Anna (smolderingheart) wrote in seasonal_spuffy,

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FIC: Put the Masks Away 1/?

Title: Put the Masks Away
Rating: R – for sexual content.
Author: Anna
Timeline: Sometime after “First Date” S7 because it seems to be my favorite place to write them.
Pairing: Buffy/Spike
Summary: Buffy visits Spike in the basement and conversation mixed with alcohol renders a passion they’ve been keeping hidden.
Author notes: Feedback is always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Put the Masks Away

Part One

Spike flicked the silver plated lighter over and over again; small fire erupting beneath the lid before he closed it, sharply, with his index finger. He could see the sun setting from the faraway window that let in the smallest slivers of light, in the morning, and now at night. The glow danced around the basement, casting shadows on the old furniture, pipes and weapons that were being safely stored downstairs until the hellmouth opened. Even the tip of his black boots glistened.

He scoffed while he heard the door at the top of the stairs open. He was positive it was someone who would cause him annoyance but the more he listened to the clicks of heels on the wood planks, the less annoyed he became. Anticipation washed over him delicately, grasping all the right corners of his soul. Click, thump, click, thump, until Buffy reached the ground of the basement; heels along cement.

Spike still couldn’t get his head around how she could wear such shoes, especially while killing, and fighting vampires and demons. Neither of them said anything, staring at one another. There was just the sound of his lighter flipping open and closed, heels crashing almost in sync to the noise while she walked toward him, throwing herself onto the cot next to him. Spike was fully aware of their arms touching; bare skin uniting.

Buffy sighed breathlessly as she leaned over, lifting the bottom of her jeans up and rolling the zipper down from her left boot, quietly slipping it off her foot which was covered in a white cotton sock. He watched her do the same thing with the right boot. His head cocked to the side in interest, waiting for some words to be spoken as she slid her feet onto the cot and pulled her knees to her chest. Buffy pushed her back into the wall, strands of her hair caught on painted, cement bricks. Spike tossed his lighter in between them where her hand was mingling, out-stretched fingers.

“Hey,” Buffy said, flashing him one of her innocent grins as if their encounter was just made out of normalcy and nothing for him to question. He smiled back, somewhat shyly, tilting his head downwards to stare at her hand that was grabbing the lighter, playing with it. Her fingers wiped along its edges, silver glowing on her fingertips. “The sun’s setting,” she commented, nodding her head towards the small window that was still casting shadows, now along her face.

“I noticed,” Spike teased, looking over at the window that shone yellows and gold’s from the nighttime sky. She rolled her eyes at him, placing the lighter back down between them.

“Needed some time away from all that chaos?” Spike questioned, glancing over at her. He inhaled the smell of her soap, quietly. He was somewhat disturbed by the fact that he knew the soap she was using was different from the year before. It was softer, lighter, and more delicate. It had a flowery scent, opposed to the clean, fresh scent from the time when he used to rip her clothes off and kiss every part of her.

Buffy stretched her legs out, placing her feet on the floor next to Spikes boots. “The chaos that is my life,” she took a breath. “You’d think by now I’d be used to it,” she raised her eyebrows at him, wanting him to see the bit of her mind that was being lost every time she was left upstairs for too long. “My is house being taken over. Ever since mom died, it’s not like anything has been normal,” she finished and he could feel her body squirming on the cot in an attempt to get comfortable, which he found amusing.

“There was the whole you dying thing,” he responded, pulling a cigarette out from the pack that had been lying underneath the cot seconds before. He slipped the cigarette into his mouth, resting on his lips. She closed her eyes as he lit the tobacco edge and breathed in, although he wasn’t technically breathing. They sat side by side in silence. Buffy grew uncomfortable and opened her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking up at the smoke gliding to the ceiling.

“Then there was the whole you and I having sex thing and that whole…” she trailed off as the memory of their last encounter, (before he’d disappeared), spiraled in her head. That wasn’t him, she reminded herself, not him now. “And now, you with the soul thing,” her eyes rested on his lips, which were blowing smoke, easily, as if the smolder was being embedded in his lungs. Buffy still wasn’t sure why he smoked. It was one of those unsolved mysteries, something she’d never bothered to ask him about. “The potentials, Xander always running into the demon kind of women,” she continued on. “I guess Xander and I have more in common than I thought. I mean not that I like demon women,” she babbled on nervously, fidgeting with the hem of her sky blue tank top.

Spike laughed, ignoring most of her comments, not having the ability to discuss what their past was, once again. And he couldn’t break the awkwardness that was so obviously overwhelming her. He tapped the ashes of the cancer stick in between his fingers, to the floor. “I just…” he started to say, but was cut off immediately by her lips opening and the words that emerged.

“Stay out of everyone’s way,” she frowned. The curves of her lips formed a downward heart. Her green eyes were filled with longing and despair, something he wasn’t sure he was making out correctly as he finished off the last of the cigarette. He bent over to place it under his boot and break the smoke that was still climbing from the tip.

Spike made a grumbling noise acknowledging that what she said was true, relieved that around her he did not have to talk very much, at least not in the recent months. He could count the words they’d spoken since he’d started living in her basement, showering in the same bathroom. But the words weren’t many. He understood that he was a vampire who probably didn’t deserve any of her time or affection. It was obvious most of the “scoobie” gang had grown tired of him but he was more concerned about Buffy than them. She had taken on a haggard, weary look, always looking worn down and most of all, older than she actually was.

In more ways than one, this pained him. He’d spent so much time proclaiming his love for her, long before she’d ever paid him any attention. Spike wasn’t sure he felt concern for her until he saw her face at night after she finished teaching the slayerettes something new. The look was of someone who always had a sense of complete and utter defeat, knowing that soon some of those girls would die, if not all of them. He thought that maybe it was the soul, to love her without wanting her for himself. Deep down he knew he could never have her to himself, that she was not his and yet for so long he’d wanted nothing more than to own her in the way she owned him.

Spike ran his hand over his face, wiping the tiredness from his eyes. Her head was still leaning on the cement wall, hair clinging to the dips in the bricks. The shadows were becoming less, as the basement grew darker and darker. He could see her from the corner of his eyes as she leaned over, legs looking mangled. She found the bottle of Jack Daniels he’d been hiding away for fear of someone besides her finding it and drinking away one of his solaces. Buffy made a quick, whispering noise as her fingers latched around the base, pulling it up off the floor.

“What is this?” she practically screamed in excitement, showing him the bottle as if she were showing him something he’d never seen before. Spike smirked a little, nodding his head in an innocent fashion. Her lips were stretched wide open and he could see her soft, ripe, red tongue as it licked her lips. He patted his leg, closing his fingers around the top of his thigh trying to fight off the enthusiasm that was forming underneath his clothing.

Spike thought about pulling out another cigarette but quickly declined the notion. Instead he took the bottle from her hand, which proved to be an effort, since her hand was wrapped maliciously tight against it. The top popped off like a million other times before and he took a swig, throwing his head back, desperately trying to get rid of her scent, which now tainted his fingertips. He couldn’t get away from his feelings or her, no matter how hard he tried.

“Hey!” Buffy cried out taking it back from him once he’d swallowed.

Spike didn’t bother to watch her drink every bitter taste that entered her mouth and swirled around along her tongue, into her throat, gliding down into her system. He stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets, pacing the length of the cot back and forth, thoughts blending with desire and reality.

“Where did you get this?” Buffy asked, smearing the alcohol from her lips with the back of her hand. She watched him skeptically, as he continued to walk around nervously, hiding whatever it was he was thinking. Her eyebrows rose waiting for an answer, inhaling the equivalent of another shot before she spoke again. “What are you doing?” her voice was filled with wonder, eyes successively riding over him as he moved.

Spike stopped mid-stride, his head dropping to the side to glance over at her. “Nothing,” he answered, biting back his tongue. She gave him an odd look and extended her arm out to take the bottle.

The wind was blowing, making whistling noises as the moon began shining along the corners of the basement, splashing small amounts of light. “Why are you wearing that?” he asked. He was talking about the light blue tank top that showed just as much skin as the one she’d worn out on her date with the principal, except this time he was almost sure she was wearing it for him.

Buffy cocked her head down, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s hot out,” she replied, twisting her lips tightly. He shook his head, placed the round opening of glass to his own lips and chugged down half of what was left, trying not to stare at the gaping dip in the tank top where fabric met breasts. She noticed his eyes searching over her chest and blushed, causing him to look away. He handed the bottle back to her, their fingertips hitting the other’s skin.

“Are you going out on another date with the principal?” he shot out effortlessly like he’d been practicing the words in his head all along, waiting for the most inopportune time to mention that the layer of cloth on her skin reminded him of that night. Her fingers were lapsed around the bottle. She placed it between her legs and began to move the straps of her tank top up, hiding the dip in her flesh. Spike sat back down, sinking into the cot and his boots made a large clanking noise, bellowing out his own frustration.

“I don’t have a date, Spike,” she said condescendingly, only because she was nervous and his childish behavior made her want to grab a hold of him and bestow all the feelings she’d been leaving crumbled up inside of her. She took another sip from the bottle. The taste sunk into her throat and through her bloodstream, making her slightly dizzy. She laughed a little, watching the room slip away before her eyes. The only thing that was really left, aside from the dizziness and darkness, was him.

“Spike,” Buffy whispered, lust dripping from every part of her. She could feel the electricity sizzling between them, burning holes into their souls. His aroma enveloped her. Everything came at once, wriggling through her mind. She wrapped her hand around the neck of the glass, handing it to Spike, but before he had a chance to grasp a hold of it, the sound of glass crashing to the ground, rang out before them. Alcohol splashed over cement, gliding to his boots. Her hand reached for the back of his head pulling him down on top of her. The smell of the Jack Daniels soared into their nostrils once their lips met.

It didn’t take Spike long to react to the jolting kiss. His tongue glided into her mouth knowingly, striking her gums with an effortless ease. It was awkward at first while her body twisted around to form fit comfortably along his. He could feel her fingers lifting up his shirt. Once she’d relaxed underneath him, the palm of his hands rested on her cheeks, hauling her lips closer to his, licking every bit of skin that he could.

Buffy would pull away to catch her breath. She was shaking and he could see goose bumps dancing down her arms. He moved his hands away from her cheeks, leaning an elbow down on the cot, tracing her arms with his fingertips. The bumps under his skin were making him nervous.

This was not the Buffy and Spike from the year before.

At least that’s what Spike thought until her teeth sunk into his neck causing him to drive out a small shrilling noise filled with pleasure. He closed his eyes savoring her tongue as it licked the not yet bruised skin. A part of him wanted to be gentle with her lithe body beneath him, tug at her clothing softly, slip it off, in a delicate manner, more gentlemanly than he’d ever been before.

The other part of him was enraptured as she was kissing his neck, pulling closer every few seconds. He was sure if clothes didn’t come off soon they’d return to their nature of having sex with their clothes on. He didn’t want that. Spike was sure it was just a slip on her part, something that would not be repeated and wanted desperately to relish every part of her so that he could breathe in this new Buffy, this more mature Buffy, into his brain where the old one had been lingering for so long.

They both became more aware of where the encounter was leading them as seconds ticked by. He kicked his boots off, clothing flooded to the floor landing, on and around the alcohol that was seeping into the cement. The moon glowed over their faces, and did salsa in her hair, making her look ethereal. Buffy’s breathing was fast and hard, coming out in sections, instead of lapses as if she’d stop breathing and then start again to keep herself from sinking into an abyss. She breathed in his potent scent while enveloping her naked legs around him, yanking his body nearer.

Their eyes hadn’t locked since they’d started kissing, even when slipping and sliding clothes off one another. It was a practice they’d meticulously perfected, no eye connection during sex, especially when Buffy commanded it and she would keep her eyes closed. He’d grown used to it, even settled for it since he’d much rather have the opportunity than to not have it at all. Spike was assured whatever was happening meant more to him than to her until she grasped a hold of his jawbone and looked intently into his eyes. He noticed a glimmer of passion and understanding in that ocean of green he was so in love with.

“Come here,” she whispered and the basement’s darkness faded away as he sunk deep inside of her, feeling her warmth all around him. Every bit of cold he’d been feeling for months on end rushed past him like a gust of wind, blowing away like dust. He could only feel her hot, sweating, quivering flesh all around him, her lips on his, biting and nibbling as if he were a dessert she couldn’t get enough of.

There were no noises from upstairs; no thudding of shoes hitting the ceiling and everything was silent except her sharp gasps for air. Buffy’s long, thin fingernails sunk deep into his back when his thrusts became rampant, gliding in and out of her with more knowledge than any other lover she’d had. Every turn, switch of bodies, waver of weight was met with a whimper or a heart-pounding kiss.

“Buffy,” his voice was so soft that her eyes searched his for answers to the reflection of her name residing on his lips.

The taste of alcohol was propelling them further into a different universe; one where they had no interruptions, where the world didn’t revolve around the hellmouth and “the first” didn’t want him dead, a universe where she was no longer the slayer and he wasn’t a vampire. They were just a man and a woman, having sex on a cot in a basement where the moon crossed paths with their bodies and the sky. Buffy raised her hand in the air, brushing his eyelids with her balmy fingertips. Spike’s eyes closed and he dropped his head into the nape of her neck, sucking the sweat off that dripped down her lightly tanned skin.

Buffy moaned slightly at the mere touch of his tongue and her body slid up, pushing against his hardness, entrenched inside of her and the goose bumps that had emerged before from nerves exploded once again on her arms from her gnawing excitement. Spike could feel the impact of her anticipation and raised his head from the shadowy spot between the cot and her neck. He pulled her upwards with the back of his right hand. Her legs wrapped around him Indian style and as her breasts clung to his chest, swept together, they came, all at once, both letting out noises that would’ve made no sense to the outside world.

The words, “I love you” never come. Spike didn’t expect them while holding onto her. Buffy could see the look of sadness on his face and wanted to console him, tell him that she wouldn’t forget that they had sex, that maybe in someway they made love although she still wasn’t sure of what making love consisted of for them. There is still the possibility that one day she will find out. She is almost sure of that, even if she never tells anyone, never says one word to him about it. Buffy hugged him, her arms plastered around his neck as if they had been molded in that position, afraid to move, to break the crystal ball that seemed to have twisted it’s way around them in some magical pretense. But the spell had to be broken. They couldn’t stay that way forever.

Buffy smiled, kissed the tip of his nose and gently hoisted herself up off of him, clasping onto his shoulders while doing so. Spike held onto her waist letting go once she’d regained balance and placed her bare feet onto the cold floor. She looked uncomfortable as she searched around for her clothing. He grabbed his pants off the floor from behind him and stood up, putting them on. His hands shook as he zippered them and buttoned the top button. He tried not to stare at her naked flesh, tried so hard to not lick his lips or smile as his feet mingled with the Jack Daniels.

“Bloody shame you wasted all that alcohol,” Spike spoke, watching her turn around to look at him. Her eyes slanted downwards, looking at the dampness that had formed a strange misshapen figure of darkness on the floor.

Buffy made a grunting noise and smiled, picking up her jeans and stepping into them. “I didn’t hear you complaining,” she teased. “Bra?” she asked, crossing her arms over her bare chest. Spike’s eyes investigated the dim room and noticed a glimpse of white, dangling from the beams in the ceilings. He started to laugh and Buffy followed his gaze. She frowned. “Well – get it,” she whined, glancing at him long enough to give him a puppy dog, childlike look.

Spike shook his head, smirking as he jumped onto the cot, making it creak. He clutched onto the wall and reached for the white bra that dangled from the ceiling. He laced his fingers around the straps and pulled it away from the wooden joist. He spun around on his heels, stabilizing his weight and ignored the desire to tease Buffy. He threw it at her. She caught it with her left hand, turned around and slipped her arms into the straps and clicked the clasp. Spike stepped down from the cot feeling sick from the tension that was escalating between them every second that ticked by. He saw her shirt, thrown over the cots edge and took it into the palm of his hand, swinging it around. He walked up behind her, waving it in front of her face.

“Thanks,” she muttered uncomfortably, and raised her arms in the air, placing the light tank top over her bra and bare skin. Spike noticed the light from the moon that glistened over her golden hair and felt his insides melting, but he was afraid the coldness would continue to embrace him once she left and their kisses were forgotten. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d turned around when his thoughts began to run circles through his mind.

Buffy had positioned her hands on her hips, leaning to the side, staring questioningly at him. “What?” she asked, blinking her eyelashes in an attempt to see him better in the darkness which was filtering the room even though the moon’s rays were leaving enough light for her to see his eyes and silky shadow.

“Nothing,” Spike answered, running his hand over his face as he’d done earlier trying to wipe away every sensation he had left inside of him. He cursed his soul because he believed it was the soul that created the lingering sadness that weighed him down; except that whenever she was near him, he felt a certain peace encompass him and once she was gone he would have to live with himself again, alone.

Buffy looked intently at him, she, herself, overwhelmed with sorrow, not wanting to leave him, craving his arms around her once more. There were times that she knew choices had to be made and if she went upstairs this would be forgotten for her. She would do her best to pretend the whole event never took place but not for the reasons he would think. For the simple fact that if she thought about it, remembered it, there was the increasing chance it would distract her from the hellmouth, from the girls, from her own sister’s life and eventually she would drive herself mad with wanting to be close to him, physically, away from all the craziness in her life. He couldn’t understand that because he was still punishing himself even if she’d forgiven him, in her own way, for the things he’d done. She’d even learned to forgive herself for the things she’d done to him.

“Do you want to take a walk?” she asked, still feeling the aftershocks of the liquor, churning inside her body, still leaking into her blood making her sense that no matter what she thought, everything was incoherent, aside from the fact that she wanted to touch him again, feel him inside her but she resisted that urge and settled for the idea of them outside, away from the house. This delusion was rapidly sucking all the life out of her. If anything, Spike could make her feel like the rest of the world was just a figment of her imagination.

“Okay,” he said, bending over and taking a clean shirt from under the cot where he’d been storing his clothes, afraid to put them anywhere else. Buffy saw the black cotton shirt cover his chest and couldn’t help but smirk at how predictable he was or rather how well she knew him.

Tags: creator: smolderingheart, era: btvs s7, form: fic, rating: other

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