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Fic: A Warm and Fuzzy Tale
So these last few days have been a bit of a roller coaster of emotions fandom-wise, haven't they?
I decided to fuel all of that energy into ridiculously fluffy domesticity. Also, this is a celebration for making it through Bangel!Boinking!Day! Have some fluffy Spuffy to offset the pornyness in canon and the gender!fail in the fandom!
Two things: this is no masterpiece. I wrote it very quickly, cannibalizing various other fics, so if it's rough, I apologize. Also, if anyone has a better title, let me know.
I'm sorry it's not penguins!
Title: A Warm and Fuzzy Tale
Fandom: Buffyverse
Characters/Pairing: Buffy/Spike, Illyria, Dawn
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff. Pure, unadulterated fluff
Timeline: Future fic
A/N: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyofthelog for the quick read-through; to pennydrdful for the stand-off idea; to deird1 for the name suggestion; and to anyone else whose suggestions in Gab's Domestic Spuffy thread inspired this fic. Also, gabrielleabelle now owes me pie. You promised!
Dedication: For everyone who needs a pick-me-up after the drama this week, but especiallyangearia, who has been our voice and our champion. Emmie, I hope it makes you smile!
Summary: Even a Slayer and a vampire-with-a-soul can't withstand the power of the ultimate weaopn: cuteness.
“We are being followed.”
Illyria’s words cut sharp through the night air. It had been an unnaturally quiet patrol for them—well, for Spike, at least.
When he went patrolling, whether with Buffy or Illyria or even Angel, there were always words. Lots of them. With Buffy, it was banter: innuendos, taunts, quips tossed back and forth with all the skill of professional jugglers. It was both foreplay and good, clean fun: heated and playful all at the same time. Illyria, on the other hand, mostly glowered imperiously when he teased her, and occasionally let loose a cold verbal dart so potent that he couldn't help but laugh. Spike did a lot of laughing with Illyria--though never as much as he did with Buffy.
But tonight he hadn’t even taunted Illyria once. It wasn’t because the patrol was any more strenuous than it usually was; no, it’d been a quiet night. But fact was, he missed Buffy.
She’d been gone almost two months now, on some sort of mission with Vi and a few other of the younger Slayers in Austria somewhere. It was another apocalypse rising; she called him every night, if she could, and gave him all the details. It made him itch to be by her side, fighting with her. He was also frustrated: as he'd told his Slayer numerous times, hearing her whisper dirty words over the phone—words he could rarely get her to speak when she was actually with him—was all well and good for the first few days, but after a while he got tired of his hand being his only comfort.
That, and he just missed her. Having her around. Being near her. Knowing she was there. Buffy.
He’d been thinking—not brooding—about how much he missed Buffy as he and Illyria tracked down the pride of Lynari demons that had been sighted near the park and dispensed of them pretty quickly, and then as they staked a few fledglings in the graveyard. By the time they looped back around to head towards home, he’d sunk into such a funk that Illyria's soft words startled him into motion.
He spun around, slipping into game face and peering into the darkness. He sniffed, smelled nothing out of order, then turned to gape at his companion and her firm pronouncement. “What?”
“We are being followed,” she repeated and then lapsed into silence. He felt irritation bubbling up. She was perfectly calm and unruffled, and the eerie light that glowed in her eyes when battle was near was definitely not there. And she clearly wasn’t going to volunteer more information. Usually he was patient with her; after a century with Dru and her dolls and her voices and her stars—and then Buffy and her nose punches and her stubborn, bossy ways—he’d learned how to be patient with women, at least, if no one else.
Illyria, though, was perfectly capable of being clear if she wanted, but the annoying bint never said anything more than was absolutely necessary and at times like this it drove him out of his sodding mind.
He grit his teeth. “Being followed by what, Blue?” Clearly they weren’t in any danger—if they had been, she would have already been in motion—but still.
“By that.”
He followed the line of her arm and peered into the darkness at the side of the road. Then, he laughed.
“We weren’t hardly in any danger, Blue.”
If she’d been a human woman, she would have sniffed. “I did not say we were. I informed you that--"
Alright, now she was sounding like a Watcher. Spike made a mental note to keep her away from Giles in the future.
“It’s called a cat, Blue.”
Well, most of a cat anyways. He suspected that, if clean, the animal would have been black and white. It was nearly skeletal, with scrapes and scratches that came, clearly, from fights with other cats, and half of its left ear was missing. Its sapphire eyes studied Spike with the intensity of a hunter, and he laughed again. Scrap of a thing looked like it was about to pounce.
Spike turned away. “Come on, Oh Azure One. That should be enough patrolling for the night.” Besides, he wanted to get back home. Dawn was home from college for a few days--she always tried to drop in at least once when she knew that Buffy was going to be gone for a while, to keep him company, she said. Maybe they could fry one of those onion things.
Illyria fell into step beside him in silence, though she still managed to let him know exactly how offended she was. They hadn’t gone even a mile before she stopped again.
“What is it now?”
But she didn’t reply, merely looked at him down her nose.
He turned and, sure enough, there in the shadows the cat was lurking.
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” He suddenly felt the urge to “scat” the damn thing. But though he couldn’t really claim to be the Big Bad anymore, he still clung to enough of that reputation not to let himself look that ridiculous. Deciding to ignore their stalker, he plodded on.
Seven minutes later, and the thing was still there. Illyria caught his eye, and he had the feeling that if she’d had a bit of a sense of humor, she would be laughing at him.
He started walking again. Stopped. Because now it had moved onto the lamplit road, padding silently and surely after Spike. He glared at it. “Get out of here. Don’t need you watchin’ my back.”
Again and again he started and stopped, each time his demands for it to leave growing in volume and obscenity. But when they reached home, and Illyria left him to head to wherever it was she went at night, the thing was right there at his heels.
Growling, he stomped into the house, slamming the door in the cat’s face.
--
When Spike woke, there was a warm weight on his chest. For the briefest of moments, he entertained the idea that it was Buffy’s head. But the warmth was making a purring noise the Slayer definitely had never made. Nearly every other noise under the sun, sure, first in those dark nights spent in his crypt and now in the comfort of their own bedroom (and living room. And kitchen. And bathroom. And back yard. And the nearby graveyard. And...), but never--quite--a purr. He wondered idly what it would take to prompt such a reaction from her.
But then the warmth shifted, dragging him from his reverie, and he felt tiny needles digging into his bare chest. “Bloody hell!” he exploded, sitting straight up. With a screech, a mass of white and black cat tumbled into his lap and then to the edge of the bed, arching its back and hissing.
“Oh,” Spike muttered accusingly, rubbing at the already-fading claw marks on his chest. “It’s you.”
The cat had taken up residence in Spike and Buffy's house, apparently claiming the vampire as its own. When he had emerged from the house that first evening, the cat had still been there, curled up against the doorjamb. With a moan of annoyance, Spike had stalked back inside to find Dawn, and the cat, after stretching, managed to slip in the door behind him without him noticing.
Dawn had been sitting at the table poring over old books. When she saw his companion, she squealed with delight and rushed to pour a bowl of milk. She’d insisted on letting it stay, and he was incapable of denying her anything, though he hadn’t given in very gracefully. She’d given it a bath and on the second day decided to name it. He’d been horrified at all of her suggestions.
“What about Justin?” she suggested, face solemn. “Justin Timberlake is sexy.”
“Are you off your bird?”
“I didn’t know I was on one. That’s Willow’s thing, right?”
“Ha bloody ha. Shut your gob.”
“Okay, what about Miss Kitty Fantastico Junior?”
“It’s a he, you blind bint!”
Her eyes had been dancing, and even though he knew she was teasing him, he still gaped at her.
Now she was just toying with him. “How about Princess Fluff of Purrington?”
“Biiit.” He let a little bit of a growl enter his voice, but she merely grinned. Dawn had never been scared of him.
“Fine. Sid.”
“What?”
“Sid Vicious. You know, from the Sex Pistols?”
“I bloody well know who he is, woman. I was the one who introduced you culture-deprived American to them.”
“So is that a yes, then?”
A pause. “I’m not calling it anything. You call it whatever you want.”
Her smile had been worth it. Of course, he later questioned if that was true when she dragged him to the local pet store and stocked up on multiple varieties of cat food, toys, and other "necessities" that Spike was pretty sure cats had done well enough without throughout the millennia before the invention of PetSmart. She'd also attacked research with the voracity only a Watcher was capable of, checking out books on cats from the library and reading dozens of blogs about how to keep them worm-free and happy. She even took him to the vet to have him checked out, returning with the news that he was a little underfed but otherwise had a clean bill of health. She had taken it completely for granted that the cat would stay, and, well, it wasn't like he was prepared to fight with the other woman in his life, not when he knew she was just as stubborn as her sister.
And that was how Sid the cat had ended up living in Spike’s room and following him every night on patrol. How Sid decided it was a good idea to sleep on Spike’s chest was a whole different story. All Spike knew was that it was annoying as hell.
But at the same time, it was nice to wake up to a warm bed. That’s one thing he especially missed while Buffy was away: the way she turned the bed all toasty warm. His little space heater, he called her, despite how often she rolled her eyes.
Still, he probably should do a better job of keeping Sid out of the bedroom. Buffy was due back any day now (the apocalypse halted in its tracks: she'd gleefully described every detail when she called the night before), and she probably wouldn't be thrilled to find cat her on her red silk sheets. Dawn had made it clear that winning Buffy over to the idea of a pet of any kind, much less of the feline variety, would be an uphill battle. Best to ease her into the idea, he thought, fur-adorned stripping the sheets off the bed.
Not that Spike cared, of course. Wasn't like he really wanted the blighter around. Still, the cat did make the Bit smile, and why not?
He headed towards the laundry room, sheets in hand.
--
It was almost nightfall when Buffy reached home. She was careful to unlock the front door as quietly as she could; Spike would still be asleep, and if she woke him, he'd want to “welcome her home,” and as tantalizing as that (always) sounded, right now she was just so exhausted from week playing General Buffy and being so far from home that she'd much rather shed her clothes and slide into bed beside him, steal a nap, and then let him welcome her home, after they're both well-rested. Besides, she missed sleeping beside him when she was away.
Scratch that. She just missed him.
Sighing with relief at finally being home, she eased her heavy duffels, full of weapons and clothes, to the floor, and then, as silently as any predator—because that was what she was—tiptoed down the hall.
She was passing the living room when she felt-saw-sensed a motion. She pivoted on her heel, predator-ready, always, to see what kind of creature had infiltrated her sanctuary. And when she saw what it was, she did a double take.
There, perched on the top of the couch, was…a cat.
White fur with some black patches, one black ear, eyes too blue to be believed. Scrawny and smallish for being full-grown, but it looked like it'd held his own in more than one back-alley brawl, if the bit of the black-patched ear that was missing was to be believed. It was sitting bolt upright, wary and ready for anything, and those blue-blue eyes were staring straight into hers.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
What was a cat doing here? She couldn't think of any reason at all. She could think of any number of reasons why a demon would be lurking in her living room, but a cat? She wanted an explanation, and she wanted one now.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
Would it hurt the damn thing to look a little bit sheepish at being discovered in her living room, where it obviously didn't belong? Ancient demons bent on world destruction cowered under the gaze of Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer. This cat looked completely unperturbed.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
And then it tilted its head.
Oh, this thing was going down.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
Neither Buffy nor the cat moved for a very long time.
This stand off might have lasted until the real apocalypse--the final one, with the world actually ending in a reverse big bang and no one left to make a donut run--except that just then Spike stumbled out of the bedroom, all rumpled hair and bare chest and sleepy eyes, and if this was any other time, she would have abandoned the nap idea and jumped straight into the welcome home...party. But this wasn't any other time. There was a creature on her couch. Buffy was not good with creatures. She killed goldfish. And Chia pets.
"Buffy." There was pure pleasure in his voice, and that smile--the purely happy one; the one she never could have imagined back in Sunnydale but that she was now graced with often--spread across his face, and she found she was thisclose to forgetting about the thing perched on her couch and just pushing her vampire down to the ground and stripping those pants (all he wearing, of course) right off him.
Except that then she imagined this furry little thing watching while she straddled Spike, and she knew that she couldn't give in, no matter how lickable the pretty vampire might look.
Instead she squared her jaw and pointed. "What. Is that?"
In reply, Spike did that head-duck thing that under normal circumstances would have her jumping him--especially when they'd been apart this long. But she was not going to be derailed by adorableness. Not. Not even a little.
" 'S Sid."
"Sid," she repeated flatly.
Now he's scratching at the back of his neck. There's the sheepishness she'd been wanting earlier. "...Yeah?"
"What is a Sid and what is it doing in my living room?" And oh my God, when did I turn into my mother?
A little light lit up way back in the blue of Spike's eyes, and she knew he was thinking the same thing. Wisely--for once, and was she sure the world hadn't ended?--he didn't voice it.
"Dawn wanted to keep him." A little more confidently this time.
Flatly: "Dawn did."
A bit uncertain: "Yeah?"
"Well, if Dawn was so fond of him, then why isn't he with Dawn right now?"
"Ah. Well. There's a story. She got all his stuff packed up--" Stuff? Buffy wondered. "--and then she tried to put him in one of those carrying-cage things? And he...went starkers. Stubborner than y--" He stopped, abruptly, no doubt at the look in her eyes. "--than hell, that one," he finished lamely.
"Nice save," she said dryly.
He grinned. "I thought so."
"So he wouldn't go with Dawn. That still doesn't explain why he's here and not at the pound or at the home of some nice family who's always wanted a cat."
"Buffy, he won't leave. I'm serious." He crossed to her (finally within touching distance, and why were they talking about this when they'd been apart for so long?), laid his hand on her arm. "He won't leave. It just didn't seem like a battle worth having." He slid his hand up her arm, his first touch after so long of being deprived of him sending electricity coursing through her. "He can eat scraps or whatnot, or we'll give him milk, or--I don't know--they sell big bags of their food in bulk. I'll look after him for Dawn while she's gone, and she'll look after him when she's here. He won't bother you at all." He leaned forward and dragged his nose along her neck, breathing in deeply in that way that told her in his vampire-y way just exactly how much he'd missed her.
"Spike--" She didn't know whether the word was a protest, a plea, something else entirely. All she knew was that she'd missed him so very badly and she wanted to be touching him all over now.
He bit his lip and looked at her from under hooded eyelids. "Promise," he said in a low, sultry voice.
Screw this. They'd deal with it later. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back towards the bedroom. "Kitty talk later. Play time for Buffy and Spike now."
This conversation wasn't over, but she had more important things to deal with at the moment. Like reunions with the pretty vampire with the bedroom eyes and the talented tongue.
Cats? Could always wait.
--
For the next two weeks, Buffy did her best to ignore The Cat (she refused to call it Sid).
Said Cat didn't make it easy for her: he insisted on following Spike whenever he went patrolling, no matter how many times Buffy told him to scat. Even when they tried to lock him in the house behind them, he found a way out, God only knew how (her suggestion that he was, in fact, part demon set Spike to laughing: "Only if all cats are, Slayer."). After the scatting didn't work, she tried ignoring him, but he padding along silently behind them.
He seemed content to watch while Buffy and Spike did the Slaying, for the most part--if he'd gotten in their way when they were fighting, she would have finally put her foot down: she wasn't going to risk her life or Spike's--but one night when they were fighting a group of Fyarls, she heard an otherworldly yowl. She twisted the Fyarl’s neck with her bare hands, breaking it and killing it instantly, and spun around just in time to see The Cat propel itself forward out of nowhere and land squarely on the head of the Fyarl that was currently getting the upper hand against a weapon-less Spike.
Still screeching, it buried its claws in the Fyarl's thick skin and then hissed. The Fyarl was not amused. Looking like a Marx brother in a comedy routine, it flailed its arms wildly, dancing around and groaning in pain.
Spike threw back his head and laughed uproariously. She crossed her arms and tried to look annoyed--or at least bored. It took quite a bit of face-twisting and nose-breathing, but she managed to keep her laughter inside. She wouldn't allow him--either him: Spike or The Cat--the satisfaction.
"Spike? Put an end to this, please?"
Still shaking with laughter, Spike swung his required ax around, slicing the Fyarl in half. The Cat leapt off the head as the top half of the demon tumbled to the ground, and he landed lightly on the pavement--and then set to giving himself a bath.
Spike laughed the whole way home, and Buffy tried to tell herself that it didn't matter how much she liked to hear his laughter.
She couldn't quite make herself believe it.
Just like she didn't quite believe herself a few days later when she emerged from the kitchen into the living room, only to find Spike sprawled out sleeping on the couch, The Cat curled up on his chest, one snoring, the other purring, looking so very comfortable and domestic while the sound of an audience cheering on the forgotten episode of The Price Is Right rose and fell in the background. Clearly, Spike had given up pretending like he didn’t care one way or the other about the animal.
Yeah, she tried to convince herself that her heart wasn't going all melty over the most adorable thing she'd ever seen.
It didn't quite work.
--
In the middle of the second week, there was a rather embarrassing incident, one of those moments that would be forever dragged up at holidays and get-together, much to the chagrin of the person who the story had happened to: "Remember that time...?"
Headed out to run some errands, she found The Cat licking itself on top of her favorite leather jacket. Fuming, she jerked the jacket right out from under it, brushing furiously at all the white hairs that would never come off the leather, she just knew it.
The Cat, disturbed from its bath, reared back and then hissed at her.
She couldn't help it. She was angry and annoyed and this thing had ruined her leather jacket.
She hissed back.
As per usual, her luck ran out, because at that exact moment, Dawn rounded the corner. And collapsed into a puddle of helpless laughter. Buffy's cheeks burned red even as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and tried to distract her sister. It didn't work. Dawn met Spike at the door, and told him the whole story before he even put his ax down, and then they both laughed so hard they cried. Spike begged her for a reenactment, and she told him that if he wanted to get laid in this lifetime, he'd better shut it. Even that threat didn't keep him from laughing whenever she and The Cat were in the same room--probably because Spike knew exactly how irresistible she found him when he laughed.
Her only saving grace was that Illyria, when told the story, merely blinked and announced that she found no humor in the tale.
Still, despite the godly proclamation, it was clear that Dawn and Spike were never going to let her forget it.
Yet another reason to resent The Cat.
--
After that blow to her pride, Buffy was even more determined that she wouldn't be won over, not by the adorableness that was The Cat sitting and watching attentively while Spike cleaned his weapons, not by Dawn's delighted demands for more pictures, please!, not by the fact that Willow and Xander and her other friends were instantly besotted by the pesky animal. She would hold out.
Because Buffy knew the truth: she was sure to mess this up if she got involved. She wasn't good with animals, she never had been, and the situation had only been exacerbated by years of being on her guard against anything that wasn't human (or a vampire she was currently dating). Innocent, guileless things got broken or hardened if they stayed around her too long. Better to keep her distance.
That's what she told herself for two weeks. Until That Day.
--
She was alone when she realized what day it was. Dawn was back at school, Spike was out who knew where playing poker with some buddies, and Buffy had just returned from patrol with Illyria. She headed towards the kitchen, intent on rummaging through the fridge. Faith had been right all those years ago: Slaying did make her horny and hungry, and even if she had to wait till Spike got home to take care of one of those problems, the other was easily solved.
She had just grabbed a bag of those baby carrots and a few cheese sticks and was closing the refrigerator door when she caught sight of the calendar. The food fell from her suddenly nerveless hands.
The twenty-seventh of February. Her mother had been dead for six years.
Gasping for breath that she couldn't quite catch a hold of through the tightness of her chest, she sank down to the kitchen floor, back against the fridge, and let out the tears. The sobs shook her so hard the fridge behind her shook, but she wrapped herself around the empty hole where her mother had once been and finally let herself feel the pain she usually shunted aside. She was glad she was alone: she still didn't like to let anyone else--not even Spike, not even Dawn--see her break down. She still felt like she was being selfish when she was weak, and the Slayer was all about sacrifice, not selfishness.
But right now, she wasn't the Slayer. Right now she was just a normal woman who missed her mother.
She almost didn't hear the curious "Meow?" over the sound of her own sobs. But she sniffled and choked back a sob, and then she looked up to find The Cat staring at her, his head cocked just a little in that way that reminded her of Spike.
"Meow?" he questioned again. And then he padded closer to her. His tongue flicked out to lick her salt-stained cheek, then he gently butted her arm with his head.
Suddenly overcome with the need for physical comfort, the next best thing to a hug from her mom, she reached out and wrapped her arms around his warm body, buried her face in his fur, and hung on.
--
A couple of nights later, Spike stopped short in the doorway to the bedroom, frozen in the motion of tugging his t-shirt off.
"Slayer?" he asked carefully, "What's going on?"
Buffy looked up from where she was flipping the page of a magazine with one hand--and stroking a purring cat with the other. "Hmmm?”
"Si--The cat. He's...in bed with you."
He finished tugging the shirt off and shucked off his pants, then stomped over to the bed. He swept Sid up in his arms, then let the cat drop to the ground, where he landed on all fours with a protesting meow. Spike flopped down onto the bed beside Buffy, who was setting the magazine aside.
“Yeah? So?”
"Thought you didn't like him," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the cat.
"So did I."
Ah. She was going to be uncommunicative. "And now?"
She shrugged, and was that just a hint of sheepishness in her eyes. "He...grows on you. Starts out all growly and arrogant, like he thinks he's the Big Bad. Struts around like he owns the world and drives you crazy. But then he just keeps sticking around, and sooner or later, you get sort of used to him, and you discover that he's really just a big ball of warm fuzzy. And by that time you figure, 'Hey. My sister adores him, my friends have stopped acting like he'll attack at any moment, and he's finally house broken.' Why not let him stay? Plus, it's nice to have someone to help keep the bed warm."
A wide grin spread across Spike's face. There was his girl. "Just to keep the bed warm, Slayer?"
She gave him a little smile in return. "Well. Maybe I'm a little bit fond of him. I...might like having him around."
"Around your what?"
"Why don't you find out?"
Minx. Her eyes were glinting just the way that most tempted him. He tugged her into his arms and kissed her, and he was pretty sure neither one of them were going to be talking about the cat anymore tonight.
But then one of her words caught up with him, and he pulled back to give her a baleful look. "House-broken my lily white arse."
She grinned, all her teeth showing, before tugging the black teddy she'd been wearing over her head and then sliding her hand under the sheets. "It is rather lily-white, isn't it? Just like Sid's. I wonder if you like to have your tail...stroked, too."
Spike moaned blissfully. "Oh, Slayer. Yeeeaaaah, just like--" He blinked stupidly. "Why'd you stop?"
Her hand, which had been so pleasantly occupied just the moment before, was now outstretched, a finger pointing towards the dresser. "Spike, I cannot have sex with that cat watching."
A bit dazed by lust, Spike stared blankly at the cat who was perched on top, watching them levelly. After a moment, he cleared away the passion enough to reply. "I thought you liked him now. 'A little bit fond' I think were your words?"
Now Buffy's arms were crossed--blocking his view! This wouldn't do at all. "Fond of, yes. Exhibitionist for, no. If you want to have any fun tonight, you'll get that cat out of here. Now."
There was no arguing with such an ultimatum.
--
When the door slammed shut in his face, Sid sat down right there and started yowling in revenge.
Soon enough, though, the noises from the bedroom drowned out his own complaints, and he gave up, padding off down the hallway in search of another place to spend the night, confident that he'd regain his place in the bedroom eventually. If he could win over the obstinate vampire and the stubborn lady so completely, he knew he'd be back in between silk sheets soon, and he'd never surrender that spot.
I decided to fuel all of that energy into ridiculously fluffy domesticity. Also, this is a celebration for making it through Bangel!Boinking!Day! Have some fluffy Spuffy to offset the pornyness in canon and the gender!fail in the fandom!
Two things: this is no masterpiece. I wrote it very quickly, cannibalizing various other fics, so if it's rough, I apologize. Also, if anyone has a better title, let me know.
I'm sorry it's not penguins!
Title: A Warm and Fuzzy Tale
Fandom: Buffyverse
Characters/Pairing: Buffy/Spike, Illyria, Dawn
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff. Pure, unadulterated fluff
Timeline: Future fic
A/N: Thanks to
ladyofthelog for the quick read-through; to pennydrdful for the stand-off idea; to deird1 for the name suggestion; and to anyone else whose suggestions in Gab's Domestic Spuffy thread inspired this fic. Also, gabrielleabelle now owes me pie. You promised!Dedication: For everyone who needs a pick-me-up after the drama this week, but especially
angearia, who has been our voice and our champion. Emmie, I hope it makes you smile!Summary: Even a Slayer and a vampire-with-a-soul can't withstand the power of the ultimate weaopn: cuteness.
“We are being followed.”
Illyria’s words cut sharp through the night air. It had been an unnaturally quiet patrol for them—well, for Spike, at least.
When he went patrolling, whether with Buffy or Illyria or even Angel, there were always words. Lots of them. With Buffy, it was banter: innuendos, taunts, quips tossed back and forth with all the skill of professional jugglers. It was both foreplay and good, clean fun: heated and playful all at the same time. Illyria, on the other hand, mostly glowered imperiously when he teased her, and occasionally let loose a cold verbal dart so potent that he couldn't help but laugh. Spike did a lot of laughing with Illyria--though never as much as he did with Buffy.
But tonight he hadn’t even taunted Illyria once. It wasn’t because the patrol was any more strenuous than it usually was; no, it’d been a quiet night. But fact was, he missed Buffy.
She’d been gone almost two months now, on some sort of mission with Vi and a few other of the younger Slayers in Austria somewhere. It was another apocalypse rising; she called him every night, if she could, and gave him all the details. It made him itch to be by her side, fighting with her. He was also frustrated: as he'd told his Slayer numerous times, hearing her whisper dirty words over the phone—words he could rarely get her to speak when she was actually with him—was all well and good for the first few days, but after a while he got tired of his hand being his only comfort.
That, and he just missed her. Having her around. Being near her. Knowing she was there. Buffy.
He’d been thinking—not brooding—about how much he missed Buffy as he and Illyria tracked down the pride of Lynari demons that had been sighted near the park and dispensed of them pretty quickly, and then as they staked a few fledglings in the graveyard. By the time they looped back around to head towards home, he’d sunk into such a funk that Illyria's soft words startled him into motion.
He spun around, slipping into game face and peering into the darkness. He sniffed, smelled nothing out of order, then turned to gape at his companion and her firm pronouncement. “What?”
“We are being followed,” she repeated and then lapsed into silence. He felt irritation bubbling up. She was perfectly calm and unruffled, and the eerie light that glowed in her eyes when battle was near was definitely not there. And she clearly wasn’t going to volunteer more information. Usually he was patient with her; after a century with Dru and her dolls and her voices and her stars—and then Buffy and her nose punches and her stubborn, bossy ways—he’d learned how to be patient with women, at least, if no one else.
Illyria, though, was perfectly capable of being clear if she wanted, but the annoying bint never said anything more than was absolutely necessary and at times like this it drove him out of his sodding mind.
He grit his teeth. “Being followed by what, Blue?” Clearly they weren’t in any danger—if they had been, she would have already been in motion—but still.
“By that.”
He followed the line of her arm and peered into the darkness at the side of the road. Then, he laughed.
“We weren’t hardly in any danger, Blue.”
If she’d been a human woman, she would have sniffed. “I did not say we were. I informed you that--"
Alright, now she was sounding like a Watcher. Spike made a mental note to keep her away from Giles in the future.
“It’s called a cat, Blue.”
Well, most of a cat anyways. He suspected that, if clean, the animal would have been black and white. It was nearly skeletal, with scrapes and scratches that came, clearly, from fights with other cats, and half of its left ear was missing. Its sapphire eyes studied Spike with the intensity of a hunter, and he laughed again. Scrap of a thing looked like it was about to pounce.
Spike turned away. “Come on, Oh Azure One. That should be enough patrolling for the night.” Besides, he wanted to get back home. Dawn was home from college for a few days--she always tried to drop in at least once when she knew that Buffy was going to be gone for a while, to keep him company, she said. Maybe they could fry one of those onion things.
Illyria fell into step beside him in silence, though she still managed to let him know exactly how offended she was. They hadn’t gone even a mile before she stopped again.
“What is it now?”
But she didn’t reply, merely looked at him down her nose.
He turned and, sure enough, there in the shadows the cat was lurking.
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” He suddenly felt the urge to “scat” the damn thing. But though he couldn’t really claim to be the Big Bad anymore, he still clung to enough of that reputation not to let himself look that ridiculous. Deciding to ignore their stalker, he plodded on.
Seven minutes later, and the thing was still there. Illyria caught his eye, and he had the feeling that if she’d had a bit of a sense of humor, she would be laughing at him.
He started walking again. Stopped. Because now it had moved onto the lamplit road, padding silently and surely after Spike. He glared at it. “Get out of here. Don’t need you watchin’ my back.”
Again and again he started and stopped, each time his demands for it to leave growing in volume and obscenity. But when they reached home, and Illyria left him to head to wherever it was she went at night, the thing was right there at his heels.
Growling, he stomped into the house, slamming the door in the cat’s face.
--
When Spike woke, there was a warm weight on his chest. For the briefest of moments, he entertained the idea that it was Buffy’s head. But the warmth was making a purring noise the Slayer definitely had never made. Nearly every other noise under the sun, sure, first in those dark nights spent in his crypt and now in the comfort of their own bedroom (and living room. And kitchen. And bathroom. And back yard. And the nearby graveyard. And...), but never--quite--a purr. He wondered idly what it would take to prompt such a reaction from her.
But then the warmth shifted, dragging him from his reverie, and he felt tiny needles digging into his bare chest. “Bloody hell!” he exploded, sitting straight up. With a screech, a mass of white and black cat tumbled into his lap and then to the edge of the bed, arching its back and hissing.
“Oh,” Spike muttered accusingly, rubbing at the already-fading claw marks on his chest. “It’s you.”
The cat had taken up residence in Spike and Buffy's house, apparently claiming the vampire as its own. When he had emerged from the house that first evening, the cat had still been there, curled up against the doorjamb. With a moan of annoyance, Spike had stalked back inside to find Dawn, and the cat, after stretching, managed to slip in the door behind him without him noticing.
Dawn had been sitting at the table poring over old books. When she saw his companion, she squealed with delight and rushed to pour a bowl of milk. She’d insisted on letting it stay, and he was incapable of denying her anything, though he hadn’t given in very gracefully. She’d given it a bath and on the second day decided to name it. He’d been horrified at all of her suggestions.
“What about Justin?” she suggested, face solemn. “Justin Timberlake is sexy.”
“Are you off your bird?”
“I didn’t know I was on one. That’s Willow’s thing, right?”
“Ha bloody ha. Shut your gob.”
“Okay, what about Miss Kitty Fantastico Junior?”
“It’s a he, you blind bint!”
Her eyes had been dancing, and even though he knew she was teasing him, he still gaped at her.
Now she was just toying with him. “How about Princess Fluff of Purrington?”
“Biiit.” He let a little bit of a growl enter his voice, but she merely grinned. Dawn had never been scared of him.
“Fine. Sid.”
“What?”
“Sid Vicious. You know, from the Sex Pistols?”
“I bloody well know who he is, woman. I was the one who introduced you culture-deprived American to them.”
“So is that a yes, then?”
A pause. “I’m not calling it anything. You call it whatever you want.”
Her smile had been worth it. Of course, he later questioned if that was true when she dragged him to the local pet store and stocked up on multiple varieties of cat food, toys, and other "necessities" that Spike was pretty sure cats had done well enough without throughout the millennia before the invention of PetSmart. She'd also attacked research with the voracity only a Watcher was capable of, checking out books on cats from the library and reading dozens of blogs about how to keep them worm-free and happy. She even took him to the vet to have him checked out, returning with the news that he was a little underfed but otherwise had a clean bill of health. She had taken it completely for granted that the cat would stay, and, well, it wasn't like he was prepared to fight with the other woman in his life, not when he knew she was just as stubborn as her sister.
And that was how Sid the cat had ended up living in Spike’s room and following him every night on patrol. How Sid decided it was a good idea to sleep on Spike’s chest was a whole different story. All Spike knew was that it was annoying as hell.
But at the same time, it was nice to wake up to a warm bed. That’s one thing he especially missed while Buffy was away: the way she turned the bed all toasty warm. His little space heater, he called her, despite how often she rolled her eyes.
Still, he probably should do a better job of keeping Sid out of the bedroom. Buffy was due back any day now (the apocalypse halted in its tracks: she'd gleefully described every detail when she called the night before), and she probably wouldn't be thrilled to find cat her on her red silk sheets. Dawn had made it clear that winning Buffy over to the idea of a pet of any kind, much less of the feline variety, would be an uphill battle. Best to ease her into the idea, he thought, fur-adorned stripping the sheets off the bed.
Not that Spike cared, of course. Wasn't like he really wanted the blighter around. Still, the cat did make the Bit smile, and why not?
He headed towards the laundry room, sheets in hand.
--
It was almost nightfall when Buffy reached home. She was careful to unlock the front door as quietly as she could; Spike would still be asleep, and if she woke him, he'd want to “welcome her home,” and as tantalizing as that (always) sounded, right now she was just so exhausted from week playing General Buffy and being so far from home that she'd much rather shed her clothes and slide into bed beside him, steal a nap, and then let him welcome her home, after they're both well-rested. Besides, she missed sleeping beside him when she was away.
Scratch that. She just missed him.
Sighing with relief at finally being home, she eased her heavy duffels, full of weapons and clothes, to the floor, and then, as silently as any predator—because that was what she was—tiptoed down the hall.
She was passing the living room when she felt-saw-sensed a motion. She pivoted on her heel, predator-ready, always, to see what kind of creature had infiltrated her sanctuary. And when she saw what it was, she did a double take.
There, perched on the top of the couch, was…a cat.
White fur with some black patches, one black ear, eyes too blue to be believed. Scrawny and smallish for being full-grown, but it looked like it'd held his own in more than one back-alley brawl, if the bit of the black-patched ear that was missing was to be believed. It was sitting bolt upright, wary and ready for anything, and those blue-blue eyes were staring straight into hers.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
What was a cat doing here? She couldn't think of any reason at all. She could think of any number of reasons why a demon would be lurking in her living room, but a cat? She wanted an explanation, and she wanted one now.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
Would it hurt the damn thing to look a little bit sheepish at being discovered in her living room, where it obviously didn't belong? Ancient demons bent on world destruction cowered under the gaze of Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer. This cat looked completely unperturbed.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
And then it tilted its head.
Oh, this thing was going down.
Buffy stared.
The cat stared back.
Neither Buffy nor the cat moved for a very long time.
This stand off might have lasted until the real apocalypse--the final one, with the world actually ending in a reverse big bang and no one left to make a donut run--except that just then Spike stumbled out of the bedroom, all rumpled hair and bare chest and sleepy eyes, and if this was any other time, she would have abandoned the nap idea and jumped straight into the welcome home...party. But this wasn't any other time. There was a creature on her couch. Buffy was not good with creatures. She killed goldfish. And Chia pets.
"Buffy." There was pure pleasure in his voice, and that smile--the purely happy one; the one she never could have imagined back in Sunnydale but that she was now graced with often--spread across his face, and she found she was thisclose to forgetting about the thing perched on her couch and just pushing her vampire down to the ground and stripping those pants (all he wearing, of course) right off him.
Except that then she imagined this furry little thing watching while she straddled Spike, and she knew that she couldn't give in, no matter how lickable the pretty vampire might look.
Instead she squared her jaw and pointed. "What. Is that?"
In reply, Spike did that head-duck thing that under normal circumstances would have her jumping him--especially when they'd been apart this long. But she was not going to be derailed by adorableness. Not. Not even a little.
" 'S Sid."
"Sid," she repeated flatly.
Now he's scratching at the back of his neck. There's the sheepishness she'd been wanting earlier. "...Yeah?"
"What is a Sid and what is it doing in my living room?" And oh my God, when did I turn into my mother?
A little light lit up way back in the blue of Spike's eyes, and she knew he was thinking the same thing. Wisely--for once, and was she sure the world hadn't ended?--he didn't voice it.
"Dawn wanted to keep him." A little more confidently this time.
Flatly: "Dawn did."
A bit uncertain: "Yeah?"
"Well, if Dawn was so fond of him, then why isn't he with Dawn right now?"
"Ah. Well. There's a story. She got all his stuff packed up--" Stuff? Buffy wondered. "--and then she tried to put him in one of those carrying-cage things? And he...went starkers. Stubborner than y--" He stopped, abruptly, no doubt at the look in her eyes. "--than hell, that one," he finished lamely.
"Nice save," she said dryly.
He grinned. "I thought so."
"So he wouldn't go with Dawn. That still doesn't explain why he's here and not at the pound or at the home of some nice family who's always wanted a cat."
"Buffy, he won't leave. I'm serious." He crossed to her (finally within touching distance, and why were they talking about this when they'd been apart for so long?), laid his hand on her arm. "He won't leave. It just didn't seem like a battle worth having." He slid his hand up her arm, his first touch after so long of being deprived of him sending electricity coursing through her. "He can eat scraps or whatnot, or we'll give him milk, or--I don't know--they sell big bags of their food in bulk. I'll look after him for Dawn while she's gone, and she'll look after him when she's here. He won't bother you at all." He leaned forward and dragged his nose along her neck, breathing in deeply in that way that told her in his vampire-y way just exactly how much he'd missed her.
"Spike--" She didn't know whether the word was a protest, a plea, something else entirely. All she knew was that she'd missed him so very badly and she wanted to be touching him all over now.
He bit his lip and looked at her from under hooded eyelids. "Promise," he said in a low, sultry voice.
Screw this. They'd deal with it later. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back towards the bedroom. "Kitty talk later. Play time for Buffy and Spike now."
This conversation wasn't over, but she had more important things to deal with at the moment. Like reunions with the pretty vampire with the bedroom eyes and the talented tongue.
Cats? Could always wait.
--
For the next two weeks, Buffy did her best to ignore The Cat (she refused to call it Sid).
Said Cat didn't make it easy for her: he insisted on following Spike whenever he went patrolling, no matter how many times Buffy told him to scat. Even when they tried to lock him in the house behind them, he found a way out, God only knew how (her suggestion that he was, in fact, part demon set Spike to laughing: "Only if all cats are, Slayer."). After the scatting didn't work, she tried ignoring him, but he padding along silently behind them.
He seemed content to watch while Buffy and Spike did the Slaying, for the most part--if he'd gotten in their way when they were fighting, she would have finally put her foot down: she wasn't going to risk her life or Spike's--but one night when they were fighting a group of Fyarls, she heard an otherworldly yowl. She twisted the Fyarl’s neck with her bare hands, breaking it and killing it instantly, and spun around just in time to see The Cat propel itself forward out of nowhere and land squarely on the head of the Fyarl that was currently getting the upper hand against a weapon-less Spike.
Still screeching, it buried its claws in the Fyarl's thick skin and then hissed. The Fyarl was not amused. Looking like a Marx brother in a comedy routine, it flailed its arms wildly, dancing around and groaning in pain.
Spike threw back his head and laughed uproariously. She crossed her arms and tried to look annoyed--or at least bored. It took quite a bit of face-twisting and nose-breathing, but she managed to keep her laughter inside. She wouldn't allow him--either him: Spike or The Cat--the satisfaction.
"Spike? Put an end to this, please?"
Still shaking with laughter, Spike swung his required ax around, slicing the Fyarl in half. The Cat leapt off the head as the top half of the demon tumbled to the ground, and he landed lightly on the pavement--and then set to giving himself a bath.
Spike laughed the whole way home, and Buffy tried to tell herself that it didn't matter how much she liked to hear his laughter.
She couldn't quite make herself believe it.
Just like she didn't quite believe herself a few days later when she emerged from the kitchen into the living room, only to find Spike sprawled out sleeping on the couch, The Cat curled up on his chest, one snoring, the other purring, looking so very comfortable and domestic while the sound of an audience cheering on the forgotten episode of The Price Is Right rose and fell in the background. Clearly, Spike had given up pretending like he didn’t care one way or the other about the animal.
Yeah, she tried to convince herself that her heart wasn't going all melty over the most adorable thing she'd ever seen.
It didn't quite work.
--
In the middle of the second week, there was a rather embarrassing incident, one of those moments that would be forever dragged up at holidays and get-together, much to the chagrin of the person who the story had happened to: "Remember that time...?"
Headed out to run some errands, she found The Cat licking itself on top of her favorite leather jacket. Fuming, she jerked the jacket right out from under it, brushing furiously at all the white hairs that would never come off the leather, she just knew it.
The Cat, disturbed from its bath, reared back and then hissed at her.
She couldn't help it. She was angry and annoyed and this thing had ruined her leather jacket.
She hissed back.
As per usual, her luck ran out, because at that exact moment, Dawn rounded the corner. And collapsed into a puddle of helpless laughter. Buffy's cheeks burned red even as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and tried to distract her sister. It didn't work. Dawn met Spike at the door, and told him the whole story before he even put his ax down, and then they both laughed so hard they cried. Spike begged her for a reenactment, and she told him that if he wanted to get laid in this lifetime, he'd better shut it. Even that threat didn't keep him from laughing whenever she and The Cat were in the same room--probably because Spike knew exactly how irresistible she found him when he laughed.
Her only saving grace was that Illyria, when told the story, merely blinked and announced that she found no humor in the tale.
Still, despite the godly proclamation, it was clear that Dawn and Spike were never going to let her forget it.
Yet another reason to resent The Cat.
--
After that blow to her pride, Buffy was even more determined that she wouldn't be won over, not by the adorableness that was The Cat sitting and watching attentively while Spike cleaned his weapons, not by Dawn's delighted demands for more pictures, please!, not by the fact that Willow and Xander and her other friends were instantly besotted by the pesky animal. She would hold out.
Because Buffy knew the truth: she was sure to mess this up if she got involved. She wasn't good with animals, she never had been, and the situation had only been exacerbated by years of being on her guard against anything that wasn't human (or a vampire she was currently dating). Innocent, guileless things got broken or hardened if they stayed around her too long. Better to keep her distance.
That's what she told herself for two weeks. Until That Day.
--
She was alone when she realized what day it was. Dawn was back at school, Spike was out who knew where playing poker with some buddies, and Buffy had just returned from patrol with Illyria. She headed towards the kitchen, intent on rummaging through the fridge. Faith had been right all those years ago: Slaying did make her horny and hungry, and even if she had to wait till Spike got home to take care of one of those problems, the other was easily solved.
She had just grabbed a bag of those baby carrots and a few cheese sticks and was closing the refrigerator door when she caught sight of the calendar. The food fell from her suddenly nerveless hands.
The twenty-seventh of February. Her mother had been dead for six years.
Gasping for breath that she couldn't quite catch a hold of through the tightness of her chest, she sank down to the kitchen floor, back against the fridge, and let out the tears. The sobs shook her so hard the fridge behind her shook, but she wrapped herself around the empty hole where her mother had once been and finally let herself feel the pain she usually shunted aside. She was glad she was alone: she still didn't like to let anyone else--not even Spike, not even Dawn--see her break down. She still felt like she was being selfish when she was weak, and the Slayer was all about sacrifice, not selfishness.
But right now, she wasn't the Slayer. Right now she was just a normal woman who missed her mother.
She almost didn't hear the curious "Meow?" over the sound of her own sobs. But she sniffled and choked back a sob, and then she looked up to find The Cat staring at her, his head cocked just a little in that way that reminded her of Spike.
"Meow?" he questioned again. And then he padded closer to her. His tongue flicked out to lick her salt-stained cheek, then he gently butted her arm with his head.
Suddenly overcome with the need for physical comfort, the next best thing to a hug from her mom, she reached out and wrapped her arms around his warm body, buried her face in his fur, and hung on.
--
A couple of nights later, Spike stopped short in the doorway to the bedroom, frozen in the motion of tugging his t-shirt off.
"Slayer?" he asked carefully, "What's going on?"
Buffy looked up from where she was flipping the page of a magazine with one hand--and stroking a purring cat with the other. "Hmmm?”
"Si--The cat. He's...in bed with you."
He finished tugging the shirt off and shucked off his pants, then stomped over to the bed. He swept Sid up in his arms, then let the cat drop to the ground, where he landed on all fours with a protesting meow. Spike flopped down onto the bed beside Buffy, who was setting the magazine aside.
“Yeah? So?”
"Thought you didn't like him," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the cat.
"So did I."
Ah. She was going to be uncommunicative. "And now?"
She shrugged, and was that just a hint of sheepishness in her eyes. "He...grows on you. Starts out all growly and arrogant, like he thinks he's the Big Bad. Struts around like he owns the world and drives you crazy. But then he just keeps sticking around, and sooner or later, you get sort of used to him, and you discover that he's really just a big ball of warm fuzzy. And by that time you figure, 'Hey. My sister adores him, my friends have stopped acting like he'll attack at any moment, and he's finally house broken.' Why not let him stay? Plus, it's nice to have someone to help keep the bed warm."
A wide grin spread across Spike's face. There was his girl. "Just to keep the bed warm, Slayer?"
She gave him a little smile in return. "Well. Maybe I'm a little bit fond of him. I...might like having him around."
"Around your what?"
"Why don't you find out?"
Minx. Her eyes were glinting just the way that most tempted him. He tugged her into his arms and kissed her, and he was pretty sure neither one of them were going to be talking about the cat anymore tonight.
But then one of her words caught up with him, and he pulled back to give her a baleful look. "House-broken my lily white arse."
She grinned, all her teeth showing, before tugging the black teddy she'd been wearing over her head and then sliding her hand under the sheets. "It is rather lily-white, isn't it? Just like Sid's. I wonder if you like to have your tail...stroked, too."
Spike moaned blissfully. "Oh, Slayer. Yeeeaaaah, just like--" He blinked stupidly. "Why'd you stop?"
Her hand, which had been so pleasantly occupied just the moment before, was now outstretched, a finger pointing towards the dresser. "Spike, I cannot have sex with that cat watching."
A bit dazed by lust, Spike stared blankly at the cat who was perched on top, watching them levelly. After a moment, he cleared away the passion enough to reply. "I thought you liked him now. 'A little bit fond' I think were your words?"
Now Buffy's arms were crossed--blocking his view! This wouldn't do at all. "Fond of, yes. Exhibitionist for, no. If you want to have any fun tonight, you'll get that cat out of here. Now."
There was no arguing with such an ultimatum.
--
When the door slammed shut in his face, Sid sat down right there and started yowling in revenge.
Soon enough, though, the noises from the bedroom drowned out his own complaints, and he gave up, padding off down the hallway in search of another place to spend the night, confident that he'd regain his place in the bedroom eventually. If he could win over the obstinate vampire and the stubborn lady so completely, he knew he'd be back in between silk sheets soon, and he'd never surrender that spot.