Close Encounters

Author: Sunnyd_lite
Fandom: Buffy Season Two: Post:Lie to Me
Pairing: B/A
Rating: PG mild H/C
Taming the Muse prompt: Trollop
Words: 1024
Summary: A frustrated Spike. A walk in the cemetery. A run in with Angel. What? You need a clearer picture?
A/N: This is dedicated to my bestest beta spiralleds. Only for you will I write Bangel! Course I was sneaky and had her beta the first bit, but then I changed it so all errors are mine and I'd be grateful if you let me know if you see any.


"She is not a trollop!" That comment's quickly followed by Angel's fist, and I slide out of the way. Angel can be so predicable at times, it's barely worth needling him. But right now, barely is enough.

"Oh, I saw how you looked at her when she was all gentrified by that spell. It's the warrior that has you going. Something with a little fire to warm your cold little prick?" And duck to the left this time.

"You need to get out of my town," he growls, eyes flashing demon yellow.

I hold fast, that always annoyed him when I didn't cower. "Your town? Delusions of grandeur there, mate. We all know who wears the pants around here, although if her skirts get any shorter, we'll be able to see if it's lace or thong." That would have made Angelus laugh. But this isn't Angelus.

"You. Will. Not. Speak. Of. Her. That. Way." Each word punctuated by a punch, but I just smirk and bob to the rhythm.

"You're out of shape, Grandsire. Guess you've been drinking the bagged stuff for so long you've gone soft. Nothing like a good hunt to keep the form fit and the engines running. Although, speaking of engines, wouldn't mind a bit of your girl there. Looks like a goer."

Oops, touch too far, mite too slow, is my thought as Angel's knuckles embed themselves in my jaw. But it pulls him into true face. Might get some quality Wrestle-mania style action yet. Good. Wasn't sure if he was still in the game, or happy to lurk on the sidelines. Me? I've never been one for the sidelines. ‛Sides, that punch hurt!

I continue to taunt him. "I'd say you hit like a girl, but we both received Darla's love taps. Heard a nasty rumor that you offed the bitch. Couldn't have happened to a nicer Sire. Congrats. Didn't know you had it in you."

I drop and sweep Angel's legs out from under him. "Speaking of Sire-ide, was thinking of indulging in that me-self. ‛Specially since you're getting all Chatty Cathy with my Dru."

"That's what this is about, Spike? Stay away from my girlfriend?" Angel manages to raise both eyebrows a fraction of an inch, changing from his pissed off expression to his surprised one. If you blink you'd miss the difference. But surprised isn't what I'm aiming for.

Sometimes a good banter's all I'm looking for. This isn't sometimes. I came to this fucking misbegotten town for one reason, and weeks later I'm still stuck here. Dru's getting worse, not better. Almost run through the Annoying One's minions, thicker than a load of brick, the lot of them. And we're bloody stuck in research mode. Was getting antsy. Hadn't planned on running into the broody git, but if fate's smiling, why argue?

It's been almost a century since we've had a proper dust up. Time to remedy that. Let's see how he likes my new tricks.

** ** ** ** **

As I stumble into my building, I know that she's there. Closing my eyes to focus, I straighten up, forcing muscles to move naturally. I have to be strong, for her.

I didn't want her to see me like this. I never wanted her to see me like this: bruised, battered. How can I defend her, or even help her, if I can't keep William down? He hadn't won, but neither had I.

"Here for some post-patrol hangage!" she says, pulling a Gatorade out of my well stocked refrigerator. I should have known she'd be there. It's happening more frequently than I want to think about. She's making me dream of things that are out of reach of the damned.

She turns to face me, her smile collapsing into a look of concern and dismay. "You're hurt! Sit down. Where's that first aid kit?" She knows that I have one, having patched her up a time or two. After saving the boy in the coma last year, she told me that she hates hospitals. Given Slayer healing, disinfectant and butterfly bandages often do the trick.

As she kneels in front of me, I open my mouth to remind her that I also have quick healing. But then her hand sweeps across my cheek and the reason for the touch no longer matters. I crave that warmth; she is my sun, replacing the one forbidden to me.

She has a bowl of warm water beside her. At first she is tender, treating my dead flesh with undeserved reverence. Can she wash my sins from me as easily as she washes off the bloody evidence of my failure? Would she, if she did have that power?

After using a towel to pat my face dry, I notice that there is a hardening of her eyes, only released in the rough tearing of the bandage packages. These aren't the eyes of a young girl. These are the eyes of the Slayer.

"I've seen you fight." she says, leaning back to make sure all my injuries are addressed. "Who did this to you? Thought I'd faxed that memo: Nobody hurts my boyfriend."

I am stunned by her words. And they pull a question I hadn't dared ask out of me. "Is that what I am? Your boyfriend?"

The transformation is rapid, the Slayer is no longer in front of me assessing her warrior, it's the girl looking at me with the cutest quizzical expression crossing her face. Then, hesitantly, she whispers, "Aren't you?"

There's only one way to alleviate the fear I see in her eyes. Fear for me, not of me. Fear of my absence.

I lean towards her as she leans up towards me. Our lips brush, then cling to each other as our arms circle tight. She is life, and she lets me drink of her. She is the light, from which I thought I was cast away. She is my heart, and I know it's in safe keeping.

Tonight I have faced a devil of my own making. But, even bruised and broken, I cannot mind, because I have ended the evening being claimed by my angel.

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