Fiction- Call Me

Title: Call Me

Author: Restive Nature (aka bavite)

Rating: PG-13 (just for rude and/ or dirty words)

Disclaimer: I do not own either of BtVS, which belongs to Whedon and Mutant Enemy, or X-men, which belongs to Stan Lee and Marvel comics, I believe. The characters and settings in this fiction are used for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made from the fiction.

Timeline: The timing in Buffy is vague. It’s after Spike was with Harmony, but before he really got into the Scooby gang. So season 4 somewhere, I’d guess. And for X-men, this is between the movies. Mystique is healing from the wounds Wolverine inflicted on her and is searching for a way to free Magneto from prison.

Summary: He’s known a lot of women in his time and has had a name for them all.

A/N- This is written for Twisting the Hellmouth’s Fic-for-all. Pairing #912 Spike/ Mystique.

Call Me…

 “I don’t know why you’re bothering luv,” the slightly tipsy British voice chuckled. Mystique sighed as she glanced down at her body. Normally, blue scaled skin would have greeted her eyes. But in an effort to hide, she’d been staying “in character” as it were, for longer periods of time. And the blonde form she’d assumed, after seeing the young lady she was doubling in the park, seemed to hold special significance to the cocky British punk here with her now.

“What do you mean?” she questioned softly. She really didn’t have any clue as to how his mind worked. And she had always figured herself to have a good handle on how people thought. It was simple. Fear ruled everything. Most especially, fear of her, and her kind. “And don’t call me luv,” she tacked on, slightly perturbed. But the bleached blonde Brit just laughed again.

“The scent,” he offered, gesturing towards her. “You’ll never get that bint right. Trust me, I know.”

Mystiques eyes widened, for two reasons. One, that she’d run into yet another freak that could identify her by smell alone. First there’d been that great brute that had followed Magneto everywhere, Sabretooth. And his former brother in arms, the Wolverine. And now this one. She wondered what his mutant ability was. And two, for the fact that she had noticed the way his body had reacted when she put on this disguise. Whoever the “bint” was, the Brit obviously had some sort of feelings for her.

“And what would you suggest I do, then?” she asked acerbically. Granted, the Brit had seen her in her natural form, when she’d been fighting off those creatures that had attacked her in the dead of night in the forest. As naturally agile, flexible and strong as she was, her injury was enough that she couldn’t hold them all back. But then the Brit had arrived and ordered them off. And the twits had obeyed. It had occurred to her that someone with a little power around here was a good ally to have at the moment. At least while she was recuperating.

“Go au natural,” he shrugged. “Hellmouth knows, I won’t mind.”

That was an odd choice of words that Mystique shrugged off. With ease, the blonde’s green eyed face quickly reverted back to blue. She wasn’t surprised to see the hint of relief on the man’s face. Actually, it felt nice to find someone else that she could be herself with.

“So if I can’t call you luv, what do I call ya then?” he demanded.

“How about by my name?” she retorted dryly.

“Which would be?”

“Mystique,” she supplied with a purr. His eyebrows shot up and he began to laugh all over again. “What?” she demanded irritably. “I suppose you’ve something better in mind?”

“Luv,” he began when he calmed down. “You need a name as bold and as striking as you are, pet.”

“Like what?” she demanded softly, though she was starting to get a little testy.

“Mmm,” he thought for a moment, his hand absently reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the table nearby. He took a swig and squinted up at her. “You could be my Blue Angel…” Mystique scoffed at that. “Of death,” he finished. She couldn’t help herself; an amused giggle escaped her lips. “What?” he demanded.

“B-blue angel?” she laughed helplessly.

He shrugged. “Why not?” he sighed. “I’ve had a Black Goddess, a blonde bimbo and a brassed off Slayer in my life. Why not a Blue Angel?”

“Of death,” she reminded him.

“Exactly!” he crowed. Mystique smiled. Something about this stranger was incredibly fun. Maybe she could relax and let her hair down, so to speak while she was here. And as if he were reading her mind, he perked up a bit to say, “say, you wouldn’t be up for some havoc wreaking now, would you?”

“Oh, normally havoc and I go along together quite well,” she shrugged. “But shouldn’t I be laying low?”

The blonde regarded her intently for a moment, and then seemed to understand. He shook his head. “Nah, you’d be business as usual on the hellmouth.”

Mystique was taken aback again. She could go out in public and her appearance would be considered normal? What kind of mutant utopia was she in?

“Just a word o’ warnin’, though,” the Brit broke in again. “Don’t go near the bint you were just wearing. She’d kill ya in a heartbeat.”

Okay, utopia had some drawbacks. But… “You know her scent though, right? I’m sure she’d be easy enough to avoid.”

He perked up again. “Yeah,” he breathed. “We could have us a time, my mysterious blue angel.”

“Of death,” she chuckled again. The Brit joined in and stumbled to his feet. He held out an arm to her.

“Let the havoc wreaking begin,” he yelled out. He began to drag her towards the opening of the crypt he’d brought her to. The night air was fresh and cooling against her skin. Mystique followed after him willingly, but she still had one thought on her mind.

“So what do I call you?”

“Spike, luv,” he answered with glee. “You can call me Spike.”