- Forget and Smile – Chapter One
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Two
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Three
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Four
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Five
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Six
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Seven
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Eight
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Nine
- Forget and Smile – Chapter 10
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Eleven
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Twelve
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Thirteen
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Fourteen
- Forget and Smile – Chapter Fifteen
- Forget and Smile – Two Epilogues
Title: Forget and Smile
Rating: R, eventually
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.
Notes: This is a sequel to Sweet Lethe, a short story I wrote just after Chosen aired. At the time, I called it my Silly!Sappy!Amnesiac!Shanshued!Spike tale, and that still strikes me as a pretty good summary. I started writing the follow-up then, but never finished, although I kept adding bits from time to time. I suppose the delay makes sense, because the story picks up years later, when Buffy goes to visit Willow and Spike. She hasn’t seen him since the events in Sweet Lethe, and he still has no memory of his past and no idea he was once a vampire.
Word Count: Still editing, but this got away from me. It’s going to be a long one, folks, at least 25,000 words.
The story begins here.
“So, how do you like my friend Buffy?” said Willow casually, peering over her shoulder at Spike as she removed a container of orange juice from the refrigerator.
“Miss America? She’s not as bad as Xander and that bloody boring Andrew.” Spike was opening and closing cupboard doors with the familiarity of someone completely at home. “Easier on the eyes, too.”
“Don’t call her that. And why are you always so rude about Xander and Andrew?”
“Xander’s not too bad, but his bum chum Andrew is a total pillock.”
“Hey! Gay lady standing in front of you here! Homophobic remarks are not appreciated! Besides, Xander and Andrew are not lovers.”
“It was not a homophobic remark. It was uttered with tolerant affection.” He finally found what he was looking for, and emerged from the pantry with a new jar of extra chunky peanut butter.
She glared at him, an empty glass in one hand and the juice container in the other. “Really? And I suppose you affectionately called Andrew a pillock? And don’t eat too much of that. We’re going out to dinner as soon as Buffy has a chance to shower and change.”
“Andrew’s pillockiness has nothing to do with being gay. It is an innate attribute central to his personality, completely and utterly unrelated to his sexual orientation.”
“‘Innate attribute?’ ‘Sexual orientation?’ Are you sure you’re really Spike? When you start talking like that I know I need to get someone to replace you as the Language Arts teacher.”
“English literature. I would never teach anything as pillocky as Language Arts.”
Willow was about to pursue the argument when she realized that his outrageous comments had successfully deflected her from the subject she wanted to explore.
“So, you like Buffy, then?” she asked, her stance and tone deliberately casual.
The casual nature of his reply was obviously unfeigned. “I suppose. Hey, pet, when we go out, you’re going to pay, right? Because she’s your friend.”
“Is that all you can think about? Who picks up the tab?”
“It’s not as if you pay me a lavish salary. And I’m saving my hard-earned dosh for the house. Besides, it looks to me like Miss America’s eating a bit more these days than she was the last time I met her, so the bill might be steep.” He found a box of crackers and dumped them out on the counter.
“That’s an awful thing to say! And don’t make a mess.”
“Contrariwise, witch. She was skin and bones then. She’s got a nice few curves now, although she could still do with a bit of fattening up. Make sure she orders the baked potato with sour cream and butter.”
“Why?” Willow stared at him, looking for some sign or real interest in Buffy.
“Not for the reason you seem to be thinking,” he said. “Was wondering if you were the one who saw her as part of the dessert menu.”
Willow threw a cracker at him. He caught it and stuck it into the jar of peanut butter. It broke, and his fingers were coated with goop by the time he pulled out all the pieces.
“Buffy is not gay. And we’ve been friends since high school. Just friends.”
Fresh from her shower, Buffy came down the stairs and peeked into Willow’s kitchen. She saw Spike sitting on the kitchen counter, chatting comfortably with Willow as he licked peanut butter off a cracker and the side of his left hand. As she watched, he stuck his little finger in his mouth and . . .
Buffy flung herself back around the corner and pressed her back against the wall in the hallway. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out that image of Spike, sucking on his little finger . . .
She might as well have skipped the shower. Her body was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and all thoughts of dinner had fled. The only sensations she could concentrate on were localized somewhat lower than her stomach.
Damn it, Buffy. All the man is doing is snacking on peanut butter, and you’re already pre-orgasmic. How are you going to get through dinner sitting across the table from him?
She had really been kidding herself when she decided she was ready to make this trip.
Too late now. You’re here, and if you could face a hellgod, you can face the ex-demon who helped you fight her.
She forced herself to step around the corner. Willow and Spike looked up at her.
“Ready to go then?” asked Spike. He popped another cracker in his mouth and his tongue slipped out to capture the last bit of peanut butter smeared on his index finger. Buffy watched the pink tip slide along his flesh, as her entire nervous system remembered what it had once done to her body.
“Yes,” she said in a voice that she hoped didn’t sound as strangled to his ears as it did to hers.
Willow gave her an odd look, but Spike had turned away to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. Buffy stared in fascination at his back, noting the movement of each muscle as the fabric of his shirt rippled smoothly. As if from a distance, she heard Willow say, “There are really only two decent places in town, and we can’t go to one of them because it has a dress code. I can handle hordes of slayerettes and stop apocalypses just fine, you know, but—getting Spike to wear a tie? Not so much.”
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/230757.html