It was a quiet night on the graveyard shift. Despite the presence of a bright and shiny full moon, which Buffy had always assumed would be a natural draw for evilness of all types, there was no sign of any action to relieve the monotony of her lonely patrol. So – no excuse then. The evil undead were clearly having a night off and she really had no reason not to head home. Back to bed. And to Riley.
And, really, that thought shouldn’t be filling her with the sort of dejected-with-a-side-order-of-despair type feelings it was right now.
She sighed and settled herself on a tombstone. So – why the big reluctance to go home? Riley loved her and she loved Riley – at least, she assumed what she felt was love, not exactly being vastly experienced, or come to that successful, in the whole ‘love’ thing. And being with Riley was… nice. Riley was… nice. And sex with Riley was… nice. Everything with Riley was comfortable and easy and warm and… well, nice. And there was nothing wrong with nice. Was there? She pouted and twirled her stake. Why was there never a distraction around when you needed one? She glanced around desperately and suddenly, there it was – a flash of platinum blond distraction between distant crypts. Buffy breathed a sigh of relief. She never thought she’d admit to being grateful to see Spike, but given the alternative was to Psyche 101 herself over Riley, Spike-taunting seemed much the preferred option. She set off quietly and hopefully in pursuit of the clearly-up-to-something – because when was he not? – vampire.
Spike was clearly intent on some nefarious purpose, because she found it surprisingly easy to catch him up without being noticed. “What’s that?” She stepped out into his path from behind a crypt and confronted him, pointing to a suspicious looking bundle in his hand.
“Bloody hell, slayer! Carry on like that you’ll give a bloke a heart attack!” Spike frowned and rapidly hid his hands behind his back. “What’s what?”
“Whatever you’ve just hidden behind your back.” Buffy folded her arms.
“Nothin’.” Spike shifted shiftily.
“Show.”
“No.”
“Show or else.”
“Or else what? You’ll stake me? Oh, I’m so scared.”
“Don’t tempt me. It’s been a pretty slow night for evil undead slaying opportunities and Mr Pointy’s feeling all neglected, so, unless you wanna make him happy – show.”
Spike held out his right hand, making an exaggerated pantomime of how devoid of anything it was. “See? Nothin’!”
Buffy gave him the patent glare. “Spike…”
He sighed heavily and brought out his left hand and what was gripped in it.
“What is it?” Buffy frowned.
“What does it look like?”
“Well, it looks like a towel…” Buffy said uncertainly.
Spike shrugged. “And they said education was wasted on you.”
Buffy peered at the bundle suspiciously. “What’s inside it?”
“What’s…? Has anyone ever told you, you have a nasty suspicious mind? It’s a towel, is all.” He unfurled the brightly coloured sheet in front of her. “See?”
“Oh, pretty flowers! And the butterfly motif? Very you.“
“S’not mine!” He pouted crossly. “Nicked it, didn’t I? Not exactly given a choice of styles.”
“But why do you need a towel?” she went on curiously.
“Because!” Spike glared at her as he re-rolled his towel crossly. “What, it’s against the law to be found in public carrying a towel now? They’re on the dangerous weapons list? Afraid I might flick someone to death?”
“No, really.” Buffy’s curiosity was well and truly piqued. “Why are you carrying a towel? Is it – I dunno – magic or something?”
Spike snorted. “A magic towel? What are you, six? Buffy and the Magic Towel. Has a certain appropriately sickening saccharine ring to it.” He paused as the Buffy glare deepened and considered. “OK,” he went on finally, “I’ll tell you.” He leaned closer to her conspiratorially. “New vampire directive. We gotta carry a towel at all times. Mop up any blood that might get spilt. Keep everythin’ tidy an’ all. Not nice – leavin’ all that gore lying around…” he gave her a tongue against teeth leer. “Can’t have it scaring the kiddies.”
Buffy gave him a level look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…” Fist met nose in a sharp tap.
“Oww!” Spike glared at Buffy and pressed the edge of his towel to his bruised nose. “What the hell was that for?” He examined the towel for signs of blood.
“Why are you carrying a towel?” Buffy spoke slowly and carefully as if to a slightly slow child.
Spike wiped his nose on the back of his hand and frowned at her. “I’m goin’ swimmin’,” he muttered gracelessly.
“Oh, right…” Buffy’s fist was raised again.
“Will you stop…!” Spike caught her hand and forced it down. “I am, you stupid bint! Bloke in a big house up Maple Drive’s gone away on holiday. Bloody great pool in his backyard just sittin’ there doin’ nothin’, so I’m off for a swim.” He looked her up and down, leer firmly in place. “Wanna come? We could…” he smiled suggestively and raised an eyebrow, “…skinny dip…”
“Do I…?” Buffy began bemusedly. Swimming? With Spike? In the… She blinked and made a conscious effort to gather her straying senses back to the sensible. “I think ‘ewwww’ probably covers that one.” She shook her head as he gave her an unconcerned shrug. “Isn’t it a bit on the cool side for swimming?”
“Vampire.” Spike sniffed and hoisted his towel under his arm. “Don’t feel the cold. No problem with any shrivellin’ of the assets, either. Wanna come see?”
“Assets? What…? Oh!” Despite herself Buffy blushed. Really didn’t want to be thinking about Spike’s… assets, shrivelled or otherwise. “No! I… you…” she flustered to a halt in the face of his amused headtilt, mustered her wayward thoughts and tried again. “Go away,” coupled with her best icy stare seemed to be the best she could manage.
Spike smirked, clearly unimpressed. “Well, your loss, pet.” He turned to go. “But if you change your mind…”
She watched him swagger off into the night, hand raised in mocking farewell, and tried hard to resist the urge to stamp her foot in frustration. Of all the irritating, pointless, annoying, lying… She really didn’t believe the swimming story, did she? Spike? Swimming? As if! Nope, he was clearly up to no good and she’d be failing in her slayerish duty if she didn’t find out what that ‘no good’ was. Resolutely putting aside the treacherous thought that following Spike also avoided the going home question, and refusing to acknowledge the niggling notion that maybe he really was going swimming and that possibility was strangely intriguing, Buffy cautiously followed him out of the cemetery.
~~~~~~
It turned out he wasn’t lying about where he was headed. Buffy watched him pause by a high, stone wall surrounding the back of a large house on Maple Drive, check carefully around him, then quickly and effortlessly scale the wall and drop soundlessly on the other side. Buffy walked slowly up to where he’d disappeared and strained her ears for any sounds from the garden. Nothing. All was still. She bit her lip, considered for a moment until innate curiosity and natural suspicion got the better of her, and swung herself up and over the wall. At the base of the wall was a tangle of tall shrubs and miscellaneous herbage, clearly chosen for their ability to entangle and maim anyone foolish enough to try and get past. Buffy was very soon regretting her decision to follow Spike – and, incidentally, blaming Spike for making it almost impossible for her not to have followed him in the first place, and swearing rapid and painful vengeance if she ever caught up with him and found out exactly what he was really up to. She picked her way forward as stealthily as she could, pausing occasionally to disentangle bits of her hair and clothing from the grasping branches of vegetation. Curiosity was beginning to pale into insignificance next to general irritation and exasperation, when the shrubby thicket suddenly thinned and the garden beyond became visible. Buffy stopped with a barely suppressed gasp of surprise.
In the centre of the moon-shadowed lawn, the pool was a still, calm mirror reflecting the velvet darkness of a sky pricked with stars. Spike stood on the edge, his naked body pale and perfect as alabaster in the moonlight. He raised his arms above his head, flexing the long muscles of his back, buttocks clenched and tight, the muscles of his legs lengthening as he stretched, lines as perfectly delineated as in an anatomical drawing, shades of silver-grey etched with shadow drawn by a master’s hand. As Buffy watched he swung forward and executed a perfectly controlled dive, entering the water smoothly, shattering the mirror of the pool into myriad moon-lit shards that danced and glimmered around him as he surfaced and set off at a steady, powerful crawl towards the far end of the pool.
From the darkness of the bushes, Buffy was dazzled by silver, by the splintered argent of the water that caressed his skin with quicksilver as he moved through it, by the cool, lustrous light of the moon that seemed to focus its brightness on the pool, painting its lone occupant with an ethereal radiance until he seemed almost to be made from the water itself, of liquid grace and fluid power. She watched, fascinated, unable to draw her eyes away, her breathing settling unconsciously into a slow, steady rhythm that matched the stroke of his arms as he swam length after length, relaxed and easy in the shining water. Time passed and she sat on, lost in the unexpected beauty of the night.
Eventually he stopped, grasped the edge of the pool and pulled himself out of the water, twisting gracefully to sit on the edge of the pool, shedding drops of liquid moonlight, gasping for a breath he didn’t need. He dashed the water from his eyes, reached back to pick up the towel, and began to rub his hair dry. Buffy blinked and the spell of silver was broken, and it was just Spike, sitting there; but a Spike she’d never seen before. He sat quietly, loose limbed and tranquil, Big Bad swagger put aside, strangely vulnerable without the armour of his black duster and with the smooth platinum helmet of his hair mussed into wild, soft curls. For a fleeting moment she saw the man behind the demon and felt something shift inside her. As it turned out, her method of avoiding the Riley issue had simply opened up a whole can of Spike-related issues that were even more confusing.
She shivered, abruptly aware of the chill of the night, and wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly, sitting here, watching with him so clearly unaware, felt wrong, an invasion of privacy she had no right to. She prepared to make her escape and cast a last look of uneasy apology at the quiet figure at the pool’s edge. At that moment Spike rose to his feet and turned, affording her a perfect view of a smooth expanse of chest above a well muscled abdomen and… Buffy’s eyes widened. Spike was not, it appeared, lying about the lack of effect of the cold and the… asset shrivelling. In fact, she had never expected that swimming in cold water could be so… arousing. Buffy swallowed. So very arousing and … oh, but he really was…ah… well proportioned… He stretched luxuriously, squinted up at the moon and idly scratching his chest. As she watched in fascination, his hand began to move downwards, until his fingers closed around the hard shaft of his penis, and slowly, very slowly, began to move. For a moment she froze, stunned by the thought of what was happening in front of her, but mostly by the sudden, dizzying flush of heat that rushed through her, the breathtaking clutch in her guts that felt impossibly like desire, the almost overwhelming urge to leave her hiding place and step forward to… oh, my God… With a monumental effort of will, Buffy fled.
Spike heard her flustered escape from the shrubbery. He dropped his hand and scanned the bushes angrily. Some beastie out there spying on him? Bloody hell! If he spotted who it was he’d rip their bloody heads off! He’d… A fleeting glimpse of a familiar slim form as it disappeared over the wall stopped him in mid-rant. Slayer! What the hell..? After a moment’s indignation, his frown was replaced by a slow smile. Well, if the slayer wanted a look at a real man – and who could blame her given the examples she was surrounded by – that was fine by him. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Chuckling softly to himself he set about drying off and slipped back into his clothes. Slinging the towel over his shoulder, he followed Buffy’s tracks out of the garden and back into the street.
He wondered how long she’d sat there and just how much she’d seen. Not that he’d say anything about it, naturally – not directly at least. Much too attached to his unlife for that. But there was plenty of double-edged slayer-baiting to be had over this, and that was vengeance enough for him. His grin widened. That, and the knowledge that she was on her way back to Captain Cardboard. Not that he was bragging or anything – hell, who was he kidding, he had plenty to brag about – but he did just sort of wonder how the inevitable comparison would… size up…
