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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to Flibble for betaing for me!
Chapter Seven





The next thing Buffy knew, she found herself in her own bed, trying to drag her eyelids open. They seemed to have been welded shut. When she finally accomplished the task, she immediately cursed herself and the sun, slamming her eyes closed.

The hangover to end all hangovers was pounding relentlessly behind her eyeballs, her entire body pulsating with aches and nausea. Groaning and rolling onto her side, she noticed something squishy on her forehead. Buffy reached a hand up slowly to feel a strong, masculine hand pressing a cool, damp cloth to her hairline. "Xander?" she croaked, giving the hand of her caretaker a loving squeeze.

"Guess again, luv."

Buffy's eyes shot open to find a blurry Spike gazing at her from a chair beside her bed. A mix of intense pain and a flood of recollection from the previous night's events sent her flying under the covers. "Oh, God," she groaned.

"Not quite the thanks I was expecting, pet, but..." Spike said quietly. She could almost hear the smirk on his face.

She moaned again, slowly venturing out to peer at him from under the solace of her comforter. As the twin Spikes she was seeing slowly solidified into a singular person, Buffy took in the same -but more rumpled- blue collared shirt and brown leather jacket he'd had on the night before, and the dark circles under his eyes. "Did…did you stay up all night just to take care of me?" she asked softly.

"'Course not. I stayed up for the 'Passions' marathon on the soap channel," he replied, pointing to the muted TV on the opposite wall. "Bloody brilliant show." He gave her a half smile and winked, then removed the towel from her head, rinsing it off in the basin of water he'd set up on the night stand.

Buffy watched him silently for a moment, then threw her hands over her face. "Spike, I am so sorry," she mumbled through her fingers, shaking her head slowly in disbelief and guilt.

Spike gently lifted Buffy's hands from her face, holding them tenderly in one hand and replacing the damp cloth on her forehead with the other. He took one of her small hands in each of his and rubbed the backs gently with his thumbs. "No worries, Goldilocks. Like I said, had the telly to keep me company." He shrugged. "'Sides, I owed you one. You took care of me when I toasted myself all crispy-like."

She looked at their joined hands, then up to his tired, handsome face. "That's not really what I meant. I mean, yeah, thank you so much for being all with the caretaking, but I'm trying to apologize for last night." She sighed.

"It's not really me you should be apologizing to, now is it?" Spike smirked at the confused look on her face and continued. "It's my boots that may never recover."

Buffy huffed but had to crack a small smile at the jibe. "You know, saying 'I'm sorry' is hard enough without you being your usual smart-ass self."

"Well don't bother with saying it, then," he said simply. He saw her open her mouth to press the subject but cut her off. "Seriously, luv, no need for apologies. No one should be held responsible for their actions when they're that pissed."

"Oh, come on. I wasn't that angry. Was I?"

He laughed softly and gave her hands a gentle squeeze. "No, luv, where I come from, pissed means drunk. You Americans bugger everything up."

"Hey!" she started defensively, but suddenly got a very thoughtful look on her face, which slowly turned into one of comprehension.
Spike watched the emotions play across her face and tilted his head to the side. "What is it?"

She smiled up at him brightly. "Do you remember that awful old song by Chumbawumba? What was it called...Bathslapping...?"

"Tubthumping?" he offered.

Buffy nodded. "That's the one. Anyway, pissed...pissing the night away. That song suddenly seems a lot less gross."

He laughed genuinely at that. No one he'd ever met thought quite like Buffy. " You know, I actually owe you a thanks." He relished in her look of confusion a moment before continuing. "It's always good to know my prowess with kissing is still impressive enough to make women nauseated."

She blushed furiously. "Oy. I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Not in this lifetime."

Her blush slowly softened into a grateful smile as he released her hands and leaned back into his chair. Only Spike could make light of something that mortifying. She closed her eyes once more. "I just don't know what got into me last night."

"'Bout a fifth of Jack, judging by the look of my Doc's..." he said with a yawn.

She didn't need to see his face to know he was wearing that adorably annoying, cocky grin. "Ugh, this is awful. I'm never drinking again. It always leads to badness. I think I actually turned inside out at one point. And how you put up with me, I'll never know. Really, thank you for looking after me. It was way sweet of you." After a moment, when she didn't receive any kind of sarcastic reply, she opened her eyes and saw a sleeping Spike slumped down in his chair, his head drooping a little to one side.

Buffy grabbed the throw at the foot of her bed and spread it gently over him, noticing just how gorgeous he looked with his hair all tousled and curly and his lips slightly parted. Lips that only a few hours earlier had been on her own. Lips that she knew, even through her drunken haze, had kissed her back. And short-lived as it was, the whole thing still had her reeling. And damned if those lips weren't just begging to be kissed again, and only a couple of feet away...*Crap! Stop being such a dirty old woman, Buffy!* she chided herself.

With a profound feeling of frustration and renewed nausea, she threw the covers back over her head, determined to completely block out the last twelve hours of her life.





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