Fic: 100 Strokes
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that_september’s birthday! The latest convert to Buffyism on my flist (a situation for which I claim at least partial credit!) requested some fluffy S7 Spike/Buffy. Even if I didn’t already think she was made of awesome, I now know it conclusively.I guess this is a flashfic? I wrote it in about an hour, so mistakes can be blamed upon that. Also, it was going to be a drabble, I swear, but…things got a bit out of hand, as they tend to do. Also-also, it turned into one of those “fill in the fade to black scene from ‘Chosen’” fics, which I didn’t expect, and which I never thought I’d write. Since I wrote it so quickly and didn't have time to read through it six thousand times like I usually do, I have no opinion about it yet, but I hope you like it, Alex.
Happy birthday!
Title: 100 Strokes
Fandom: Buffyverse
Characters/Pairings: Buffy/Spike
Timeline: during "Chosen," the infamous "fade-to-black" scene
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: She’d never offered him anything like that before, and it felt far too intimate.
“It’s gotten so long again.”
Buffy’s foot hit the basement floor as she looked over to where Spike was stretched out on the cot (it seemed like he was always sprawled out on that cot now days, looking ready for sin and pleasure and other unthinkable things, even when Faith was in the room—he should know better). Her hand paused for a moment, then she started brushing again through her hair, still slightly damp from her quick shower.
“Yeah.” She twisted a strand around her finger and then let it slip loose. “I kind of missed it.”
“Me, too.”
Her eyes shot over to his before darting away. In some ways, it was easier before the soul: she knew, from years of practice, how to deal with lewd comments and leers (a punch to the nose, a flash of a stake, a sneer at his failures). But these days he was always just looking at her, eyes full of emotion but not a single demand, and she could never quite figure out how to deal with that.
Still not meeting his eyes, she made her way over to the cot and sat down beside him—close but not too close (she felt as though she constantly had to measure to the centimeter just how close she could get to him: a hair too far, and he’d be hurt, thinking she didn’t trust him; a fraction of an inch too close and…well, she didn’t really want to think about what might happen then), still brushing.
They fell into one of those comfortable silences that always seemed to be stretching between them, and for a few moments, she simply sat beside him, falling into the calming motion of brushing, listening to the creaks of the house settling, water rushing through the pipes, the low hum of the air conditioner, now and then the sound of footsteps in the rooms above. After months of nonstop noise, the Summers house—for once—was peaceful.
She was so lulled by the silence that she almost jumped when she glanced up at Spike and saw the intensity in his eyes as he watched the movement of the brush through her hair.
Abruptly she stopped, the words rushing out before she had time to think about them (and stop herself from voicing them), she said, “Do you wanna…?”
She trailed off, flushing scarlet, feeling suddenly ridiculous. She’d never offered him anything like that before, and it felt far too intimate. He’d asked her once, during one of those long nights in his crypt, if he could brush her hair, and she’d felt a sudden flash of heat at the suggestion, heat so ardent that it scared her. While she’d been staring at him in shock (and lust), he’d shrugged. “Why not? Did for Dru all the time.” Wrong answer, Spike. The thought of him tending to his “dark princess” that way filled her with disgust (and jealousy) so potent that she’d said something cutting and cruel (she can’t remember just what it was—she said so many cutting things in those days, and so did he—but she’s sure that he could repeat it word for word, even now), a few carefully chosen and acidic words that let him know he better never ask anything like that again if he wanted to remain among the un-dusty.
She always knew he loved her hair, that he had a thing for it. He’d once acted as though insulting it was the worst criticism he could think of, and he sometimes seemed unable to stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it—even during the days when they supposedly hated each other (strange: she can’t think of a time when she ever pulled away). By the time he actually came out and told her that he loved it (“My little Goldilocks”), the confession had been no surprise.
Cheeks still pink, she glanced down at her lap, unable to meet his eyes. After a moment, though, she felt his cool fingers graze against hers as he took the brush from her. She scooted around so that she was facing away from him, suddenly glad that hair-brushing required that she not look at him at all.
She waited, waited so long that she thought he’d changed his mind (so long that the anticipation started singing through her veins). Then his hands gathered the hair back from her shoulders (God, how she’d missed his hands on her body), grazing against her neck and the bare skin of her shoulders in their spaghetti straps. Then he started to brush.
Spike sighed behind her—or at least, that’s what she thought until she figured out what he was really doing. She was suddenly glad she splurged on that bottle of coconut-scented shampoo last week instead of getting the scentless generic brand again. She wanted him to think she smelled good (and how much courage did it take to admit that to herself?).
Before, during their dark days, the thought that he was breathing in the scent of her hair would have repulsed her. Now it just made her feel warm and squiggly in her stomach.
She was used to feeling heat pool in the pit of her belly, sending out electric shocks through her body and making her feel as if each nerve was sparking. But this sort of subtle warmth, almost reminiscent of butterflies she used to feel when she was a regular girl crushing on regular boys back at Hemery, only more, only deeper…this was new and more than a little scary.
But the brushing felt good—so good that it almost felt sinful (she’d never quite moved past the idea that anything that felt good must be bad), but a different kind of sinful than when they’d taken each other again and again on every surface of his crypt. This guilt came from the whisper in the back of her mind that she didn’t deserve this—this gentleness, this pleasure—and especially not from him.
“You know I did it just to spite you.”
With anyone else, she would have to explain that statement, but segues had never been a requirement with Spike (she suspected that if anyone could map the corners and crevices of her mind, it would be him). He didn’t say anything for a moment, just kept up with the soothing brushing.
“I figured as much.”
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back further, imagining that the brush was sweeping her guilt right away. “My dad’s mom—she died when I was eight—was really old-fashioned. She used to brush my hair when I visited her: ‘One hundred strokes before bedtime.’ She always wanted me to act like a lady. I really loved frilly dresses and big bows and stuff, but for some reason, it made me mad that she always expected I would wear them. So when I went to her house, I always wanted to wear overalls and my yellow jelly shoes and climb trees and catch minnows in the creek with my bare hands. She used to say, ‘That girl is a contrarian. She’d cut off her nose to spite her face.’” She laughed softly. “I guess she wasn’t that wrong, even if a haircut isn’t quite that drastic.”
He chuckled, and the sound made her giddy—he’d laughed so rarely since…well, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him laugh and really mean it—no hint of bitterness or gloating or any of the other emotions that so often tinted his voice back when they were having their…affair. She winced as she thought that last word, and he paused for a moment as though he thought he’d been too rough before beginning again.
“Had a gran a bit like that. In those days, boys were dressed up like Little Lord Fauntleroy till they got old enough to start being dressed like snack-sized adults. I was always being paraded around in velvet and lace and curls.”
Buffy laughed out loud at the mental picture, a tiny petulant William moping in a lacy collar—and despite knowing that his real hair color was a golden brown, she still pictured him with peroxide curls.
“Oh, you laugh. But I hated it. With my curls and eyelashes, I always looked more like a girl than a boy. Got so jealous of the poor kids, all the chimneysweeps and errand boys running around all covered with grime, that I did whatever I could to cover myself with dirt or tear up those clothes. Then I finally got old enough to wear real boy’s clothes, and I went from looking like a girl’s doll to looking like a pint-sized preacher.”
“No talk of preachers,” she admonished through her giggles. “Caleb is dead and gone, and I don’t want to have to think about him ever again.”
“Saw that. Him lying on the floor in two pieces like that—you gutted him like a fish. Did him in good, love, you and your shiny new toy.”
Her eyes shot over to where the scythe was propped up against the wall, the strange red metal glowing faintly in the moonlight streaming through the windows near the ceiling. So he really had been there, had seen (“I also used my enhanced vampire eyeballs to watch you kissing him”).
She turned abruptly, sitting cross-legged and solemn-eyed as she faced him. “I’m sorry about…” Again, she couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t say, I’m sorry I told you I was there with you and then let you see me kissing Angel. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you hurt me. I’m sorry we don’t have time to start over now. I’m sorry we all might die tomorrow. I’m sorry we can’t always be like this.
“Buffy.” He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair, then cupped her cheek. “None of that. Not now.”
She knew he would never do it on his own, that he’d been waiting for her all along. And now the moment seemed right.
She kissed him.
They’d never kissed quite like this before—gentle but not chaste, long and slow and smoldering. Whenever they’d kissed before, it felt like the lighting of a fuse, everything was going to explode (lust and hatred and passion and anger), a prelude to an atomic bomb. This kiss was just a kiss. For its own sake, and the sake of all the things they wanted to say to each other, but knew that they didn’t have the time or words to explore.
When they finally separated, she met his eyes, full on and unshuttered, as she’d looked at him the night before when he’d told her he was terrified. He didn’t look terrified now, just awed and blissful. She took the brush from his hand and set it aside, got up to turn off the lights, and then climbed into his arms. He eased them both down till they were lying spooned together.
Just when she thought he must have fallen asleep, he snorted into the silence. “Got you all prettied up, and now how am I going to look fighting beside you with that Elizabeth Taylor-made monstrosity hanging round my neck? You get the big, shiny scythe, and I get the big, shiny diamonds. Can’t get away from the girly accessories, can I? Just traded in lace collars for tacky rhinestone amulets.”
Buffy couldn’t help grinning at his grumpy tone. “You’re such a drag queen, Spike,” she teased.
He growled, tightening his arms around her faux-threateningly, and she giggled again. She felt his fingers wrapping themselves in her hair. “Frilly dresses aside, I think your gran was a smart woman. One hundred strokes before bedtime, and now my girl will save the world in style.”
She smiled, flipping over to face him. “If you have to fight apocalypses, you might as well look good doing it.”
“No matter how many Slayers there are or were or ever will be, you’ll always look better than all of them. And kick more ass, too.”
She stared into his eyes for a while, letting herself think about what the morning would bring. Strangely, she still felt that assurance she’d felt last night, that confidence that they would win. “Between my scythe and your amulet,
He ran a finger along her cheek, brushed it against her lips, and she kissed the tip. In response, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Then he closed his eyes, shifted to settle in, and she did the same. The words he whispered fervently just before she slipped into sleep echoed in her dreams.
“Tomorrow night, you’ll wash off the battle dust and get in your one hundred strokes. Just you wait and see.”
--
The next night, in an anonymous motel in a forgettable town thirty miles away from the crater that had been Sunnydale, Buffy took a shower, dragged her aching body into her pajamas, and brushed her hair before bedtime (weeping as she did it).
One hundred strokes.
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