Title: Shudder 3/4 (sequel to Shiver)
Author: Elle
Disclaimer: Buffy and the others belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,
and some old guys in suits (probably).
"You really don't look well," Anya remarked, concern lacing her voice.
"I feel terrible," Buffy replied quietly.
Anya walked around the counter and pressed her hand against Buffy's forehead. "I don't think you have a fever."
"I'm not that kind of sick," Buffy responded. "I'm too miserable."
Anya frowned, thinking. "When Xander and I have a fight I feel really bad. Then I make him say he's sorry."
Buffy raised and eyebrow. "How do you do that?"
"I drive him wild with lust. You know, walk around the house pouting, wearing some skimpy little outfit, that sort of thing," Anya explained. "Men are willing to forget when they have sex on their brain."
Buffy sighed. "I doubt that'll help."
Anya shrugged, and walked back to the counter. "Oh, I forgot to ask you. What should we do with this?" She held up a glass jar filled with glowing blue goop. "Willow must've saved some after you killed that demon. D'you think we can sell it?"
Buffy' s eyes lit up. "I think I'll take it to Giles and ask."
She took the jar and headed for the door. Anya's advice might have been sound after all.
There was a strip joint down one of the seedier streets of Sunnydale called the Pussy Palace. It was hardly a tasteful establishment; garish neon lights advertised its wares for all to see: live, naked, women. Beneath that three X's blinked on and off.
Giles teetered towards the building. The windows were painted black, but he had heard that inside were plenty of attractive, gyrating women wearing little more than a shoestring. He had also heard that many of them were willing to do more than strip for some extra cash.
Being a gentleman by nature Giles had never so much as considered entering the establishment. Given his current circumstances, though, it seemed entirely reasonable.
Pushing open the door, he found himself bombarded by sound. Loud music he didn't recognize blared over the speaker system, the rhythm pounding and pulse-like.
He took a seat near the long catwalk that functioned as a stage. The place was dark and smelled like liquor and cigarettes. There were a handful of other customers, all by themselves, none making eye contact with another. A scantily clad waitress took his order, then disappeared into a cloud of cigarette smoke.
The music changed and two women appeared. Vaguely Giles heard the DJ call them Candi and Monique. One was light haired and bubbly, the other raven haired and sultry. They began to dance, which was really little more than contorting their bodies to mimic sexual acts with each other. One wore a pink bikini and cowboy hat, the other a black vinyl corset and thigh-high boots.
After removing her top the blond made her way over to him, and Giles, barely sober enough to maintain hand-eye coordination, slid a five into her g-string. She smiled at him. He was coherent enough to notice that seventy-five percent of her body was plastic.
Just as the waitress brought him his drink he heard a familiar voice.
"Fancy meeting you here…"