Summary: The Scoobies have a small accident that leads
to some major changes in their lives
Rating: NC17
Timing: Takes place S5, shortly after Family but before Fool for Love
Disclaimer All kinds of gender stereotypes were harmed
in the writing of this story. Any injured copyrights were unintentional
Notes Mydeira is my Beta Nazi, but she knows I'm her bitch.
This story was inspired by a very old Star Trek fanfic titled The Procrustean Petard,
by Sondra Marshak and Myrna Culbreath. Of course, they didn't actually have sex in theirs . . .
The title is a quote from Storm Front, by Jim Butcher.
You haven't lived until you've heard James say those three words
together in that soft, caramel rich voice of his . . . guh.
Chapter 9 Mall Rats
Spike lounged in the atrium outside the entrance to the department store, hiding under the escalator from the late morning sun. Bloody malls and their bloody skylights.
The bench he reclined on had a good view of the foot traffic, and he leaned back against the arm, sprawling over the whole bench, as he watched the people coming and going. All overfed, underactive, plump, juicy . . . His stomach rumbled. He should have remembered to eat before he came, but Buffy’s appearance that morning had distracted him.
He thought about that. He might have expected a lot of things from Buffy, but not the gentle compassion she had shown in the face of his fashion disaster. Even as large as they were, her hands had been gentle as she worked to correct his error. His scalp still tingled from her contact. And he knew she hadn’t been unmoved by it, either. He loved her in this body. It was so much harder for her to lie to him now. Spike was fully aware of her response to him in her own form, but it was subtle and difficult to prove without reaching into her pants, which, while tempting, would do nothing so much as guarantee him a good staking. But now her reaction was plain to anyone with eyes. She wanted him. Bad. And judging by the view, the Summers genes had been generous. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, imagining what it might look like, thick and long, heavily veined, the tip glistening, his smaller hand closing around it as he slowly began jerking her off . . .
“Is this seat taken?”
His pleasant fantasy was interrupted by a male voice standing next to him. He opened his eyes to glare at the twenty-something man, dressed oh so suburban in khakis and a green polo and eyeing Spike like he was some pretty piece of candy.
“Yeah,” Spike replied rudely. “Me.” He tried to close his eyes again, but the guy was persistent.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“Nah, I don’t mind. That’s why I’m doin’ all this not moving.”
“You don’t need to be rude.” The guy sounded offended, not that Spike cared. “I just thought a pretty girl like you would want some company.”
Spike raised his head again and glared. “What do my looks have to do with it? You think plain girls don’t want company, too? Go bother one of them and leave me alone.”
“Look . . .”
“I just can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” Buffy’s now familiar baritone spoke up behind him.
With a sneer at the suburban nightmare, he swung his legs over the side of the bench and rose gracefully to his feet, straightening his skirt and jacket and pushing his hair back off his neck before turning to her. “Took you long enough.”
Her face was hard. “You got a problem, talk to the management.”
Mr. Perfect looked put out. “I didn’t know she was with anyone.”
Buffy gave him a glare of pure menace, which actually looked more intimidating than usual on this face. “You didn’t really try very hard to find out, though, did you.” It wasn’t a question.
With one last furious look at Spike, the man slunk off.
She turned on Spike. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Oy, not my fault, Slayer!” he protested. “I was just sittin’ here, mindin’ my own . . .”
“Save it.” She held up one hand to stop the flow of his words, an unusually feminine gesture for so masculine a hand. “Just come on. The others are waiting for us.”
They skirted the large areas of sunlight to get to the entrance to the store where the rest of the Scoobies and Joyce were waiting. A bare instant was enough for him to read body language and size up the current situation. The witches, who normally were never more than a few inches apart even in public, were now feet away from each other. Tara had her arms folded uncomfortably over her chest while Red kept casting moon eyes her way. Every time Will tried to move closer, Tara would move away. Somebody wasn’t adapting well.
The whelp and his lady, on the other hand, seemed to be coping very effectively. She had her arm draped around his shoulder in a gesture of affection and possession that Spike had never seen them share before. And the boy, normally so reticent about showing his affection in public, was very relaxed in her embrace, leaning back against her chest in a very feminine expression of feeling.
“Well, you certainly seem to have adapted,” Spike growled. But he had the feeling it didn’t have the same effect with this voice.
“Yeah, well, I’ve discovered the greatest side benefit to being a girl,” Xander replied smugly.
“And what’s that?”
He paused for a moment, obviously for effect, before saying, “Multiple orgasms.”
All of the natural born women nodded in affirmation, even Joyce, who was blushing furiously. Spike just scowled at the boy. “You’re a right bastard is what you are.”
“What’s the matter, Spike,” Buffy taunted. “Couldn’t get picked up last night?”
He turned on her coolly. “I’ll have you know I got several offers last night. But none of them caught my fancy. I can be particular, you know.”
“Which is why you were with Harmony,” she derided.
“Buffy,” Joyce interrupted, “that’s enough.”
She dropped her head apologetically, although her eyes still flashed fire. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Now,” Joyce continued, addressing everyone, “I know everyone’s a little tense and unsure, but you have to stick together and support each other through this until Mr. Giles finds what you need to know to straighten this out, alright?”
There were nods and murmurs of agreement from all over, including Spike.
“Okay then. Tara and Anya obviously need pants and shirts. Do you think you can work together to find what you need?” The two girls nodded, Tara hesitantly, Anya with more enthusiasm. “Xander, do you know what you need?”
He grimaced. “Frankly, Mrs. S, I haven’t got a clue.”
Willow chimed in. “I do. I’ll take care of him, Mrs. Summers.”
Joyce smiled warmly at her. “That’s wonderful. I’ll take Buffy with me to get shoes and whatever else she needs. Spike? What about you?”
He shrugged. “I just need a decent pair of head bustin’ shoes and I’m good.”
“Why don’t you come with us, then.” Buffy looked like she was about ready to protest before she was stopped by another look from her mother. “Alright then, let’s all meet back here in half an hour, okay?” More nods of agreement, and the little group broke up.
Tara went off with Anya, leaving Willow to watch her go forlornly before following Xander into women’s intimates. Spike shook his head sadly and trailed after Joyce and the Slayer.
“I shop for Xander all the time,” Anya said as she and Tara picked through the racks of casual menswear. “He has terrible taste in clothes, so he lets me do it for him. What sort of things do you think you want?”
“I don’t care,” Tara replied listlessly, sliding hangers aside without really seeing what was on them. “Whatever’s on sale.”
“Xander said I should stick to trousers. Something about them having more room in front.”
Tara looked up at her. “You mean, you . . .”
Anya rolled her eyes. “I haven’t been able to get rid of it. And believe me, I’ve tried.” She looked at Tara curiously. “You mean you haven’t had one yet?”
“No.” Tara flushed awkwardly. She wasn’t looking forward to the first time she did get an erection, to feel that out of control of her own body for everyone to see. But she had to ask. “Is it uncomfortable?”
Anya thought about that for a moment before replying, “No, not really. Although it does come with that erection imperative. You know, I’ve got it, now where can I put it? Fortunately Xander’s been very accommodating about that.”
Tara spun and began vigorously searching through the rack of shirts in front of her.
Anya sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just so much harder to understand the appropriate boundaries like this. In my other body, I know I’m not supposed to talk about sex at all.”
“Nnno,” Tara apologized, “it’s mmmy fault. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Anya shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
They continued picking through the racks, and somehow Tara felt her interest lifted. She found the courage to ask, “Don’t you feel like you aren’t yourself anymore? Like part of you is gone?”
“No.” Anya turned to a rack of shirts.
Tara looked at Anya in disbelief. “But you’re always going on and on about sex and orgasms and all that. You can’t tell me none of this changes that.”
Anya looked at her in confusion. “I still have orgasms in this body. Very pleasant ones. You should try it.”
Tara froze. “What?”
“I said you should try it. I’m sure Willow wouldn’t mind. She enjoyed the orgasms she got from Oz very much.”
Tara felt that cold fear clutch at her heart again. Willow liked sex with men. What if she didn’t want Tara when she went back to just being a mousie girl again? What if she decided she really didn't like men? Would she want anything to do with her at all now, or would she look for a new girlfriend? What if Willow only wanted her for her magics? Those were gone now, weren't they? What if . . .
Anya seemed to realize that once again she’d overstepped. “Mrs. Summers is going to be wondering what happened to us. Let’s find someone to measure us so we can pick our things and go.”
“Yeah,” Tara agreed faintly. “Lets.”
Willow fought down a giggle at Xander’s shell-shocked reaction to the range of choices before him in the women’s intimates section. “Come on,” she took his hand and dragged him through to the counter. “The first thing we have to do is get you measured, or we’ll be all day figuring out your right size.”
“Oh god, Will, I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Xander, it’s not the first time you’ve seen women’s underwear.”
“Browsing the Victoria’s Secret catalog doesn’t count,” he protested. “And besides, I wasn’t going to wear it.”
“Come on, you big baby. It’s not like anyone’s going to see it except Anya.”
“Will, please . . .”
She sighed. “Look, Xander, just get measured and try a couple of things on. If you don’t like it, we don’t have to get anything.”
Before he could protest further, they were set upon by an older woman bearing the nametag Nora. “How can I help you ladies this morning?”
Willow gave Xander a small shove forward. “He she needs to get measured.”
The woman looked puzzled at Willow’s odd pronoun use, but smiled and gestured for them to go ahead of her. “Certainly. Let’s go to the fitting rooms, shall we?”
With one final pleading look, Xander gave in and followed the woman forlornly.
Nora unlocked one of the changing room doors and ushered Xander in. “Now, dear, if you’ll undress, this won’t take long. You can leave your bra and panties on.”
“Um.” He looked hesitantly from the clerk to Willow and back. “I haven’t got one on.”
“I thought as much.” She sighed, shaking her head. “We’ll you’ll need to undress anyway. This will just be a little personal for a few moments.”
“Willow?” He fairly whimpered.
Nora looked at her impatiently. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem,” Willow insisted with a smile. “Her parents are hippies. On a commune up north.” She began to get into her story. “She grew up hearing about the patriarchal subjugation of women through lingerie. She’s never even worn tights.”
Xander looked mortified, but the woman’s impatience melted away into sympathy. “You poor dear. Well, we’ll have you dressed like a proper young lady in no time.”
Xander kicked off his shoes and dropped his slacks, and with a last uncomfortable glance at Willow, began to take off his top.
She couldn’t help but chuckle as she turned aside to give him privacy. She heard Nora say, “Oh, my dear, with the right foundation garments you could have such a nice figure. And those panties will never do. They’re almost three sizes too small.”
Willow would imagine they were. They were probably Anya’s, and the girl was a stick. Xander was built round and soft, more like Tara.
Thoughts of Tara sobered her instantly.
But before she could sink into self-pity, Nora spoke from the dressing room. “Alright, dear, your friend is a thirty-four B and a size 5 panty if you wanted to pick out a few things for her.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” She went through the racks quickly, picking plain things that looked comfortable. On her way back to the dressing room, she stopped on a whim and picked out a satin set in his favorite color, a deep blue. When she got back to the fitting room, Xander was peering over the top of the stall door as Nora stood in the corridor, smiling benignly.
“Did you find everything you need, dear?”
“Yes, thank you. I think we’ll be fine now.”
“Alright. Just find me if you need anything else.” And the woman took herself off.
“I thought she’d never leave,” Xander sighed in relief. “She was trying to educate me on civilized women. Remind me to find a way to get even with you for that cockamamie story.”
She grinned. “You can try.” She handed the undergarments over the door. “You can’t try the underpants on, but put the bras on and see how they fit.”
She heard hangars clicking and a bit of grunting and stumbling before he said, “Um, Will? I might need Nora again.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have a hard enough time unhooking these things. I’ve got no idea how to actually put one on.”
“Here, let me help you.” And she pulled the door open.
“Hey!” He dropped the bra and covered his chest modestly.
“Oh relax,” she said, scooping the bra up off the floor. “I’m not going to do anything.”
“Yeah, but I’m your type now.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Xander, you’ve always been my type. And just because I like girls now doesn’t mean I go around jumping them all. I mean, I’ve seen Buffy naked lots of times and I never put the moves on her.”
“Okay, that image is very, very disturbing. Or else very arousing. Given the current situation, I’m not exactly sure which.”
She smiled. “Look, you hold it like this, upside down with the good side towards you.” She demonstrated. “That way you can make sure nothing’s twisted. Then you put it around your back, with the hooks in front.” She caught the little wire hooks in their matching eyes. “Then you hook it up, turn it around,” which she did, “slide your arms in the straps and voila.” She turned him to face the mirror, his breasts snuggly enclosed in the white lycra cups. “Lifted and separated. You take it off the same way, only backwards. Unless someone else does it for you. Now you try.” She stood back and observed as he repeated the process on one of the other bras. “You seem to be managing things okay.”
He shrugged, observing himself in the mirror. “It’s easier with Anya along. She kind of puts things in perspective for me. How are you and Tara doing?”
She sighed and dropped onto the fitting bench. “Not so good. She won’t talk to me, will hardly even look at me.”
“Well, this can’t be easy for her.”
“But she’s completely cut me off. How can I help her if she won’t even talk to me?”
“Will, what could you say to her that would make this any better for her?” He turned to face her, leaning back against the wall, his arms still crossed defensively. “It would be different if it was you. You have a lot of positive male presences in your life, of which I include myself. Oz, Giles, even your dad in his weird disconnected, over-zealous way. Who’s she got to model herself on? A loser brother and that misogynistic, emotionally abusive father. And she’s always been a lesbian. No boyfriend experience to fall back on.”
“But that doesn’t matter to me . . .”
“Willow, this isn’t about you. This is about her. Part of her is probably worried you won’t want her like this. Part of her might be afraid you’ll like her better this way. The best thing you can do for her is give her space and be supportive. She has to figure out the rest for herself.”
She took in what he said as he tried on the blue satin bra. Finally she smiled self-deprecatingly. “How did you get so empathetic?”
He cocked his head for a moment and then grinned. “Women’s intuition, I guess.”
She chuckled as he turned back to the mirror. “It suits your coloring.”
“You think so?” He turned from side to side. “I kind of like how it feels.”
“It looks good.” A devilish impulse came over her and she added, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”
He glared at her in the mirror. “Okay, now, that’s not even a little bit funny . . .”
“Oy, Slayer, what about this one?”
Buffy sighed and turned away from the incredibly dull array of men’s shoes towards the makeup counter where Spike stood, rubbing his lips together and puckering softly. She shook her head. “Too orange.”
He grinned and turned back to the clerk with a small shake of the head.
The girl behind the counter shook her head enviously. “It’s so sweet how your boyfriend helps you pick out your makeup.”
Buffy heard the smirk in Spike’s voice. “Yeah, innit?”
“Here, honey,” Joyce appeared behind her, “why don’t you go try these on.”
She sighed again and took the armful of trousers and dress shirts from her mother. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice as she turned and trudged back towards one of the men’s fitting rooms.
She hated this. She just felt so awkward and bulky. And it was so not fair that Spike was just sliding into his new skin like he’d been born to it. She couldn’t wait for training this afternoon. That at least shouldn’t have changed too much.
She pulled on a pair of khakis and a dark blue polo before going out for her mother’s inspection.
Her mom was talking quietly to Spike when Buffy came out. He took one look at her and burst out laughing, a high glissando sound that made every nerve in her body stand on end. “What’s so funny?” she protested.
“You!” he collapsed into a waiting chair in his usual loose limbed sprawl, which in this body took up almost no space and in that skirt threatened to reveal. . . “You look so white bread!”
“Spike,” Joyce said sternly, slapping his knee, “sit up straight. If you’re going to insist on dressing like a young woman, you have to start sitting like one.”
It was Buffy’s turn to snicker as he sheepishly drew himself up, closing his knees.
“Now,” Joyce continued, “I think she looks fine.”
“Yeah, now,” he replied, a bit cowed. “First fight she gets in, those pants’ll get ripped all to hell and that shirt’ll get stained in somethin’ that won’t wash out. She’s not goin’ out anywhere like this. Hell, she’s not even goin’ to school. She doesn’t need fancy threads, she needs fightin’ clothes.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Mom!” Buffy was appalled. “You aren’t taking fashion advice from him, are you? He wears the same clothes day in and day out!”
“’S because they’re practical, innit?” He turned back to Joyce. “Get her a nice shirt or two, a decent pair of trousers if it makes you feel better. But she needs heavy duty jeans with some room in them to move. And plain t-shirts she can bleach the hell out of but that are cheap enough it won’t hurt if she has to throw them away. And forget the loafers. She needs heavy tread oxfords. They’ll still look decent with the dressy stuff, but they’ll give her an edge fighting.”
Her mother turned to her. “Buffy?”
She wanted to argue. But all his points were valid. She’d seen enough of her wardrobe end up in the trash over the years to know that clothing a Slayer was an expensive proposition. “Oh, fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
Ten minutes later, she had a full stock of jeans, three packages of white cotton t-shirts, socks and boxer briefs (which Spike had wisely refrained from teasing her about), but still no decent shoes. The others came back together, each with their own armload of fabrics. Joyce scanned over everyone’s collection. “Now everyone’s got shoes that fit? Socks? Underwear?” Buffy rolled her eyes at her mother’s bluntness. The others all blushed but nodded. “Alright then. Buffy, while we get checked out here, why don’t you and Spike go down to Nordstrom’s and each get a decent pair of Doc Martens.” She fished a credit card out of her wallet and handed it to Buffy.
Buffy wasn’t the only one to protest this. “Joyce,” Spike insisted over Buffy’s complaints, “that’s not necessary. I can make do with . . .”
She forestalled him. “Think of it as doing Dawn a favor, Spike. She’s been after me for months for these shoes. She’ll just get them already broken in, okay?”
He conceded. “Well, if it’s for the Little Bit . . .”
“Good, then we’ll meet you at the food court when you’re done.”
Buffy glared at Spike as they headed back out into the mall. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
He just smiled arrogantly. “Mum always did like me best.”
“She’s not your mother.”
She wanted to knock the smug grin off his face. But she couldn’t hit a girl.
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