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Crash and Burn

Crash and Burn
By NautiBitz

Info and Author's Notes: See introduction.

Buffy tightened her ponytail as she casually approached the patio table. Cordelia had finally left in a fit of disgust over her friend's 'pod-person' behavior -- all that was left now was Buffy, Spike... and that lucky white towel. "Is that what all the kids in England are wearing these days?"

"Well, I tried to change," he began without looking up from his newspaper, "but my car..." he scanned down the page, "seems to be missing a few things. Namely all of my clothes."

"Yeah, I -- I sent them out earlier." She sat down across from him. "They should be back in an hour or so, good as new. Or as good as they're gonna get, considering."

He glanced at her. "You went through my things."

"Nothing personal... just clothes. I didn't enjoy it."


"And it's not a pity thing," she said flippantly. "It was completely selfish in that I wanted you to smell better."

"So you sent them out -- in this big enormous house there isn't one washing machine?"

"You think I'd personally wash your clothes for you? I'm not your freaking maid, and besides, I don't even know how to use a washing machine."

He chuckled, said under his breath, "'Course you don't."

Buffy gaped, and stood up. "Who the hell do you think you are? You take everything I offer, and then you make fun of me?" He was still smiling to himself. "I'm serious -- I seriously want to know! Who are you?"

He studied her expression. "Who am I?"

Chewing on her lip, she guiltily lifted a frayed black wallet from the back pocket of her shorts. "No ID."

He smirked. "Snooper."

"What, so it's okay for you to snoop for my father's name and address, but it's not okay for me to be curious about you?"

For some reason, this made him smile. "You're curious about me?"

"No," she replied quickly, then admitted, eyes to the side, "A little."

He leaned forward, put the newspaper down. "One-time offer, pet. Twenty-question me. Shoot."

She sat down, back straight. "Real first name."


"Last name."



"Twenty-six come August."


He counted off on his fingers, "Semi-pro musician, part-time bartender, full-time barterer, bloody awful poet -- and professional layabout, according to a friend's wife."

"You forgot one. Thief."

"How's that?"

"The car?"

He laughed. "It's not stolen, love. But you could add 'liar', I s'pose."

"Oh." That was a relief. At least she wouldn't get arrested for harboring a felon. "What do you play? Musician-wise."


Buffy came up with a random instrument. "Harpsichord?"

"Actually, yeah."




"Learned when I was five."

Buffy raised her brow, impressed... and wondering if he had a picture.

"Curiosity satisfied?"

"We've got a grand piano inside."

"I saw it."

"Poet, huh?"

He scratched his head, looking slightly chagrined.

"So you write songs."

"I do."

"And sing them? In public?"

"Well, not unless I have to, but sometimes, yeah."

"I heard your voice. It's not bad. I mean, when you're not yelling."

He smiled warmly. "What about you? Any hidden talents I should know about?"

She shrugged. "Gymnastics, figure skating. Oh, and I can roll my tongue."

"What?" he laughed.

She opened her mouth, and her tongue rippled in waves.

"What the bloody hell--" he leaned across the table, peering into her mouth. "How do you--?" he touched her tongue.

She laughed, closing her mouth around his index finger, tongue still rolling. He tasted like salt and ash, and a trace of tangy apple.

Their eyes met. She froze.

In what seemed like slow motion, he pulled back.

Sliding against her soft tongue, her teeth, her closed, glossy lips, his finger finally disengaged with a pop!

Spike closed his eyes, inhaling sharply.

Buffy's face flushed, body hot and Satanic again. "I'd -- better go back to doing that thing."

"Right." He swallowed, expression glazed. "Me too, I have a--"


"Bye." He looked down at his slightly tented towel and whispered, "Bugger."

* * *

Buffy shut and locked the bathroom door behind her, catching her breath. Okay, what was happening to her?

Maybe it really was post-traumatic stress.

She walked to the mirror. Opened her mouth, rolled her tongue. Put her finger in, pulled it out. That's what he felt, oh god. No wonder he was looking at me like that.

"I'm a ho," she whimpered. "I get into one car crash and turn into a total ho."

For the second time that day, she grabbed her body wash and turned on the shower -- but this time, she made it cold.

* * *

"You've fucking lost it, mate," Spike told his reflection. "Dru dumps you, you wreck some little girl's car and just because she suckles on your finger like it's a penis-shaped lollipop..."

He sighed, let the towel drop, and spit in his hand.

* * *

Her lathered fingers were lingering way too long in places they shouldn't. Why couldn't she focus on anything else? Not like she hadn't just had sex... which was great while she thought it was gonna be something. Parker had been considerate, attentive; made her come, even...

But all she could see was Spike.

Only one way to get him out of my system.

She unhooked the showerhead.

* * *

"Fuck," he whispered, eyes shut, seeing only her, feeling only her hot mouth.

"One Never Gonna Get Her Drive, Out of Your League, USA."

Laughing, sucking, blushing.

"It means 'in your dreams'."

Dancing, gleaming in the party lights.

"What -- what are you doing here?"

Laugh, suck, blush. Laugh, suck, suck, suck... cheeks hollow, lips ripe, tongue, oh Christ that tongue...

"Fuck!" His come shot into the air, onto the sink, dribbled down his fist as he doubled over, hand working overtime -- shuddering as he imagined, for one split second, taking her completely.

Heavy, rapid breathing slowing in time with his arm movements, he struck the mirror. "Wanker."

* * *

Buffy sat on the shower ledge, head back, legs spread, thudding massage jet stream pointed at just the right spot.

Just a fantasy, just a fantasy, doesn't mean anything...

The party. Spike grabs her arm. Punches out Parker 'cause he knows his type. Tugs her close and kisses her. She finally gives in, wrapping her arms around him. They do it right there, up against the wall, no, in her bedroom, no, in the guest house... on the bed...

"Knew you wanted me."

In his car...

Patting her thigh. Kissing her hand. Fingers on the nape of her neck. Finger in her mouth.

Every touch they'd shared was so unforgettable, so searing; it might as well have been burned into her skin.

The thought of getting all of him... all of that heat...

"Unh, unh -- Unhhh!" Buffy curled her tailbone forward, then rolled erratically in her seat.

The guilt kicked in before the first aftershock.

"And lest we forget, a loser."

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Title illustration by Mike Segawa
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