Went Down to the Cemetery, Looking for Love

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Rating: R
Medium: Fic
Title: Went Down to the Cemetery, Looking for Love
Notes: Set post-show for both “Buffy” and “Angel,” vaguely present-day, has nothing to do with any current comics canon. Pure fluff, with a small side of porn. (Pluff! Florn!) 

Went Down to the Cemetery, Looking for Love

Buffy switches the sword from hand to hand as she walks, enjoying the heft of it, the perfect balance.

“Okay,” she says, “I remember the go-to offense is standard beheading. But I was nodding off a little during the defense part of the lecture. What’s it do to you, again?”

“Watcher did go on, didn’t he?” Spike says. “I went into daydream land about twenty minutes in, myself. Hang on, I’ll dig it up in Ye Olde Mystical Compendium,” and he fishes through his cargo-pants pockets for the Blackberry. He’s filled out a little, these past few years, she thinks; in the old days if he’d put much in his pockets his pants would have fallen off.

“And by ‘daydream land,’ you mean ‘porn fantasies,’ right?” she says.

“Coming up with new ideas, love. You shouldn’t be complaining,” Spike says, and leans over her from behind to push a branch out of her way, and leers.

She can’t help grinning at him a little, and then he thumbs at the keyboard, squints at the screen and announces, “Oh, toxic acid vomit. Projectile.”

“Lovely,” she says. “Any tips on sneaking up on it? How’s its hearing? Do I have to put my stealth on? And give me my chapstick, would you?”

“I’m just a big purse to you,” he says.

“Nah,” she says, peers carefully around a crypt, and then reaches back to pat him on the belly. “Something much more manly and mystical. A Tensor’s magic disc, maybe….”

“A what?”

“One of those spells in Dungeons and Dragons that carries all your stuff for you, just makes it hover beside you? It sounds like a fabulous idea… oh, God, I’ve been talking to Andrew again, sorry.”

Spike snorts, produces her chapstick, and thumbs at the Blackberry again. “It’s got rotten hearing. Chatter away.”

“Great. Plan for the evening: whack its head off from behind, avoiding demonic acid facial peel.”

They walk a grid pattern for a while, and Buffy finds herself thinking how comfortable it is to have him behind her, watching out for nasty surprises. It wasn’t all that long ago that she always kept an eye on him because she didn’t trust him, and then she found herself enjoying keeping an eye on him because, well, look at him. Seriously. And then there was that whole “burning up to save the world” thing, and…now here they are, he’s got her back and she’s got his back and everybody’s back is got, and it’s kind of great.

“Old times, huh?” he says, suddenly.

“Mmmm?” she says, a little alarmed that he seems to be reading her mind.

“You, me, lots of dead people. It’s…” (and she can hear the little grin and head tilt in his voice, how does he do that?) “romantic.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “Stepping over ‘Lily Comstock, devoted wife and mother’ and hunting down something with puke powers gets me HOT.”

He moves quickly, pins her up against a crypt and kisses her neck.

“Oh come on,” she says. “Be good. Miles to go before we sleep, demons to slay before we fuck, behave.”

“Demon,” he says, and starts nibbling a little, “has rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible.”

“Wha?” she says, because it’s hard to think with a fizzy tingle running down her spine.

“Gayle Cemetery across town. Xander texted me about twenty minutes ago. He and that slayer from Toronto, whatshername, with the nose ring, took its head off. No vomit, no trouble.” He breathes in her ear, tickles with a tonguetip, and murmurs, “Evening off, Slayer, whatever shall we do?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” she says, and tries to wiggle out of his arms, which has the totally, utterly accidental effect of rubbing her hips up against his. He moans. Serves him right.

He gets his hand in her hair and kisses her hard, nipping at her bottom lip. Then says, “I was enjoying the atmosphere. You want your messages in real time, Goldilocks, carry your own bloody electronics.”

“Pockets make me look lumpy,” she says, and slides her hands into his back pockets, grips hard. “They work on you, though.”

“Flattery will get you horizontal,” he says, and suddenly she is. Flat on her back in a drift of dead leaves, with him on top of her, kissing her, and very rapidly pockets are no longer an issue, because neither of them has pants.

Soon he’s rocking into her hard, and she’s arching up, meeting him, taking gasping breaths full of the scent of dead leaves and Spike. His real teeth come out, like they always do, and he skates them down the side of her neck so gently, and she shivers and digs her nails into his ass a little, it’s all so familiar but he’s wrong, he’s wrong, the old times were never this good.


Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/353602.html