Buffy stood quickly and stretched, breathing in the sea air. She was getting hot, which should have been a nice thing, but it made her angry. He calls Xander, she thought, he calls Xander, but he doesnít want me to know, I was right there in the car and everybody has the nerve to act as if Iím overreacting, what if Cordelia cut Xander off, how would that go over? She leaned over the balcony, letter clutched in her hand, cursing softly to herself.
She still had the number. It was in the box with the letters. It waited there. Whatís the point? She thought, he wonít want to talk to me, so I would just be embarrassing myself.
There was a knock on the door. Buffy slid back the lock and let Giles in. They stood for a moment awkwardly; he knew she was hurt, and nothing was harder for Giles. Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck.
"Iím sorry, Iím sorry," she said, "I know you wouldnít have if it wasnít important," she wasnít ever able to stay angry at Giles. They had grown so close, he was much more like a father than her own had ever been. He was much better at the role and Buffy felt his love for her, it was tangible. When the chips were down Giles stood by her like a rock and always had, and always would. He was her Watcher, but it was more than that. The only person who had truly cared as much about her, who had never betrayed her, who had put everything on the line for her without hesitation or question, had been Angel.
He returned her hug; he had been forced to grow used to them, and they actually were good for him, Buffy thought. He released her.
"Itís-itís all right Buffy, of course, you have every right to be angry,"
"Youíve just-never lied to me before,"
He was polishing his glasses on his handkerchief. "Actually, I have," he smiled, "Harmless ones, of course, Angel helping me out occasionally, early on,"
"And all for my own good, I suppose,"
He gave his nervous British chuckle, "Yes,"
"So," she said, "How long are we going to be in San Diego?"
"Thatís being discussed,"
"Letís put it on the table, Giles, O.K.? Angel doesnít want to talk to me, but heís plotted my escape routes, heís got me surrounded by security, and heís even got some appointed person in Ireland waiting by the phone to yell at me. He wonít talk to me because he doesnít want any emotion coming into this. Heís in a dangerous position, he doesnít want me to get hurt, yadda, yadda, yadda...."
"Well," Giles hesitated, "Thatís quite a good summary, actually,"
"Fine," Buffy shook her head a little, "Fine," she took a deep breath, "So....The Record,"
"Uh-yes, The Record. Fascinating. Quite useful. Many Clutches listed in the text are still thriving, and have grown, in fact,"
"So itís been out of circulation for how long?"
"Less than a year, actually. The final date was logged last June,"
"A lot can happen in a year," said Buffy.
"Yes. What have you got there?" he had spied the letter in her hand.
"Letter," said Buffy smoothly, but this was Giles. He had seen through all of her lies already. The last time she had successfully lied to Giles she was sixteen.
"Was it with The Record?"
"Giles, this is private,"
His hazel eyes penetrated hers. He was onto her, but he was weighing his options. He decided to spell it out, even though they both knew each otherís thoughts.
"Buffy, Iím sure youíll alert me if there is anything pertinent,"
"Of course," she said. She was feeling guilty, but sharing these was simply NOT going to happen; as if Giles would want to read something so private. Heíd be mortified. Giles looked at her, and she knew he could see it in her, all of it. They had such a profound trust between them that volumes were never said out loud.
"Well, all right then, you know best, if itís private,"
"Itís over-the-top private," she said.
"Very well," he cleared his throat, and glanced around the hotel room, "Do you need anything? Can you get some sleep?"
"Iíll be fine. Have breakfast with me? We never eat out anymore,"
"Yes-have them knock you up about nine,"
"Wake-up call, Giles,"
"Wake-up call. Here in America getting knocked up means-"
He gave a laugh, blushing. She liked to hear him laugh; it was so good for him.
"Of-of course," he laughed again. "Yes,"
She sighed after he left. She worried about him. It seemed that Watchers and Slayers were sentenced to the shallow end of the relationship pool. Doomed romances were one of the only consistencies they both had in life. At least they were successful, career-wise. They were hanging on to a winning record. She was still alive and Slaying and he was still alive and Watching; according to the historical volumes that was breaking all the rules of survival. She thought about San Francisco. It had been home for almost a year. The influx of vampires coming in from the Orient was beginning to drop off anyway, so it was about time to move on, but Buffy had started to like the Victorian building she and Giles lived in; different apartments, of course. She needed tunes, and that was only one issue. They were a good team, they were as close as family, and of course they kept a close eye on the Hellmouth. Buffy half-hoped that somebody would tow Gilesíold Citron. It had to finally be on the edge of death after all those trips up and down the coast, and anyway, they needed a decent ride. She hadnít managed to talk him into a Corvette yet, but she was working on it.
She sighed again, looking at the letter. Angel had such beautiful writing. She pressed the paper to her face. She wished, suddenly, for something that smelled like him. Hotel soap was not his style, maybe sheíd go out and get some Ivory, that was one of his favorites. It always made for a long shower.
"Thereís a taste Iíve been wondering about," she said.
I was speechless, for the moment. Her hand moved over me, stroking me strongly. Now I was the one who felt exposed. Iíd tried once to keep her from venturing so far, and unsuccessfully. Buffy is the Slayer. What Buffy wants, Buffy gets, pretty much. Plus, it would be hypocritical now to tell her to stop, and rude as well. Think Iím rationalizing? You tell Buffy what to do. Once. You wonít again.
She was sliding downward on the bed, unbuttoning my shirt. The fear surged through me, but I knew I was just going to have to deal with it. She was undressing me with a smooth, calm skill, opening my clothing as if she were unwrapping a snack, tasting as she went. She was proceeding very slowly, her wet, hot mouth lingered on my chest, my nipples, lower, lower, her tongue moved slowly, lovingly, insistently. Her hands were in constant motion, slipping inside my shirt, through my hair, around my waist, downward. It was pointless to hold back; I was moaning out loud. I felt the zipper on my pants descending and my anxiety surged again, but it was weaker than my desire, which sprung right into her soft hand.
"Iíve been wondering," she whispered, "What you taste like. How salty, how sweet...how cold..."
"Bu- Bu-" I was trying to say her name and I actually stuttered.
She burst into good-natured giggles; her eyes were dancing. She moved lower, between my legs, and looked up at me. Her hand was wrapped around my manhood; she tilted it back so the tip rested on her lower lip and her warm breath misted over it. She smiled at me.
"Will you give me a taste tonight?" she whispered.
"Buffy-" I said, and then I said something that wasnít a word, because her tongue emerged and slid down the underside of my sex like a long, hot snake, writhing. She proceeded to kiss every inch of it, open-mouthed suckling kisses, exploring, and taking her sweet time about it. She cupped my testicles in her warm hand very gently and ran her tongue up and down my hardness. Warm moisture flowed freely from her mouth, bathing me, and her mouth became more and more agile; she rubbed me against her lips and cheeks, she wrapped her tongue around me, her lips were gliding up and down. Her hands were busy stroking. Nothing like this had ever happened to me, I was completely unprepared for it. Vampires donít make love, they molest each other, and girls in my day, even disreputable girls, would never even have considered anything like this.
She began concentrating on licking the tip, which is unbearably sensitive; sensations were moving over my entire body that I wasnít ready for. I was almost afraid I would loose my mind, the intensity of it was beyond my experience entirely.
She abandoned herself, slurping freely, humming a little with satisfaction in the back of her throat. She grasped the shaft and opened her mouth; she paused, looked up at me, and slid her mouth downward in a smooth, unhurried motion, taking me in hungrily. I shouted and bucked toward her. It was beyond my control not to. She rested her elbows on my hips to keep me pinned and resumed her slow, deliberate sucking. She dipped deeply, wrapped her lips around me and then slowly moved upward, drawing with smooth suction; when she reached the tip each time she brought her tongue up against the underside and curled it quickly in little tickling motions. I was not going to last much longer.
"BuffystopBuffystopBuffystop," I gasped. I was wondering if she really wanted to do this. Rediculous thought; Buffy wouldnít be doing it otherwise.
She paused, gripping me in both hands, the juices from her mouth shining on her cheeks and lips, holding my engorged, throbbing manhood against her face. Her face and mouth looked so small. She smirked at me.
"No," she said.
Her mouth slid down over me again, resuming the torturously slow, hot, wet suckling. Her hand slid under my testicles and found a tiny bridge of flesh underneath, stroking with a fingertip. Her mouth closed over me again.
I shouted like someone who was dying, and in that moment I wasnít sure if I was leaving my body or not. Her mouth moved up and down more quickly, she drew harder, her tongue flailed. Heat moved through me like it hadnít since I was living, it was a wave that brought up goosebumps, then contortions, and then I was under the wave; it was almost like drowning. My body moved as the wave demanded, bucking helplessly, thrashing. I heard myself calling her name over and over desperately. When I had finished shooting my pleasure into her mouth I was still throbbing. She held me in her mouth tenderly; little rivulets of her moisture and mine were creeping out of the corners of her lips. She released me, finally, and sat up, licking her chops like a kitten whoís had a dish of milk.
"Not too salty..." she licked her lips thoughtfully, "Not too sweet. Just right."
I was beyond speech. I lay there shuddering. She finally took pity on me and crawled into my arms, cuddling me. I needed that, I needed her to hold me. I was shaken. I crushed her to me, I buried my face in her hair.
"Buffy, Buffy, I-" something stopped me. I have no idea what.
"What, beautiful?í she purred.
"I-" my mind continued on itís own, love you, love you, I love you...why wouldnít it come out?
She shushed me sweetly, like a mother shushing an over-excited child.
I shuddered again, gripping her to me. Her arms went around me and she rocked me until the singing nerves inside me loosened; suddenly I was exhausted. She rocked me to sleep. When I woke later she was gone. I knew she would be back, but the bed felt incredibly empty.
I canít help wondering sometimes if that emptiness will end up being my punishment. You wouldnít design a thing like that, would you? Hereís Buffy..... but you canít have her. Anyone that sadistic should end up in Hell, even if itís me thatís punished.
Maybe Buffy is right; maybe Iím becoming paranoid.
Here we go again, folks, thought Buffy, see the incredible crying Slayer. She bolted up, fished through the box and found the number. She paced with it. O.K....what to say? I miss you so badly I think Iíll die, why couldnít you tell me, why wonít you talk to me, etc.... Weak.
She put the number back in the box. She paced absently, she rifled through her pack looking for nothing. After a few minutes she realized she was in patrol gear. Habit. Theyíd all talked about this, she was supposed to keep a low profile for a night, but how was she going to sleep? Ivory soap, she decided. Drugstore down the street.
She stepped out of her room into the hallway and halted. One of Xanderís team was just outside her door, back turned. Another one was at the end of the hall. They both turned to see her. Busted.
"Hey," she smiled at them, locking her door nonchalantly.
"Good evening, Miss Summers. May I be of assistance?"
"Whatís your name again?"
"Well, James, itís one of those things a girl likes to buy for herself, if you know what I mean," she smirked at him.
"I would be happy to send a team member for you," he said.
"Oh, no, thatís fine,"
"Iím sorry Miss Summers, Iím under strict orders to see that you stay safely in your room,"
Buffy decided to level with him.
"They warned you that Iíd try to get out right about now, didnít they?"
He smiled, a little relieved.
"So if I forced the issue, Iíll bet youíve got an automatic page that goes right to Xander,"
"Iím sorry, Miss Summers. Youíre the Slayer," he said. That seemed to explain everything, for James.
"Iím a Slayer," she leaned foreword confidentially and whispered, "Who needs tampons. Do you know what itís like to have a man buy your tampons for you?"
James leveled his eyes at her. "What brand, maíam?"
Damn, thought Buffy. Xanderís good. She named some fictional brand for him, just to be a pain, and went back into her room. She leaned over her balcony, scanning the darkness. Sure enough, one just behind the streetlamp, one directly under the balcony.
Hate to be a rebel, she thought, but Iím outa here. She seized the hotel phone book and turned on the television, not too loudly. She crept onto the balcony and mapped her escape route visually. She tossed the phone book just before leaping over the balconyís edge; both heads turned toward the sound of the phone book slapping the concrete one story below, and Buffy was already slipping out of sight in the shadows.