers is the vile little boy down the street, who's nose is perpetually running and whose ankles are always bare and black with grime. Aura loves him with a passion.

"Of course, baby. What are you going to play?"

"We're playing Arabs and Americans. I'm gonna be Rumsfeld and Piers is gonna be Saddam."

"Cool! Who's gonna win?"

Aura looks at Buffy with her big green eyes. "Mom! I am. I'm stronger than Piers."

"Good for you, honey."

"Mom?"

"What?"

"Can I be a boy?'

This is one of those difficult questions moms face. Aura's future probably depends on it. "Sure, sweetie, we can play that you're a boy."

Aura mashes the last cornflakes to a pulp. "I don't want to play, I want to be a real boy. Can I at least cut my hair?"

Aura's pretty hair? Buffy strokes it, the baby softness of it, brown, curly hair, very much like her own, she suspects, when she was younger.

"Cut it? But honey, it's so pretty. Don't you wanna be pretty?"

Aura sighs, slides down from her chair and sets her bowl in the sink. Dawn has taught her useful stuff, Buffy sees. And she gave the wrong answer. She's a bad mom.

"I don't care about pretty. I wanna be a boy. Will you call me Billy?"

"Of course I will, Billy. But don't you think girls have more fun?"

Billy curls her lips and tosses her hair. She'd have to unlearn that or the other boys would cal him sissy. Her. Whatever. "No way. Stupid dresses. Stupid hair. And they play with Barbies. I like my trains. Will you cut my hair now?"

A few minutes later, she scampers down the six stairs from the front door of the terrace house to go visit the beloved Piers. With short hair.

"Be back in time for lunch, Billy!" Buffy shouts after her and Aura gives a happy wiggle of her whole little body.

Aura's getting big. The highlight of her life used to be spending a day with her mother, but now she prefers to play with Piers. And often that is a relief, so Buffy can retrieve some of the pieces of her life that she gave up after Aura, but it's also a little bit sad. Little Aura's not coming back.

Although. Now that she has a moment of privacy, she should really do that test. Damn. She'd actually forgotten about it for a couple of hours. Buffy sits on the rim of the bath and stares at the narrow test tube.

#

Spike takes one last look at the sweet tableau of Buffy hugging her daughter and then quickly walks to the airport's underground exit. He's cutting it close. The tube's coming in as he enters the platform and he hops on. His luck has changed, he's going to make it after all. He changes trains at South Kensington and again at Victoria, where he takes the Northern Line to Pimlico, to his pleasant basement flat in the prim little street near the Tate. A miracle he can afford it, but the Council does pay well. Nowadays. Rupert was always a bit of a miser, but Andrew rewards Spike amply for his services. Which is, in essence, saving the world. Doing odd jobs of reconnaissance and assassination, sometimes even Indiana Jonesing old artifacts or manuscripts. A good life, a fulfilling life. Too bad he's gonna have to give up the flat.

He tosses his clothes on the floor of the bathroom and takes a nice hot shower. First, a letter telling his landlord he's giving up the flat. Taking a good look at his possessions. He'll bring the carpets, he decides, and the computer. The telly is a bit of an indulgence, a device that projects the screen onto his a whole wall. It's a bachelors' telly, innit, not like him and Buffy would be watching telly of an evening. They'd have better things to do. He decides not to sell it off yet.

Clothes. That's a whole different story. Most of his stuff has seen better days. Time for his once-yearly shopping spree, he guess. Or would Buffy prefer to go along? She might, he reckons. Buffy always did like her shopping. Many's the time he's trailed after her in a mall, when she had one eye out for prowling vampires and another on the dresses. They were generally beyond her reach, and it would make her more vicious and effective in killing demons. Magnificent.

Right. Give up flat, pack up books, what else does he need to do? Have a talk with Andrew about a change of job specs. Less jaunting about the globe, more close encounters of the British kind.

#

The bell rings. Buffy goes over to the door with a sigh. If it's Piers again, she's going to –  Aura has beat her to it. She's probably also expecting Piers. Aura stands on tiptoe and manages to open the door. Up until now, Buffy had assumed that Aura couldn't reach the lock, so it takes her longer than she should to recognize who's standing there in the early evening drizzle.

"Spike!"

"Lo Buffy."

He waits.

Oh yes, he needs to be invited. And Aura takes care of it. Bad Buffy. She should have started Aura on vampire inviting etiquette sooner.

"Come in," Aura pipes. "Who are you? I'm Billy. I'm a boy."

"I can see that," Spike drawls and shoves an enormous duffel into the hallway. "I'm Spike. I'm a boy too."

Aura giggles and uses the opportunity to escape outside.

"Oh crap. Aura, come back."

"I'm just going to say goodnight to Piers!" Aura calls out without pausing.

Buffy grits her teeth. Shove Spike out of the way, snatch her screaming and kicking daughter from the pavement and drag her inside? Or be walked all over by her six-year old daughter? What would a proper parent do?

"Little tyke running off on you? Want me to get her back for you?" Spike asks, still politely waiting near the door.

Buffy sighs. "No, it's okay. If she's not back soon I'll go and drag her back from her boyfriend's house."

She takes in the XXL duffel. Why has he brought that? Is it a gift? Has he brought her like, ten-thousand hand-whittled stakes? How...thoughtful. Curiosity wins from politeness.

"What's in the bag?"

"Just some of my stuff." Spike shrugs and  in one sinuous motion hefts the bags a few more feet into the house. "Where shall I put it? What's the plan for tonight? Grey's Anatomy? I think ITV has season 7 on rerun."

"It is. Did you come here just to watch TV?"

Buffy's rooted to her spot near the living room door. Spike takes another few steps closer.

"Was invited to do that, wasn't I? Needed a few days to put my stuff in order, cancel the lease on my flat, and here I am."

Leas on his flat. And that's his stuff in the bag. His clothes! He needs all his clothes to watch TV with her. She refuses to think beyond that.

"Are you moving in?" she blurts out and stumbles towards him. Her body is miles ahead of her brain, as usual.

"Thought we might as well," Spike starts and then his nose comes up like a hound's and takes a deep, disturbingly doggy sniff. Buffy's reminded of how gross she used to think that was. She still hates to see it. What does he think he's smelling? Oh.

"Buffy, what...how?"

Buffy covers the eighteen feet of hallway in three strides. "What do you mean, how? Were you there or were you not there when a giant penis from outer space took possession of you and used me? Huh?"

"It was a sacred marriage, Buffy, and yes I was there. Doesn't mean I realized it knocked you up."

"You knocked me up, mister, and don't you try and weasel out of that!"

Spike gestures mutely to his gigantic bulging duffel.

"Moving in, ain't I? Not skiving off."

Buffy yanks the lapels of his duster close and hisses in his ear, "And don't shout. The door's open and the whole street can hear you!"

Spike ignores the hissing and takes the opportunity to clasp her closely to his leather chest.

"Buffy."

Buffy struggles to be release. "Don't you Buffy me in that tone of voice! How do you think I feel! Your buddy Andrew knew exactly what he was doing and I hate you! I hate you!"

Spike doesn't give an inch. He lifts her up and slams her into the wall. The pressure of his hard body and harder cock against her aching pelvis don't make her anger disappear, but Buffy channels it into furious kissage and hair-mauling. She scrabbles at the soft leather of his old duster and digs her fingers into his arms.

"You think fucking me is going to make any difference to my feelings about what happened?"

"No, I don't. Still gonna do it," Spike says.

His hand is up her dress, and for a second she wishes she'd worn a newer pair and more attractive pair of panties, but when the elastic digs sharply into her thighs the moment before they tear, she's glad she didn't.

"Hold on," he growls.

Buffy braces herself between the wall and his body while he claws at his fly buttons. She tenses up in anticipation of his cock. It's gonna be so good. It's been days, she hasn't had time at all to look after herself, but it's more than just gratification, it's him she's been waiting for, not just any man-shaped missile.

Spike stops. He's not going to have to be goaded again? Once was fun, she's prepared to do it again but a third time would strain their budding relationship.

"What is it, lover?" she asks, trying hard to leave the incipient irritation out of her voice.

"We already did this," he says. "Gonna try something different."

Buffy's not sure how different she would find acceptable. Besides, is there anything they haven't done in their brief and violent affair in Sunnydale?

Spike is smiling widely down at her and she braces herself for a lewd proposal, but he scoops her closer to his chest and walks further into her house. Three more steps into her tiny hallway take him to her staircase and up he goes. Buffy floats in his arms, bemused, trying to be relaxed and not check up on her butt hanging out in the big mirror on the wall.

"Which one is it, love?"

Buffy points at her bedroom door silently. His question must be some kind of Victorian formality, because the trail of bright colored kid clothes and cuddly toys spilling out of the other door should be kind of a clue.

Oh God, she hasn't tidied up in there since her return from Bhutan and she's pretty sure she's forgotten to air it out this morning.

Spike stops a few feet form the bed and makes a pirouette with Buffy still in his arms. "Smells like heaven, love. Just like your pretty cunt."

What a good thing Aura's at Piers's. That's not a word she's comfortable hearing around her daughter.

Spike gently puts her down on the bed. "This is what I used to dream of. Your bedroom, with your girly bed in it."

Buffy swallows away her guilt. They're past that. There's no point in beating herself up about all the things she didn't want to do back then, they're just gonna do them and the past is over. "I'm glad we're here now," she says and stretches her arms behind her back.

Spike may be perfectly happy standing there just gazing at her on her own bed, but she wants him in there. Naked. She sits up and reaches for his pants.

"Come on, baby, out of these clothes. You're gonna give me jeans burns, and besides, I want to see you."

Spike reacts with gratifying speed and she waits for him, figuring he'd prefer to undress her tenderly and slowly. Of course he would. Sex in Bhutan must have resembled their rough tumbling a bit too much for comfort. This is gonna be slow and sweet. They have all the time in the world.

"Mommy?" Aura yells from downstairs.

#

Spike watches Buffy as she marches Aura through her bedtime ritual. With one hand, she directs Aura to the bathroom to brush her teeth, while her other hands picks up toys and bright  clothes scattered all over the second story like shed blossoms from a clothes tree. While Aura brushes her tooth, singing along with the little song the brush plays halfway, Buffy straightens up the bathroom and starts a load of laundry. She seems to have more hands than Shiva and the learning curve for parents seem incredibly steep to Spike. But he will learn it, so he can be a proper dad to his future sprog.

Buffy sings a song to Aura and tiptoes out. Frog-shaped nightlight in the room, door on a crack.

Buffy's face, smooth and smiling while her attention was on Aura, snaps back into a frown as she brushes past him downstairs. Spike doesn't want to trot at her heels like a puppy, because that sure as hell would get him a snarl, but when the clanging and banging begins in the kitchen, he reckons staying away would be worse.

He keeps mum and tries to help her tidy the place. He brings her a dirty cup from the sitting room and stacks a week's worth of newspapers. He tries to curb his own rising irritation, but since Buffy's giving no sign of dissipating her cloud of crankiness, he quietly gets madder.

Why does it always have to be this way? He always has to surprise Buffy into showing love and affection, or at the least lust, because she never gives any of her own accord. No, that's not true. She was sweet and loving to him on the way down from the mountains. Yeah, but that was away from her friends and family. Now she's back on her own turf and she's getting cold feet. Or something.

He seethes in silence while Buffy cleans the kitchen with maniacal intensity. The front door is still open, where Aura didn't shut it behind her, and a tricycle's red skeleton lies abandoned on the steps. He bends down to retrieve it and hears a sharp inhalation on the other side of the scraggly hedge. His nostrils widen and he looks up. The figure of a man, indistinct in the dusk, turns on its heels and lopes off. No use. Spike's nose has long identified him. If there's anything that can make him suspicious, it's secret visits to Buffy's house. And whatever Andrew was after, he left happy.

Finally, Buffy puts down the rag, shakes out her shoulders. She's gonna march past him and he'll be reduced to following her again. He absolutely loathes the stripe of tension between her brows.

She walks up to him and folds herself into his arms without the slightest change in her expression. Spike freezes in surprise. He's a prat. She loves him, she's said so, although not today. Of course, the sudden and unsolicited addition to her household gives rise to some tension. Not to mention that there's Aura and the whole unpleasant Andrew business.

"I wish we could go way, you and me," she murmurs into his neck. "Forget about Andrew and his icky plans, and just relax and make love."

Spike grunts assent and holds her tight. Of course, they would, and of course, it's not going to happen. They have responsibilities. Buffy's worry, and her knee jerk-reaction to anything that smacks of council-meddling won't go away.

"What do you want to do, love?" he asks.

"Let's just sit and watch TV for a bit," she says. "I'm all wound-up, and we can't go up to bed yet. Aura wakes up easily when she's just fallen asleep."

Spike sees he's going to have to keep track of potential shag-moments. No more spur-of-the-moment sex. When does switches to the news, but Spike isn't paying attention. Her heartbeat is music enough for him, and the slow but sure ways her scent changes from sharp and agitated to sleepy and comfortable. He's doing that for her, making he feel safe. His hand strays to her belly. Not exactly a heartbeat there yet, not a heart, but something pulses and grows there, changing Buffy's scent, deepening it.

"You're looking so possessive," she says.

Spike starts guiltily. "Is that bad, then?"

She sighs. "Maybe. Are we sure you're the father?"

That's rich! "What other demons did you sleep with?" He didn't quite mean that the way it came out. "Sorry. I know you didn't." And he really does. Other blokes are not the big issue right now.

"I meant, which you would have known if you'd have let me finish, that God knows what fathered this little wriggler. We have to think over what we're giving birth to."

Does he care, now that she's said 'we'? Not in the slightest. But he understands that she would really prefer to give birth to something pink with ten toes and fingers.

"We'll go and have it checked out with all the trappings. Harley Street and everything," he says.

Buffy seems mollified. Time to mention Andrew.

"Listen up, Buff. Andrew was here, right on our doorstep, visiting you or checking up on me. And he went away again. He was satisfied, relieved even."

"And you're still not suspicious?"

There it is, the anger of the Slayer, no longer as quick off the mark as it used to be, but still a fine and roaring fire when it is.

"Definitely warming up to it now."

"I was suspicious the moment I found out what he pulled in Bhutan. And now he's checking up on my sex life? Does he think he owns me after that Midsummer night thing?"

"Sacred marriage," Spike reminds her.

"Yeah, okay, sacred marriage." But her eyes widen and her breast heave in indignation. "He does, doesn't he? Think he owns us? He thinks we should have sex. For what? Do you know anything more, Spike?"

Spike's heart is heavy with the knowledge that he will have to move against his friend now. Of course he's right behind Buffy.

TBC

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