snickfic: (Spuffy fluff)
[personal profile] snickfic
Title: To Come Home To
Spoilers / Words: post-NFA / 1200 words
Characters: Buffy, Spike
Rating: R for sexiness and a wee bit of Language.
Warnings: mpreg

A/N: Besides the Initiative, I've only ever been able to sell myself on one other Spike mpreg scenario, and this is it. Now with bonus implied post-apocalyptic backstory! There may eventually be other bits, both before and after this one.

Title provisional; suggestions heartily welcomed!

ETA: There is more of this fic, it seems. All installments may be found here.

~~~~~

It’d been four weeks at least since Buffy had cautiously resigned herself to the idea of having a baby. She’d dismissed the thought of kids long ago, the first time Angel had shot it down, and Riley’s half-stated expectations on the matter had never shaken her. Besides, pregnant Slayer? The world might not survive her maternity leave.

But okay. Spike wanted a kid, there was one already in the making, and they had a few months prep time – more than she got for most apocalypses.

Why else would she be doing a little more-or-less friendly ‘interfacing’ with some warty, green, hornless demons, if not to secure the crew’s – and therefore a baby’s – place in this brave new scheme of things? More negotiation. Bleah. She hadn’t realized how often she killed demons just to shut them up until now when she couldn’t anymore. She wondered less now why Angel’d needed an entire law firm to deal with them.

Anyway, talks over for now, peace between hers and theirs momentarily secured. The sun shone over her shoulder as she pushed in the safe house’s front door.

And found Spike, back to the kitchen counter and mouth to a walkie-talkie, hand absent-mindedly starfished over his stomach. She froze. He glanced up and saw something in her that made him drop his hand and turn away.

Buffy strode past him and climbed the stairs to the training room. Empty. Buffy took a deep breath, thought about Giles’ centering exercises, and dismissed them. With quick, unsteady movements she taped each hand and squared off with the punching bag.

Twenty minutes later the door squeaked open. Spike. She kept eyes and fists at the bag, and after a few minutes he went away again without ever speaking, which made her feel worse.

Her. Spike. Baby.

Round kick to the bag.

Scary. Maybe doable.

Jab, upper cut.

What he wanted.

Double punch. Kick to the knee.

Her: not pregnant. Huge plus.

Punch. Left jab. Punch.

Spike: pregnant.

She slammed her foot in at waist height, then jumped aside as the bag swung, chains rattling.

Sure, he’d been putting on weight – finally. Before this, he’d looked almost skeletal. Starvation levels, Giles had been talking. Still adjusting to the whole living-and-breathing thing. Now he was filling out some, and not just around the middle. He looked less like a grinning skull when he laughed, and his ribs less like a double xylophone. And if some of that weight was settling around his stomach, well, that was what happened to human guys with deep-fried fixations.

But she’d seen it in his posture, in the fall of his hand on his belly, just like every stereotypical pregnant woman ever. She hadn’t really believed it until then.

Spike was having their baby. Spike was.

She watched the bag continue to swing – hmm, might want to think about reinforcing the ceiling beam – and tried to think what to do about that.

~*~*~


She went downstairs, past the kitchen where Xander and Dawn were arguing rations, down the second flight to the basement. At the bottom she slid the door quietly open. Dimly she saw Spike stretched out on their bed, shirtless and snoring.

She crept to the bed and settled carefully at the edge. For a while she just looked, watching his chest rise and fall – not a new habit, but somehow mesmerizing now in its necessity. And below his ribs rose the smooth outward curve of his belly, not unmistakeable yet but close to it. A baby. Spike’s baby. She tried to hold onto that idea, to heft it and feel its weight, but it kept slipping away from her.

Instead she reached cautiously out and laid her palm against him, just below his navel. Warm; she hadn’t gotten used to that, either. Maybe she was just getting crotchety, now that she was approaching her mid-twenties. She couldn’t handle change anymore. Anyway, he didn’t feel pregnant, whatever that meant. Just like a guy with a taste for the Brewskis.

Suddenly she realized the quality of Spike’s breathing had changed. She snatched her hand into her lap and looked over to find him looking back. “Hey,” she said.

He glanced down to her hand and back up. “According to the telly, now’s when you tell me how carrying your kid just makes me that much sexier.”

She couldn’t read his tone; it might have been drily amused, or maybe tipped over into bitter. As she watched his eyes, her words sticking in her throat, his expression fell to one she knew on sight: hurt.

She swallowed. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

He huffed a laugh. “Can’t recall ever minding that, so long as it’s not my nose.”

Ignoring all his ever-changing expressions, she laid her hand on him again and swept a slow circle around his bellybutton. Still Spike. Her hand wandered lower, beneath the sheet, and confirmed: still her man. Oh, yeah. Her very interested man.

She glanced up, innuendo on her lips, and was startled to silence by the conflicted desire in his expression. “Is it okay?” she fumbled. “I mean, for...”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I just... I thought I might have to go the next five months without.”

“Without?” Again: startled. “But we’ve... I mean, the other night when I got off patrol - okay, no, but then last week...” She trailed off, trying to think. That couldn’t be right. She’d have noticed. She’d have missed it. Wouldn’t she? “Have we not had sex in four weeks?”

“Four and a half,” he said, hauling himself upright. “The night before... Well. Before the joyous news.”

“And you didn’t say something?” she said.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Figured you not saying anything was message enough."

Her face burned hot with shame. She probably glowed in the dark with it. “Oh, God, Spike. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, but to the sheet rather than to her. He favored her with a pained half-smile. “A bit of a blow to a man’s masculinity, getting knocked up.”

She tried to think of all the nights fucking each other alive, all the lazy mornings usually filled with lazy morning sex, and instead remembered getting up before him, coming downstairs after him, always thinking: Let him sleep. Curling herself into his arms and carefully not noticing the subtle shifts in his personal geography. Not thinking about it.

That was it: her and her award-winning talent for Not Thinking About It.

And there was Spike, sitting next to her and trying hard to look disinterested.

A half-formed thought crystallized. “You want this baby that bad? To not... for another five months?”

“Six, counting this last one,” he said. He shrugged, but she saw right through that faux-indifference, mister.

Any doubts she might have had about how serious he was? Smithereens.

Still, he needed this. He needed her to get over her squickies and do this.

She scooted in close and ran her hand up his neck, her ridiculous contrary whole-hearted ex-vampire. She craned to follow his gaze until it met hers. Then she closed in and caught his mouth – warm, and if she wasn’t used to that bit of weirdness yet it didn’t mean it wasn’t good – and started kissing him, long and slow and thorough. She had some catching up to do.

Afterward, as they lay sweaty and tangled together with the sheet wound around their legs, he said, “That my last hurrah, then? ‘Cause I’m not getting any less pregnant from here. Not for a long while, anyway.”

She rolled over, straining to think of some reassurance if what they’d just done wasn’t enough, but he was grinning, the rejected look all wiped away for the moment. “There could be more,” she said, snuggling in tighter against him. “Later. Right now Buffy go sleep.”

Drifting off, she thought: Her guy, pregnant with her baby? Not entirely unsexy.

Finis
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