Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 35: Careful

хм, какой хрен понятный арт...
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[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: Have I ever mentioned Cecily's last name in this story? (I'm asking seriously, because I can't remember.) Apparently it's actually Addams, according to Wikipedia, but for whatever reason I chose Rhodes, and to me it sounds more hotel-worthy, so I'm leaving it until someone figures out that I gave her some other name before...

A/N#2: THANK YOU for your comments, commenters. You, too, fill my pants with joy.

A/N WARNING: Forgot to add that some of this could be really disturbing, if you're not me and haven't been expecting it all this time, or if you're not used to reading depraved family memoirs. I tried to gloss over the details as much as I could, but yeah. Be prepared. (And don't feel too bad for Spike. He's that much stronger for it, etc.)

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"Did I hurt you, baby?"

Trembling, gulping and gasping beneath him, heartbeat thudding in her ears, she said, "That was perfect."

"You're perfect." He cleared her hair from her neck and unbuckled the belt he'd fastened there. "Bloody phone."

Phone? She'd assumed that bumblebee buzz was part of the post-orgasmic symphony booming in her head. "Is that you?"

"Forgot to switch it off." His breath warming her back, he nipped at her shoulderblade. "Got distracted by the girl in my bed."

She felt another rogue interior spasm.

Pulsing inside of her, Spike pinched her hips and, with a rumbling growl, gave her one last deep, quivering thrust.

God, he made the sexiest noises. So much sexier than that vibrating phone. "Someone really, really wants you."

"Everybody wants me," he slurred in sing-song, drunk with satisfaction, "everyone but you."

She smiled into his pillow. So not walking into that one.

The buzzing stopped, and they both went lax. Until it started up again.

"Oh, for fucking... Christ..." He reached over the bedside and said, panting above her, "Fuck. I have to take this. Stay here."

Buffy wiggled a cuffed wrist. "No choice."

"I'll be quick." He kissed her sweat-slick shoulder, carefully disengaged, then jumped out of bed to take his call with a hoarse, "Bonjour, Maman."

Her eyes flew open. No phrase -- in any language -- was more sobering than that. Buffy was bound to his bed, face down, quivering in aftershock, stinging with belt whips and oozing his load. How could he leave her this way while he talked to his mother?

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" Spike had wandered toward the master bath and paused in the doorway. Silhouetted by the bathroom light, he slouched against the wall. "No, he hasn't. Why, what did he say? Y-- What did he say, Mother?" He stared at his pinky nail, nibbled on it for a moment, and stood up straight. "Quoi?"

As he listened, he continued to bite his nails -- something she'd never seen him do. Buffy stopped thinking about herself.

"Maman, calme-toi. I'll talk to him. Yeah, right now. Oui. Oui. Ne t'en fais pas. ...Then I'll call another one in, all right?" Rubbing his chest, he nodded several times. "Yeah. Yeah. I'll take care of it, Mum. Yeah. Oui. Au revoir."

Closing the phone, he rubbed his eyes, let the base of his skull hit the wall.

Buffy wasn't sure if she should leave him alone or give him a hug. Though, neither was a viable option at the moment.

"It's uhm, it's her doctor," he explained, still in profile, looking down at his phone. "She only half listens and then she gets hysterical..."

For the second time that day, Buffy's presence felt suddenly frivolous. Spike had to deal with important family issues, and here she was, showing up all unannounced and demanding his attention like some kind of needy... Darla. "I should be getting home anyway."

He looked at her.

She opened her hands and wiggled her fingers. "Little help here?"

"Oh." He hurried to the bed to liberate her feet, then her hands. "Sorry."

"It's okay." She turned to her side, shaking out the pins and needles in her arm.

With a look of concern, he massaged her arm, her wrist, her hand.

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Really. Make your phone call."

Touching her wedding band, he frowned at it like it didn't make sense. "Shouldn't you be drinking?"

She didn't follow. "Drinking...?"

"Girls' night out. You should have alcohol on the breath, yeah?"

"Oh. Uh... yeah, I guess. Not that..." ...Lindsey would get close enough for a whiff. "I mean, I'm driving, so I shouldn't have too much, but... Why?"

"Stay for a nightcap. I'll be done by the time you're out of the shower."

"Spike, I don't want to impose..."

His eyes met hers, dark and glistening. "I insist."

* * *

"There you are," he said, making her jump. "Nearly sent out a search party."

"I nearly started leaving breadcrumbs." He was still on the phone when she got out of the shower, so Buffy gave herself a tour of the second floor. So far she'd counted six bedrooms, four marble baths and some sort of common area, and now she was in an entirely new wing. "Already I'm disoriented. And it's cold on this side. Brrr."

"If we retrace our steps, we may make it out of here without resorting to cannibalism."

She ignored his extended hand. Absurd sense of humor plus cute tousled hair plus nothing but boxer briefs equaled a confused and horny Buffy, and she'd already been that Buffy twice today. Level-headed, intrepid Buffy was due for an appearance. "I'll take my chances. I've come too far not to brave this chilly, foreign soil."

"I'm afraid there's nothing to brave, love. It's an exact mirror of the other side. Only it's empty."

She opened a door and found a room stripped bare, just like he'd said. "If you don't use half the house, why keep living here?"

"Actually, I'm--"

She spoke over him, "What's in that one?"

He was standing in front of a door, trying to look innocent. Spike. Innocent. Not an easy sell. "In what one?"

"That room you don't want me to see."

"What? This?" He looked up at the doorframe like he'd never seen it before. "Same as the others, I expect."

"You realize that I'm now imagining something far worse than whatever it is, right? I'm thinking dead bodies, creepy shrines, a gimp... I've already seen your torture chamber, what could be worse?"

With a resigned sigh, he stepped aside, revealing an old rusted sign that read DANGER! LAND MINES!

Puzzled by that, Buffy glanced at him. He gestured in a way that either meant 'Don't say I didn't warn you' or 'I just hide the bodies, I don't kill them', but he was giving her permission nonetheless, so she took a breath and turned the knob.

She flipped a switch, lighting up a fully furnished room.

It came together slowly: Baseball and hockey trophies. A Texas Rangers flag, a framed jersey. Prep school yearbooks. An old PC adorned with team and band stickers. A child's acoustic guitar signed by Lindsey Buckingham. A packed bookshelf. The Songs of Bob Dylan. Political Liberalism. We The People. To Kill A Mockingbird.

Buffy swallowed. "This is..." She knew exactly what it was, but she said that anyway.

"Yeeah," he said cagily, entering the room behind her.

She touched the wooden desk chair, half expecting it to disintegrate. All it did was wheeze. "It's like a time capsule."

"Maids tidy all the rooms. I haven't been down here myself since..." He touched a framed photograph on the shelf. "Since he struck out on his own."

Buffy looked at the photograph: it was Spike, with prep school valedictorian Lindsey.

DANGER! LAND MINES!

"Oh, god." She sat down on the bed, a reality avalanche crashing over her. "He's your son. He's your child."

"Yeah," he said, and sat down next to her, smelling faintly of sex. "He is."

In the morose silence that followed, she noticed him picking at his pinky nail, so she asked, "What did the doctor say?"

He breathed in deep, shook his head. "Her lungs are getting weaker. He wants to give her a tracheostomy. You know, one of those... tubes... in your..." Motioning at his neck, he trailed off.

Without thinking it through, she slipped her hand into his.

He squeezed it, and whispered, "Please don't go."

Level-headed, intrepid Buffy assessed the situation. Here she was, sitting in her husband's childhood room, which was also her lover's child's room, wherein said lover was on the verge of tears over his dying mother, who had abused them both.

It was a lot for a novice to handle. Her first impulse was to turn back from such treacherous slopes, and maybe she should have. But she hadn't been paying much attention to should-haves lately... and the fact was, he needed her.

"I don't know about you," Buffy said, "but I could really use that drink right now."

He kissed her fingertips, rose to his feet and guided her out of the minefield.

* * *

"This might be my favorite room in the house so far," Buffy declared, sitting on a furry white chaise in a room lit by a crackling fireplace and to-die-for southern exposure view. "Less stuffy French aristocrat, more we're-snowed-in-at-the-Swiss-Chalet. In Los Angeles."

He handed her a drink. "You know, I happen to have a--"

"--'Swiss Chalet in the Alps, pet'," she finished for him, in an approximation of his voice, as she took the glass. "'Want to go with me?'"

When his amused shock wore off, he sat beside her and said, "Yes."

Their glasses touched in toast, and she swirled her whiskey, wondering aloud, "Is there anything you don't have?" Before he could answer, she said, "Besides me."

He ran the back of his hand down her arm. "I have you right now, don't I?"

Stricken by guilt, she turned her eyes to the windows. The sparkling L.A. basin lights didn't ground her in reality, however; they made her feel more removed. Which, in turn, made her feel more guilty. And round and round we go...

"Anyway, enjoy it while it lasts," Spike said, placing his whiskey glass on the coffee table.

She peered at him askance. Was he finally owning up to the fact that this couldn't last? Had his mother made him see the truth? "I never... expected..." Her throat closed up. She sipped her drink, and coughed.

Spike squinted at her. "I meant the room, love. Not us."

She forced a laugh. "I know that." He didn't buy that for a second, of course, but by golly, she had to try. "You're redecorating."

"I'm selling."

"The... the house?" Drastic change made her nervous. "Why?"

"You said it yourself, it's too big for me. It's hollow, it's stuffy; too many bloody ghosts..." He shrugged. "I should've done it ages ago."

"Where are you moving to?"

"Don't know yet. I'm open to suggestions." He put her glass down and wrapped an arm around her. "If you were me, where would you move?"

"If I were you I'd live in one little apartment and give all the trillions that saves to charity."

"Oh, come on. Indulge me."

"Fine." She cozied into him, and indulged. "Laurel Canyon, maybe. No, that's too hipster for you... I know, get one of those sexy glass boxes at the top of the Hollywood Hills. Or ooh, Los Feliz, up by Griffith? I've seen fancy mansions there."

Their fingers met and weaved together. "Why there?"

"It's nice, you know, with the park and the Observatory... And you'd be a straight shot up the 5."

He nudged her. "You want me closer."

Blithely, she said, "Mom always said, 'If you have to drive more than one highway to see your boyfriend, find a new boyfriend'. Words to live by, you know."

"So I'm your boyfriend, am I?"

"W--" She just called him her boyfriend. What did that even mean? "It also applies to 'booty call', or 'secret shame'. Take your pick."

"I pick 'boyfriend'," he said with a decisive nod. "Your mum was a smart lady."

"She was."

He raised their joined hands. "Do you miss her?"

"All the time," she said, vision of the fireplace blurring. "I think about her every single day."

He put their hands down. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll miss her."

His mother. Spike was opening up about his mother. She shouldn't have called him her boyfriend. Even if she was dying of curiosity, which she was, Buffy already knew so many of his secrets; she was afraid to know any more. They tended to fan a flame that she'd been trying hard to douse. So she asked an easier question: "What kind of cancer is it?"

"It's not cancer. It's ALS. Maladie de Charcot; Lou Gherig's Disease... Lots of names. No cure."

"Oh," she said softly in recognition. She'd researched ALS for a case once, and remembered thinking it might be one of the worst ways to go.

"Attacks your central nervous system. Your mind stays sharp, but your body... It fails you, bit by bit. Soon, she won't be able to talk." He scoffed. "God, how I used to wish for that."

Staving off an impulse to tell him he wasn't responsible for her sickness, she said, "How much time does she have?"

He shrugged. "Three years, six months... a week. Anyone's guess."

"Yeah," Buffy said quietly. "I know what that's like."

"Was anyone there for you?" he asked, retroactively concerned. "When she was dying?"

"Not really, but that was my fault," she admitted. "I kind of... pushed everyone away. Even my friends who wanted to help; my boyfriend... I didn't want to bring them down, and I hated having to explain how I felt. It just made me twice as sad."

"So you took the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you haven't shrugged it since."

"Have too," she said with a pout. "What about you? If I've got the world, you've got the universe."

He let out a soft chuckle. "Maybe so." Staring at their hands, he said, "Been looking after Mum since I first saw her cry. I was three."

"That's not unusual," Buffy said, flashing back to her parents' rocky divorce, her mother's bout with alcoholism. Picking up all those messy pieces. Fifteen, three, she would have risen to that occasion at any age. "Single mother with an only child, especially if she doesn't have anyone else..."

He pressed his lips to her ear and murmured, "If you're going to be clinical about this, I'm not telling you any more."

So much for level-headed Buffy. "Sorry."

"I'll make it easy for you, Doc," he said, opening and closing his fingers around hers as he spoke. "Mum didn't have anyone else because I'd botched her life. Her family disowned her, my father left her, she had nothing but me: a mistake, a regret, a burden. So in the interest of survival, I became everything she needed, quick as possible. A nursemaid, a scapegoat, a husband... A hero."

Cheek on his chest, she wondered, "How much of a husband?"

He didn't answer, and she was glad for that.

"That was out of line," she said, eyes shut. "I need an editor. Or a muzzle. Sorry."

Quiet for a moment, he touched her hair. "Why don't you want kids?"

"Who said I don't want kids?"

"...Do you?"

No, she didn't. And for the first time, it occurred to her why. "I guess I don't want to leave anyone behind, like my mom did. I don't want anyone to feel that kind of pain over me."

He raised her head and tilted his, to read her.

She averted her eyes.

And then he made a confession: "A husband in every sense of the word."

Buffy had suspected as much, but hearing him say it outright was heartbreaking.

"When I was about thirteen," he began, "I got rebellious. I let Mum drink to blackout every night so I could escape, make mischief with a dodgy crowd. She felt me slipping away, knew she couldn't keep me anymore. The beatings didn't stick, she couldn't cage me with words. So," his voice hollowed, "she seduced me."

Buffy tried not to visualize, but she couldn't help it. Back then, his mother wasn't even thirty yet. She looked like Chanterelle. And if sex with her was enough to keep rebel Spike at home...

I don't care how young and pretty she was, you don't do that to a child, he'd said.

...he must have hated himself for liking it.

She took her hand out of his.

"I've upset you," he said.

"No," she said, and reached for her glass, trying to sort out her feelings.

"I've shocked you."

"No." She wiped at a tear. This was why she couldn't hear his secrets. This was why. It made her want to rip out an organ and give it to him. Not her heart, or anything. A spleen, or an appendix, maybe.

"It only lasted a couple of years," he said.

Which made it better how? "What made you leave her?"

"Well, it went like this. I got a job as a bellboy at the hotel she cleaned. One day, she catches me flirting with the boss's daughter. She tells me I'll never be good enough for a girl like that. I tell her I'm going to marry Cecily Rhodes and buy that hotel some day. She says the devil, a.k.a. my Dad, must be speaking through me again. So I say, 'Dad says hello, and he's bloody glad he left you. He'd rather burn in Hell than have to look at your lopsided arse ever again.' She slaps me, for the first and last time in my life, and throws me out on the street."

Maybe like, half of her liver.

"I didn't see her again for a very long time, I made sure of it. Few days before I'm about to be married, she crashes my office at Wrecked. She begs me not to marry Cecily, to come home to her, she can make me happy... And she gets on her knees to prove it."

Can you survive with one third of a liver?

"And uh, as luck would have it, Darla barges in right then, sees it happening, thinks I'm cheating on her. To stop them from ripping each other to shreds, I have to shout, 'Stop, she's my mother'." He shook his head in bitter recall. "Darla never told anyone, but she never let me forget it."

She didn't need both kidneys... "Classy."

"It was never physical again. Soon as I could, I got Mum a place in Paris, so she was out of my hair, and finally where she wanted to be. She seemed happier there. Even started dating... I thought she was reformed." He frowned at the firelight. "I turned out to be wrong."

Not the heart. Not. The heart. "It wasn't your fault, what happened to him. Or to you, for that matter."

"I played my part," he said, "and that was enough."

"Weight of the universe," she said.

"Yeah," he ceded with a smile. "Always thought I'd finally be free of it when she was gone, but..."

Seeing a tear spill down his face, she mounted his lap, kissed his cheek, and brought his head to her pounding heart.







Read on... >>



A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

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