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TITLE: Body Language
AUTHOR: Estepheia
PAIRING: Spike/Anya
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: S7 up to “Sleeper” – afterwards AU
SUMMARY: Set during “Sleeper” – You all thought nothing happened when Spike caught Anya in his closet? Wrong!
DEDICATION: For Mr. Estepheia (as a belated V-Day present) and Tiashome.
MANY THANKS TO: Mikelesq, HarmonyFB, Claudia_yvr and LadyCat.


“You know, you were a lot more fun when you didn’t have a soul.” Anya said accusingly, still straddling Spike’s thighs, her hands resting lightly on his hips.

“Oh, come on now,” Spike shook his head. “I’ve just explained to you—“

“All I’m saying is soulless Spike would have had me upside down and half way to happyland by now,” Anya interrupted him.

The truth in those words caused an embarrassed silence, during which they looked at anything but each other, brows creased into wistful frowns. Their bodies spoke of mute frustration and a dull sense of emptiness even as they subtly responded to proximity and memory.

Suddenly, the thin blue cotton sheet and the coarse denim of Anya’s blue jeans were insufficient barriers. “I need my pants,” Spike spoke up, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Anya twisted around, picked up his jeans and wordlessly dumped them on Spike’s bare waist, before she climbed off his lap, rigid with irritation. A minute ago she’d sighed with relief when he didn’t take her up on her offer of sexual gratification (or rather appeasement), but Spike’s unexpected and uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm (or even interest) hit a nerve. Just because her offer had been a tactical diversion it didn’t mean that Spike had the right to act unpredictably. Instead of turning around to give him a chance to get dressed, Anya resolutely snatched the pants back and chucked them away, out of his reach.

“Anya, what-- what are you doing?”

Her answer consisted of grabbing the sheet he had modestly covered himself with and yanking it off with a flourish, again catching the befuddled vampire by surprise. For a moment he just sat there, stark naked, gobsmacked and indignant.

Scandalized, Anya pointed at his erection. “What’s that, huh?”

Spike automatically looked down before hastily scrambling backwards like a crab. He tumbled off the narrow bed in an undignified heap. He stayed down, using the cot like a screen. “Anya, please. I’m sorry,” he stammered, misinterpreting her accusatory tone.

*Bad man, you’re a bad man.*

“’If circumstances were different’ my ass! Your penis wants me.” Anya said triumphantly, momentarily forgetting that sex with Spike had been the last thing on her mind when she’d sneaked into his closet.

“What? Um, right, I mean—I never said I didn’t—Anya!” It took Spike a moment to understand that she wasn’t angry at him for being aroused but for not acting on it. He looked at Anya beseechingly. “For God’s sake, didn’t we get into enough trouble the last time? It was a mistake, and I’m trying to avoid making more of those.”

“Actually, that’s not true,” Anya exclaimed, obstinacy and recklessness pushing all fear away. “I’ve had more than half a year to think it over, and you know what? I’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t a mistake after all.”

Spike gaped and blinked owlishly. “We were drunk,” he pointed out. “And we were getting it on in front of a soddin’ camera! If that’s not a mistake then—“

“That’s not what I mean,” Anya interrupted, then went on to explain. “I was lonely and unhappy, and so were you, but you were nice to me, saying nice things like you meant it, like you really wanted me to feel better. And for a time it even worked.”

“Yeah, didn’t last though, now did it?”

“It was solace, however short lived. What could possibly be wrong with that?”

“What could be wrong?” Spike echoed incredulously. “It was wrong because it hurt Buffy. And that big fat—“ He stopped himself, remembering whose apartment he was currently dwelling in, and amended: “And it hurt Harris.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t meant to, was it?” Anya exclaimed defiantly, hands on her hips. “It wasn’t like we both said: ‘oh, let’s get back at our significant others.’ We didn’t HAVE significant others. That was the whole point. If they’d still been with us, none of it would have happened. And now? Nothing has changed. We’re still solo, you and me. Xander is dating again, Buffy straddled that RJ guy. Come on. When was the last time you got some?”

“Anya—“

“Seven months! Seven long horny lonely months! There is only so much you can do on your own. I’m sick of masturbating!” Her voice was agitated, bordering on shrill.

Spike closed his mouth with a snap. He had to hand it to her she didn’t mince words. Her defiance struck a chord, deep down, even though the sound of her voice made his head hurt.

“I tried to do what all the other women do when they’re single,” Anya continued, the words practically bursting out of her as desperation overtook her. “I went to overpriced bars with favorable lighting, wearing appropriately tempting clothes and make-up, practically shouting ‘get it here’ – and it seemed to be working too because it never took long until some man came over to buy me a drink, but when I checked it always turned out he was married and just hiding his wedding ring in his pocket. How stupid do these guys think I am? Wedding rings leave a mark, for crying out loud!”

She paused and looked at him. Spike realized he was supposed to make some appropriate gesture or comment but he was still thrown by the intensity of her outburst. “If you just wanna get laid, what’s wrong--” he began.

“I turned men into dick-less cluthalian slime-balls for cheating on their wives,” Anya exclaimed, her slender body tense like a highly-strung wire. “Or strung them up and disemboweled them, knitting pot handles with their viscera. It was my raison d’être. It was who I was! I can’t have sex with married men!”

“Right, I get that.” Spike nodded slowly. What he failed to get was what that had to do with him.

“I’ve decided,” Anya continued reasonably, “I’d much rather do it with someone I know. Like you. Like now.” She pulled her frilly top over her head, revealing a transparent, champagne-colored bra and a lot of evenly tanned skin. The discarded top landed on Spike’s discarded pants. “And you can stop hiding. It’s not like I haven’t seen your parts before. For Pete’s sake, Spike, I’ve had your penis in my vagina, so that makes the whole hiding behind the bed thing kind of silly, don’t you think?”

She had a point - hiding like that was rather undignified. Spike got to his feet, fervently wishing for the sheet Anya was still withholding from him. He also tried very hard not to look at all that exposed skin. Not to breathe in her tantalizing scent. “Please, Anya, let it go. Don’t do this to me. You know I can’t--”

“Can’t or won’t?” She asked, pinning him with a sharp glare.

Spike squirmed. “Dunno. Both I s’pose.”

“See, that’s not true. You can,” she pointed out, gesturing towards his hard-on. “So, why won’t you?” A tone of misery crept into her voice and her face creased into lines of pained confusion. “If it’s not my figure or the hair, then what is it? Tell me, because I need to know.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you, pet,” Spike tried to explain. He smelled unshed tears welling up in her eyes and fought the urge to touch Anya’s cheek and run his thumb over her lips. God, he was such a sucker when it came to high-maintenance women. He sighed. “You look gorgeous, Anya. It’s just—Buffy. I still— it’s all about her. I know it’s hopeless, of course, but I can’t stop feeling that way.”

“Buffy, why is everything about Buffy? It’s not like she staked some kind of claim on your penis. I don’t see a little flag or tattoo on it, saying ‘property of Buffy.’ And I don’t see a ring on your finger or on mine.”

Involuntarily, his eyes fell on his bare hand.

“Look here, William, I’m not asking you to forget about her. Although, after everything that happened, maybe you should. It’s not like she’ll ever let you touch her again.”

Forthright, indeed. He inhaled sharply. Her words – blunt but guileless - couldn’t have hurt more if she’d wielded a surgical scalpel and cut them in bold red letters into his skin.

“I know,” he said, feeling weary and sick at heart.

“It’s not your heart I’m after. I’m just asking you to have sex with me. How hard could it be?”

Suddenly Anya was very close but not quite touching him. Even so, her finely-toned body radiated enough heat to make his skin tingle. Spike stood frozen to the spot. With each breath he took, Spike could taste her scent – sweet and salty, laced with musk and apples and traces of almost a dozen beauty products, complemented by a subtle but alluring perfume. His gaze dropped to her pouting lips, then to her eyes.

Anya pleaded. “Don’t you like me? Not even a little?”

*‘Do you even like me?’ – ‘Sometimes…’*

He cupped her cheek with his left and stilled the trembling of her lips with a brush of his thumb. With the other hand he tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Never say that, luv,” he said gently. “Of course I like you. What’s there not to like?”

She leaned into his caress, soaking up every word and every touch like thick paper drinks up ink.

“You’re beautiful and smart, and you have everything it takes to make a fellow happy. Trust me, Anya, I should know,” he murmured earnestly.

When she leaned forward, he didn’t pull back but let her plant a kiss on his lips. “Then let’s do this,” she breathed. “And this.” She tentatively nibbled on his lower lip before pulling back, anxious to gauge his reaction.

The silken warmth of Anya’s skin under his fingers, the soft brush of her lips and her enticing scent called out to him. Her body said ‘touch me’ but her eyes said ‘hold me’ – and somehow both messages managed to pierce through the mind-numbing self-involvement his soul had burdened him with. How could more than a thousand years of evisceration and dismemberment coalesce into something so utterly fragile? Anya looked like one false word might shatter her into a thousand pieces.

Shouts and whispers, curses and songs, even rhymes and all that rot - Spike was full of words and voices, now more than ever. He just didn’t trust himself to find the right one. Therefore, he pulled her face towards him and pressed a light kiss on her lips. It started out chaste but didn’t stay that way because her fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him in place, determined to forestall a change of heart, while her lips and tongue worked their own kind of persuasion.

By the time her hands slid down to his naked waist and then further to clutch the hard flesh of his buttocks and pull him closer, Spike was matching her growing desire. The denim of her pants chafed against his skin as he pressed himself against her.

It took Anya a moment to realize that she had won, that Spike was not about to refuse her. “You still smell good,” she murmured with growing confidence, while nuzzling his smooth neck just below the ear. “Not quite so smoky but good.”

“So do you,” Spike said, his voice a low rumble. He captured her wrist and planted a kiss on her pulse, where the rush of her blood had warmed the skin to mingle the lavish fragrance of Tea Rose with her own scent. He trailed kisses down her lower arm, tickled the inside of her elbow with the tip of his tongue then worked his way to her shoulder before deftly unclasping her bra.

The overtures of his frantic love making with Buffy had usually consisted of the sounds of zippers hastily yanked down, the tearing of fabric and the clutter of buttons scattering on the crypt floor, not to mention the crescendo of crushed furniture, whereas Drusilla in all her wickedness and wantonness had always insisted on being treated like a lady, a princess. Spike still fondly remembered undoing Drusilla’s corset strings and how unwrapping her like a precious gift had always heightened his anticipation.

This thing with Anya was somewhere in the middle; neither ritualized nor bordering on destructorama, it was urgent but not quite as frantic as their coupling on the Magic Box table. When Anya reached for the button of her pants and he caught her hand, she was quite happy to let Spike peel her out of her clothing in his own time.

“So pretty,” he mumbled as he knelt before her. He kissed her flat stomach and flicked his tongue into her navel, while his hands slowly undid button and zipper.

“I meant what I said,” Anya said huskily as she stepped out of her blue jeans. “I often thought about what we did—” She gasped when his fingers slipped underneath the strings of her panties and languidly pushed them down, guiding them down to her ankles without ever losing contact with her heated skin. Moments later his tongue dipped teasingly between her smooth thighs. She threw back her head and spread her legs for him, but he rose to his feet and swooped her up. Two brisk strides and he set her down on his cot, before dropping to his knees again. He guided her hips into place and parted her legs, rubbing her inner thighs with his thumbs.

“I thought about you too,” he said truthfully. What he didn’t say was that his soul with all its outdated prissiness had enough hold over him to make every single dream about Buffy end on a gray rug between shockingly white bathroom walls, leaving him limp and horrified. And memories of him and Dru making love under a jealous moon were hard to separate from all the images of carnage. Which is why his fantasies had turned to Anya.

In a way his body was walking down a path his mind had long since traveled.

“Thought about doing this,” he murmured, and kissed the soft lips between her thighs before slipping his tongue into her. Soon he was lapping at her juices and every flick of his tongue sent tremors through her, enabling him to feel her muscles tense around his fingers. Each thrust of his fingers sent her closer to completion and when he wasn’t pleasuring her with his tongue he was talking to her, calling her gorgeous and unique, caressing her as much with his words as with his fingers.

All Anya was able to say was “Yes, yes, yes,” or variations thereof, self-absorbed and not highly original, but all he needed to hear.

She came with a kittenish mewling and fell limp, eyes closed, her hair damp and nicely tousled, her body shining with perspiration, smelling of sex, sweat and perfume. Her pretty breasts rose up and down as she panted for breath. Spike crawled onto the bed to look at her face.

Her cheeks were flushed and there was a beatific smile on her face. As she opened her eyes he found no shame or regret, only a giddiness that made her look very young.

“Kiss me, William,” she said, her voice slightly drowsy. “I’d kiss you but I feel too good to move. And after that I would like to feel your penis inside me.” Thus proving that even in the throes of her afterglow Anya liked to hold the reins.

“Right, Spike, give the lady what she wants,” Spike told himself with a grin and swooped down to comply. He plundered her mouth, rekindling her fire and then he aligned himself and sank into her in one long thrust.

“Yes,” Anya said and arched against him, taking him in even deeper.

“Yes,” he breathed and began to move inside of her.

As he was thrusting in and out, Spike felt as if some of the shutters that boarded up his mind fell away. That black-and-red place where the guilt lived was still there, always would be. Didn’t mean he had to be locked up there all the time.

He tried to make it last as best as he could, stopping several times to take the edge off, but it had been too long and Anya was so hot and her moans were spurring him on -  in the end all he could do was hold her tight as his orgasm caught up with him. He shuddered violently, but kept on thrusting long after he’d spent himself, finally managing to bring her to completion before his cock softened and his arms buckled and he slumped onto the cot beside her.

He didn’t exactly pass out, but it took him a few minutes till the aftershocks abated and his breath slowed to normal. He felt a warm pat on his arm.

“Are you alright?” Anya asked, genuinely concerned. “You look a bit—”

“Knackered.”

“I was going to say dead. I mean, I can see you’re still breathing, but still…. Although why a vampire would breathe as much as you do is quite beyond me.”

“I’m fine, just—”

“Knackered.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly, the real reason for her presence in Spike’s closet came back to her. Anya sat up and pursed her lips calculatingly.. She hadn’t found out whether Spike was a whacked-out serial killer or not, but she’d had great sex. Spike hadn’t exactly acted like a rapist or killer, more like a gentleman, okay, a horny one, but still. Did that count as a successful reconnaissance mission? She bit her lip, suddenly uncertain.

Beside her, Spike sat up as well. “So,” he said into the awkward silence and looked at her sideways.

“So,” she echoed.

Spike took in the way she nervously wrung her hands and winced. There was something sickeningly familiar in the way she refused to meet his gaze. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through clenched teeth. So, Anya thought she could continue in good old Buffy tradition, playing a round of now-you-screw-me-now-you-don’t? Sod this for a game of soldiers. He picked up his jacket from the floor and fished out a pack of cigs. Not his usual brand and Harris had been more than anal about his stupid no-smoking rule, but right now Spike didn’t give a shit. He jerked one out of the pack, stuck it between his lips and lit up.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Anya told him earnestly. “Xander won’t—”

“Harris can kiss my ass.” He inhaled deeply.

“Mine too,” Anya announced, to Spike’s surprise. “Please ignore my intervention. Since I don’t live here anymore I don’t really care whether the apartment is smelly or not. I should probably smoke too, just to annoy him.”

Spike wordlessly held out the pack for of her and she pulled one out. “I’m not going to inhale, of course,” she told him, as he worked the lighter. She held the cigarette like a typical beginner, coughed once and then puffed away.

They sat, naked, with blue smoke curling around them, both lost in thought.

“Pinch me!” Anya suddenly broke the silence that was half awkward and half conspiratorial. There was an aura of determination around her.

“What?” Spike sputtered and promptly choked on the smoke of his cigarette.

“I want you to pinch me. Here.” She impatiently held out her arm.

“If this is some kinky--”

“Just do it!”

“Whatever turns you on, luv.” He shrugged and pinched her lightly.

“No, harder.”

“You better come up with a good reason for this,” he grumbled, but he gave her a sharp pinch. He was instantly assaulted by a blinding headache when the chip gave his brain a sharp, slap-on-the-wrist sized electric jolt. He yelped and pressed a palm against his forehead, then glared at her.

Anya was rubbing her arm, but she looked pleased. She went into the kitchen to get a saucer. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” she began and vigorously tried to stub out her cigarette. “But Buffy thinks you may be killing again, even siring other vampires. I just thought you should know.”

“What? How can she—” He fell silent as, one by one, the puzzle pieces fell into place. His mien darkened. So that’s why Buffy had acted all funny last night. It also explained Anya’s unexpected appearance in his closet – she’d been sent to spy on him. He frowned. “The pinching – a test to see if the chip in my noggin’s still doin’ its job?”

“Well, duh.” Anya explained. “You didn’t expect me to spill the beans without checking first. I’m not stupid. Trust is all good and well, but I like caution better. Anyway, your chip is obviously still working, so Buffy must be wrong.”

“She is,” he exclaimed indignantly. “I’m not killing again!”

“Okay. But if you were, then you’d have to get out of here,” she told him. “I’m just saying, Buffy would stake you if she ever finds out you’re killing humans again. I mean, she ran me through with a sword without batting an eyelid.”

“I’m not killing people anymore! How many times do I have to tell you—?” But his eye fell on the pack of cigarettes that was sitting on the drawer. Not his brand. And no clear memory of swiping it.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Anya said with a cheerful shrug, oblivious to his growing unease. She began to putter about, combing her hair with her fingers, and picking up her bra and panties.

He watched her for a moment, taking in the ease with which she moved around him. There was one thing Spike didn’t get. “Why did you tell me?” he asked.

Anya considered his question very carefully before answering. “I think maybe it’s because I’m beginning to like you. I mean, the fact that we had sex doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends, right?”

Spike blinked. “Uh, right.”

They were silent for a minute or two, pondering the ramifications of their conversation.

“And if we’re friends, it doesn’t mean we can’t have sex again, right?” Anya asked, hopefully. She dumped the pile with both their clothing on the bed but made no move to get dressed.

“Um, right. Uh--you mean now?”

“What’s wrong with now?”

“Nothing.” Spike smiled.


THE END