Title: Detour Author: kindred Disclaimer: The BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and his associates. Rating: NC-17 Feedback: Yes Summary: Future fic. Vengeance, memory and the course of true love. 10. "Your man there must be a bundle of laughs." Spike held out his arm and waited for the clothes. Buffy stood frozen in place by the door, her eyes glued to his chest. Tiny weighted droplets of water clung to his pale flesh before slipping down over those familiar contours. "--for me?" Oh shit, he said something and she missed it. Spike pursed his lips in amusement. "Overwhelmed by my sheer magnificence are we? Those my clothes? Or do you fancy keeping a naked prisoner?" He drew his muscular fingers back through his hair taming a few wayward curls, then knelt briefly and scooped the personal care items she'd brought him together on a wet towel. Buffy followed his movements closely, her attention fluttering over his fingers, his belly and the curve of his spine. "Well?" Spike looked mildly perplexed. It took a second or two for Buffy to react. She tossed the bundle of clothes at him. He stood, dropped the towel at his waist and watched closely for her reaction. Buffy's eyes widened for a split second and then she clenched her jaw shut. Spike noted the thudding response in her chest despite all outward attempts at remaining neutral. "Oooh, kitty. And I thought we were all friendly like," Spike challenged her. "You let me bite you and everything. You must have seen all the attachments." He stood with his weight on one hip, a hand caressing down his torso. His voice was a mockery of seduction. Buffy looked into his empty eyes. He was playing, trying to make her the mouse to his tomcat. Nothing more. He played with her because Spike always played. Buffy stared at his beautiful body. How well she knew each and every curve and rise. Spike rolled his shoulders and flexed a pectoral casually in response. Being naked in front of a slayer tickled a few fancies of his own. A barely audible tone filled the back of Spike's throat. Buffy pressed her lips together and fidgeted. She forced her attention away from his evident burgeoning arousal; however, nothing she did prevented the inevitable. Her body betrayed her again. "Oooh, Slayer," Spike shook his head with satisfaction, "that's some potent aroma. It makes me feel all manly." He had to admit it, slayer in heat was one mouth-watering scent. He tried for sarcasm but was derailed by a presence in his gut, an itch or inkling. It wasn't his thickening erection, but a deeper stirring. Something inside him recognized that scent. It was a confounding insistence that demanded acknowledgement. Again he was struck with the thought, no, the knowledge that somehow the scent of this scrawny blond slayer was his. It was suddenly there in his mind and in his gut. He knew it as surely as he knew he was a vampire; just as he knew he'd marked her with his fangs. The clanging gut clench he felt from this strange girl's scent was almost overpowering. He had not smelled such potency before. However tempting it was to linger in that scent, Spike needed answers and this girl had some. Years of accommodating Drusilla had made him a professional at self-denial. He knew how to ignore his own needs. Spike hardened his jaw and grabbed the clean pair of jeans. He rammed his legs into them and tucked away his furious desire, then he tugged a t-shirt over his head and scraped his fingertips through his damp hair once more. "You must be some naughty girl, Slayer. So, you like to fuck?" Buffy's eyebrows crept up her forehead. "That's what you wanted to ask me, whether I like to fuck?" "It was a rhetorical question, Slayer. I can smell that you do." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I bet you like it rough, eh? That's a particular specialty of mine." His tongue undulated casually for her benefit. Teasing. Taunting. Buffy felt like slapping him but she held back. Initiating any kind of physical confrontation would be dangerous and unpredictable. Instead she sighed and plastered a bored look on her face. "I know, Spike. Been there. Done that. Old and boring." Buffy spoke with a clear, detached authority. She kept in her mind the memory of how pissed off she used to be with him, long before there was any glimmer of other feelings. Spike told her many times how her emotions affected him. She knew bored indifference was the most unsettling. Even this cocky, headstrong killer paused to reflect at her coldness and her calculation. It was oddly alluring. This little snippet of a girl, not much more than a chipmunk, was starting to intrigue him. He did have a persistent yen for ice maidens, that was for certain. For the first time Spike began to think that he may well have been capable of developing some feelings for this annoying firecracker. Certainly he was capable of fucking her rotten. He would gladly set adrift on that delicious scent. It held him firmly in its grasp. Twin desires struck simultaneously. He wanted to taste her neck and he wanted to taste her come. What he did say was, "Drusilla?" Spike straightened up. There were details to be heard and he wanted to know every last one. Buffy understood that need. He deserved to know. "We received word that she traveled to Albania." Spike nodded. He knew the place. It was perfect for laying low and Drusilla had a sentimental fondness for the old eastern block countries. They still held the scent of repression she found intoxicating. "Alone?" Spike wrinkled his brow. That wasn't Drusilla's style. She favored an entourage. Failing that, there would at least be a companion of some description. "No. There was a Russik demon with her." Spike wasn't familiar with that species. Most likely he was a big, brawny lad who was good at taking direction. Buffy continued carefully. "It's a bit sketchy, but what we know is she managed to piss off the local townspeople and they attacked. I guess she finally met up with some folks whose daily lives were scarier than an insane vampire." Buffy spoke softly, trying not to hurt him with the information. "It was a mob. There was nothing left." Spike worked the muscle in his jaw and bit at the corner of his lower lip. Killed by a mob. It was a completely believable scenario. Bloody Prague all over again and he wasn't there to save her. Drusilla never knew when to leave well enough alone. "That's my Drusilla. Piss of the locals..." He shook his head in weary resignation. Drusilla had little innate sense of self preservation. "If I told her once, I told her a thousand-- She can't-- Couldn't stop doing it." He sighed and closed his eyes. He knew it was true. He felt her absence. Spike figured that her new demon toy would have been completely useless at strategy. There would have been no escape route. All cock and no brains, that was Drusilla's tune. Spike had seen that type come and go for decades. Spike, himself, was the anomaly on her list of sexual partners. He was the one who didn't fit her prescribed specifications. She liked her demons dumb as blood soaked toast, well hung and well tongued. He never regretted failing her first criterion. "Existence without Drusilla..." Spike bowed his head. He felt an emptiness when he said her name. It was more than grieving. Day after day of silent contemplation consolidated that horrific realization. Drusilla was no longer alive inside him. She was a glorious titan on the horizon of his memory. She was but a shadow inside him. What was he supposed to make of this slayer in his midst? Spare a vampire's feelings? Provide him with her nourishing blood? Aroused by his presence alone? The newspapers and magazines he'd been given all said 2005. Eight years gone. Spike was beginning to believe her story may be true. "You stopped being her toy long ago Spike. Did you not say in this very room that you wouldn't be anyone's pawn? Why jump through her hoops again?" "So you're telling me I wasn't your toy? That you didn't lead me around by this?" Spike stared at her in sour defiance and squeezed his bulge. "No Spike. Not games like that. I fought your love for so long, but that was wrong. I was wrong." He snorted at her reply. "What did you say, Slayer? Love?! You're saying that you and me? Love?" Each word strained further the bounds of disbelief. He felt queasy at the prospect. Being controlled and on a leash was one thing. That was nothing new to a vampire's existence. But love? Love a slayer? Not him. Not William the Bloody. The thought alone was unsettling. But how could he reconcile that feeling when he knew he had bitten her and those bites weren't from combat or anger. Those were the other kind, a display of intimacy and connection. It wasn't conquest or slavery. It was evidence of affection. "Anyway, I smartened up and made a different choice." "Oh yeah? What was that, hmm? A threesome?" That was a cruel grin. "Don't mock what we had!" Buffy tightened her fists and her jaw. "You have no clue what you were. What you made of yourself. What she's taken from you. From us." The tears welled again. Buffy swallowed her misery. Spike balked slightly. "What the bloody hell was I, Slayer?" He wanted to know. Buffy looked at him, unable to disguise the weight of her sorrow. It was the truth he had tasted in her blood. Again, he felt a mindless tugging in his gut. It was beyond hunger or lust. He'd never felt anything like it before. It actually moaned. She blinked and bit her trembling lip to stop its movement. Buffy moved to the door and put her hand on the handle. "You were a man, Spike. You were mine and I was yours." There was honest pain in her eyes. Pain for something she'd lost, and that something was him. Spike was a demon but he knew love. He understood it. He recognized the pained look on her face. It was the same painful yearning he'd felt for Drusilla just as Angelus lured her away. Eight years gone. So little time, but so much had changed. Spike accepted that it was indeed 2005. His darling Drusilla was no more. How could things have changed so completely? Was what this slayer said true? Did he find what he'd yearned decades for with this sad eyed girl? She said love. She said they loved each other. Did he dare believe that was a possibility? What could happen if he did? Buffy pulled on the door. A crossbow entered the room again followed by Giles' rigid arm. "Slayer." Buffy turned to see Spike emptying the pails of water into the floor drain. He gathered up all the things she'd brought in, rolled them in the towels and shoved them into the buckets. He then stepped forward and held them out in front of him. "That's far enough," Giles' sharp voice cut into the quiet room. Spike saw death in the Watcher's eyes. It was like recognizing a relation. This one could kill with little regret. The slayer was another story. Their eyes met fleetingly as she took the pails from him, their fingers grazed lightly in the exchange. There was a spark between them even in such a light touch. Spike had seen two slayer's eyes before; eyes full of hunger, full of killing and then a yearning for death. This one was different. There was no death in her eyes. Not for him. There was only an absence, a reflected ache. He stayed motionless as she left the room, his throat caught in a hard swallow. Finally, Spike's gaze fell on the Watcher again. The eyes of a killer were easier to take. The door closed once more. Spike ground his teeth as conflicting sentiments flowed through his mind. The girl was in pain and it was causing him discomfort. That discovery was practically a body blow. His mind rebelled at a fevered pitch. Further, he hadn't even tried to escape. Why didn't he rush the door? Shouldn't he be trying to escape? Weren't these humans his enemies? He felt nothing for the Watcher one way or the other, but the girl? She did something to his insides. What the hell was it? Why should he care if she looked haunted? Bugger. He felt that swell in his gut again. He cared. tbc...