A long time ago I wrote a couple of short Spike/Tara stories, Cats and Dogs and Naughty Thoughts, and I kinda, sorta promised I'd do a sequel.
And here it is.
Kiss Chase – Bogwitch
(Spike/Tara, Season Six, Sequel to Naughty Thoughts. A kind of alternative Entropy. I've taken on or two liberties. Tara POV)
Tara sits on a low seat in the centre of the Espresso Pump. A stack of course books to her side and a cooling coffee in one hand, she restlessly twirls an old biro in the other, but she’s unlikely to be writing anything soon. The books all need to be read and understood, notes taken, but she’s distracted. Instead, she looks out over the street, at the shadows darkening into ebony secrets in the twilight. The streetlamps are flicking on, one by one as the day draws darker, and their light absorbs the first stars just as they emerge out of the sapphire sky. She watches the evening rush, as Sunnydale’s cannier inhabitants hurry home before full dark. They know the night is something to be afraid of.
Friday night is date night. For the young and in love, the night is a mystery; the creeping shadows all part of the fun. Heartbeats pound faster and arousal is not far behind, but the Sun Cinema never shows horror movies. Tara watches the couples passing in the street, still young enough not to consider their mortality, yet holding hands in tight reassurance as they walk briskly to their destinations. A woman turns and gazes at her lover like he’s the centre of her universe. Tara turns away to stare at the near empty coffee shop instead. She feels lonelier than ever.
She misses her partner, but Willow makes Tara uneasy now, as if she’s on the brink of something darker. She no longer recognises Willow as the soft, sweet girl who’d bewitched her at the Wicca club, the girl who felt like the part Tara had been missing all her life. It’s that Willow she wants back, the one lost to the distance of time. The one in whose eyes she’d lose herself, the one whose hands she’d held in love and ritual and sex; back when Willow wanted to save the world and not control it, when magic wasn’t the driving force of her life. But Willow has soured the spell. She refuses to see how her actions have betrayed their Wiccan beliefs, how her magic creates easy shortcuts, not firm solutions and strips her friends of their free will. Until she does, Tara will remain alone.
“Hello Glinda,” says a voice behind her and Spike slumps into the chair opposite. He gives her a reassuring grin, but his body language gives his unhappiness away and he’s unconvincing. So she’s not the only lonely one tonight it seems.
“Hi Spike.” Suddenly the coffee becomes the centre of her attention as she tries not to fixate on the way his hands drape across his lap as he sprawls, framing his crotch. The blatant reminder of his male sexuality makes her uncomfortable, reminding her that not so very long ago she’d had some unsettling thoughts about him.
With all that's happened lately, Tara has had no time to indulge her little crush on Spike. Death and resurrection; magic, betrayal and broken hearts all round, have kept her busy, just trying to hang on to the life she’d had, and there hadn’t been much room for fantasies. Besides, since Buffy had been given back her life, Tara had barely seen him. He’d returned to the fringes of their circle, no longer a constant visitor to the house on Revello, and had become conspicuously absent from their lives in a matter of months. She'd been curious about that - had he gone by choice, or had Buffy decided to keep him away to preserve their secret?
And now here he is in the Espresso Pump, morosely plonking marshmallows into his chocolate. Tara wonders what happened to them all.
They sit in silence, neither looking at the other, awkward, but at least companionable. They’ve never been chatty and there’s nothing to talk about to fill the dead space. She has no idea what passes for small talk to a vampire as old as him and their common interest is too painful to tell. He drinks his chocolate. He’s waiting for something, or working his way up to it. She doesn’t know which. He looks so sad.
Then he says something that truly scares her. He asks out of the blue. “You ever had a man, pixie?”
Tara doesn’t get what he’s asking at first. She gives him a nervous nod. She’s as surprised by his bluntness as much his choice of subject. “Um… Yes, I didn’t really …”
Then she catches the look he’s giving her, too serious to be mistaken.
“Oh.” Stunned, she gathers up her books in a nervous sweep. “I… I… I think I should go.”
She almost trips in her rush to get away, not giving him the time to protest as she scurries away. She never expected this. It was one thing to appreciate him from afar in a sort of academic way, quite another to have the temptation thrust at her. There was Willow… and Buffy… and Willow… and she didn’t know what to think. He was serious! And he’d looked so miserable. What on earth was he thinking? Had Buffy dumped him? Tara hadn’t spoken to her in so long, not properly, and certainly not about Spike. But the way he’d looked at the Slayer during the aborted wedding, with all the longing and heartache evident in his expressive eyes, made her think that Buffy had finally come to that decision.
He catches Tara before she reaches the corner, grabbing her arm and pushing her back against the pole of a streetlamp. He holds her there for a beat, waiting for a protest. Almost hoping for a scream. And suddenly, he’s kissing her. The books drop to the sidewalk in a fan of pages and bookmarks that have lost their chapters.
She’s not expecting it, and at first she doesn’t know what she should do, but then that old crush comes flooding back, and although this is forbidden to her in so many ways, she’s returning this kiss. It’s gentle, and heartfelt, and that’s surprising, but not unwelcome. Lips rougher and firmer than Willow's could ever be press to hers, but they’re still silky soft. Definitely masculine. He smells of expensive cologne, rich and exotic, a detail that amuses her.
She quickly comes to her senses and manages to push him away. “W… What are you doing?”
He closes in again; she shivers with fear, excitement and, oh yes, need. How could she be so scared and want it so badly at the same time? He leans over and whispers into her ear. Words carried on a strangely cool breath. “You’ve been watching me.”
His voice makes her tremble as surely as fingers trailing down her spine. He cocks an eyebrow and delivers his killing blow, a sexy grin that makes underwear melt on demand. His eyes spark in the light from the streetlamp, a silent seduction in the darkness and she’s pinned immobile by the lust his look. It’s a shame that for all his posturing, his eyes give him away. He’s looking for comfort, a substitute for Buffy, who still remains out of his reach.
His eyes drop to her mouth and he's rewarded when her breast flushes hot pink and her legs seem to liquefy. He says in a low, throaty whisper, smoky with desire. "Let's have a go at it, Pet."
The shock actually bolsters her confidence. She looks him straight in the eye. "I like girls, Spike."
His grin widens, and despite herself she thinks it's rather cute. He’s adorable really and she wonders how Buffy resists- or not. "Sure you do. So do I." He doesn’t kiss her this time, but rubs his cheek gently along hers. She doesn’t know whom he’s trying to soothe.
Breathless, she gasps against his skin. "We shouldn't… do this… Willow…" Gently, reluctantly, he peels back. She gives him a shy, reassuring smile. "And I'm not who you really want, am I?"
He went to deny it, but caught the knowing look in her eye. He gave a lopsided, nonchalant shrug, all loose limbed and sexy. "Just thought a little tumble wouldn't hurt.'"
He reaches out and strokes her hair in a soft caress. “You looked lonely.”
“I’m gay, Spike.”
"Did you think you could kiss me and I'd be cured? That I'd suddenly get into boys?" The sly smile that she can’t suppress is as trademark as his own smirk.
He cocks an eyebrow and she knows he’s won. She sees the charcoal of his lashes as his eyes start to close, sweeping the translucent ivory of his cheek. This is it, the point of no return, and the brink of resist or surrender. “I’ve seen you sneak an eyeful of ol’ Spike. I think you like what you see.”
Then he's kissing her again.
This kiss is delirious, her entire world shrunk to the singularity of his mouth against hers. His lips feel oddly cool, but not in a bad way and not icy like she imagined. They're spicy with smoke and delightfully succulent, yet somehow she can taste his misery as much as she can feel the passion pouring out. Sparks indigo and crimson, lilac and emerald, fizz from their lips as they touch. Light and dark, good and evil, life and death; rich tides of magic start to surge with their desires, this kiss is a communion. She can tell so much about him now, not just the feelings, but the whys of them. He’s giving it all to her, everything he does is so expressive and she understands. She slips her arms round his neck and holds him.
He's caught up in the moment, eyes closed, panting small, unnecessary breaths he doesn't realise he's making. She feels removed, unreal, one step out of the action, looking at herself, even as her mouth opens to his and accepts the cool touch of his tongue. He’s starting to clutch at her body now, a clumsy, desperate attempt at foreplay she suspects he doesn’t even realise he’s doing. She’s going to let him, she thinks. She doesn’t have the will to pull away from this mind-bending sensation, and she doesn’t want the sudden rejection to crush him again, because it’s the sheer loneliness in his kiss that breaks her heart. He seems to need this, to tell himself that someone thinks more of him than just a disgusting thing they can’t shake off, that he is desirable. She wonders where that cocky, casual sexiness went to so quickly because he’s clinging to her like a drowning man, responding to any affection he can get with a fervour that astonishes her.
But as their magical charges start to mix together, their essences curdle. Her senses are starting to ping in the wrong way, her innate white magic in a black, oily recoil from his inherent evil. The feeling slithers uncomfortably down her spine, through chakra after chakra, and she shivers.
He catches her unease, the tang of fear on her lips and suddenly pulls away.
He knows why she’s unnerved; the understanding they’ve reached is two-way. She looks him in the eye; it’s hard to believe that he’s dead, with all the life that’s in him. He’s not breathing a natural rhythm, nor will his heart ever beat under her palm, but his eyes that hold hers in his gaze are full of life and they express so much. He reaches out again and his finger follows the line of glitter that dips between her breasts, tracing the contour of their firm swell until her cleavage fills his palm.
“You’re beautiful.” He sighs softly, and for a moment she really feels it, believes that he’s not thinking of Buffy and there’s no one else in the world but them.
He moves in again, encouraged by Tara’s lack of objection. She could have run away, taken the opportunity to use the opposite polarity of their alignment to go. Instead she arches her neck in invitation and shuts her eyes as the vampire licks up her long throat to her chin, gently nipping when he gets there. Then sighs with the exhilaration of the forbidden as he starts to descend, dropping tiny kisses as he goes. This isn't a man-woman thing, gay or straight; this is about their loneliness, attraction and need for just someone. Neither of them should be here, but they’re hoping that this infatuation will run it’s course or die, so that they can get on with their lives, hoping for the lovers they really want.
She pushes the thought of this metaphysical status to the back of her mind, ignores the sickly repulsion of her intuition and surrenders. “Okay. But I’ll still be gay in the morning.”