Tub on a Flowered Mat
A cool breath caressed her throat with gentle tranquility. It was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that should have jarred her to wakefulness, but Buffy’s eyes fluttered open all the same. And the first thing she saw was a crown of platinum hair. Spike had buried his face in the crook of her neck, his arm abound her waist, his chest pressed to her chest. Her own arm had sneaked under his to drape over his abdomen; she was snuggled as thoroughly into him as physics would allow.
It was the most wholesome homecoming she had ever known.
The way he slept enchanted her. While away from his overwhelming gaze, he portrayed the charm of boyish innocence. As though his body hadn’t known a century of endurance. As though everything he was stood as the epitome of normalcy. It charmed her that his sleep could present such a picture. That she could obtain in death what she never could in life. This propriety. This belonging.
It didn’t take long for the night to come rushing back, nor the flush that should have been banished from her cheeks to overwhelm the entirety of her being. They had done things beyond the reaches of her admittedly modest imagination. Things she had long ago developed reservations against ever attempting. Things she had never heard of. Things she reckoned he invented for her sake. Things that likely had no English spelling.
Buffy’s blush deepened. It would be a miracle if she could even look at him today. With the knowledge of their indulgencies burned into her system, she didn’t think it possible. Not without defying the logic of vampirism with her impossible blushes and the promised heat of his gaze.
And that was strange, because she had never been embarrassed about her sex life. Well…okay. She was embarrassed that she didn’t have one for a while. But as for the details of whatever sex life she had, nothing ever managed to affect her.
Spike did. Spike changed everything.
And he was waking up.
Oh. Holy. Jesus.
Buffy tensed, impossibly nervous as he yawned against her throat and blinked himself to alertness. She recognized the instant he became aware of her. The instant he remembered everything they had shared the night before. And, while she was prepared to sink in the furrow of her discomfiture, his eyes found hers with sleepy adoration and banished all her worries.
There was nothing to be ashamed of. Not with him.
“Mornin’,” he purred, dropping a kiss against her collarbone.
“Afternoon,” she corrected. “And sorry.”
He frowned. “What for?”
“Waking you up by staring.”
Spike smiled his gorgeous dimpled smile and caressed her mouth with his. “I can think of much worse things,” he assured her.
A giggle touched her lips. “Such as?”
The immediate answer was there but halted before it could find release. There was no need to clarify what he was thinking. All was more than obvious with the way the glimmer in his eyes faded briefly, bringing back the wretched memories of what had been. The Slayer kissed his cheek to remind him that she was with him, drawing him back to her with lazy playfulness. Thus with a shrug, he speculated, “Slow an’ painful castration.”
Buffy made a face. He shrugged again. “You had to ask.”
“I did at that.”
“How you feelin’?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Is that a loaded question?”
“No,” he replied honestly. “A loaded question would be, ‘what would you do ‘f I were to—’”
The Slayer’s eyes flew open and she covered his mouth, flushing all over again. “Don’t. I believe you.”
“You din’t even let me finish.”
“Trust me, I knew what you were gonna say. Or something of a similar nature.”
A sly smile crossed his lips, but he shrugged all the same. “How are you feelin’?” he asked again softly.
Buffy arched a brow at him. “Well rested?” she ventured.
“’S that all?”
“Very happy?”
A shy smile crossed his lips as he leaned inward to nibble on hers. “Me, too.”
That wasn’t difficult to decipher. With a pointed look, the Slayer glanced down to the covers where she could see the outline of an impressive bulge forming tellingly against her thigh. “I can see that. Honestly, Spike…”
He chuckled, shifting slightly to sit up. “I don’ think I ever wanna leave this room again.”
“Second that notion.” Her nose wrinkled. “Though I am kinda feeling sticky.”
His eyes twinkled. “Sticky, eh?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“What kind of sticky?”
“I swear—”
A naughty hand delved under the blankets, gliding against her moist skin with devilled ease. “Ohh, yeah,” he purred. “Very sticky. Think I oughta clean you up?”
“I don’t think anything that you and I do in this bed will result in either one of us being clean.”
He smiled knowingly and removed his hand. “Well, we can’t have that. Come on, luv. Lemme draw you a bath.”
A laugh erupted from Buffy’s lips as she slapped his shoulder playfully. “Yeah,” she agreed dubiously. “And that’s gonna help a lot.”
Spike flashed her a look of pure innocence in turn. “Jus’ for you.”
“Ah. One of those baths.”
He gaped at her, unable to hide his smile, though he ducked under a look of pure feigned bashfulness and shook his head as though berating a child. “You have a dirty mind.”
Her eyes widened. “Me? I’m the one with the dirty mind?”
“Yeh. I better watch out, or you’ll sully my virtue.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Let’s Try Something I Can’t Even Spell, I—”
“Oh, feisty.” Spike’s grin was illegally devious, she was certain. His demeanor was lighthearted and, well, happy. Despite everything, she didn’t believe she had ever seen him happy. These past few days aside, in the entirety of their acquaintance, he had never had reason to emanate joy.
No, she corrected herself. During Willow’s ‘Will Be Done’ spell, he had radiated the presence of one satisfied in life. He had smiled at her. He had giddily expressed his hopes for the future. He had gotten along with her friends. He had been happy then.
And if she wanted to be terribly honest, so had she. She had been happier under the influence of magic than any of the days preceding or following. Until now.
Gettin’ killed made me feel alive for the very firs’ time, he had said.
He was right.
Now there was a frightening thought. Frightening but poetically appeasing. As a Slayer, the only time she got to live was after she died. Talk about unwanted irony.
“Buffy?”
His soft inquiry jarred her back to the present, the concern marring his features warming her insides with more than she could have asked for. With a small smile, she nodded and rose to her feet, bashfully averting her eyes as his own ran the length of her. He had seen everything there was to see—and done more than that—but the way he looked at her was positively sinful. It amazed her that he could still gaze upon her as unsampled candy after everything they had shared. “Yeah,” she replied. “Bath time.”
It was amusing watching him navigate through the hotel. Comfortable and quick with all the courtesies of home. It was likely that Spike didn’t even realize he was doing it; moving with such inside knowledge that one would suspect he had been taking up residence within its structure for years. He led her to the bathroom after throwing on a pair of sweats; she had no idea why he thought it appropriate to cover himself—perhaps to avoid temptation, perhaps out of habit.
He was too cute sometimes.
“Cordy lent me some of her poncy smellin’ bubble stuff,” Spike offered, leaning over the edge to grasp the first container that met his fingers. “An’ when I say ‘lent’, I mean for you.”
Buffy grinned. “Of course.”
“I don’ really fancy smellin’ like lavender all day.”
“Oh, come on. It’s a nice smell.”
He smirked and began drawing the bath, dumping in what had to be half the bottles’ contents into the running water. The tub itself was a bronze antique; looking to be something snatched right out of a 1950s movie set. She had never seen one and suddenly felt her stomach clench with the most ridiculous anticipation. Everything with Spike seemed heightened and exciting.
Perhaps that was the love part.
“All right,” he said, tossing the bottle aside after securing the cap in place. “In you go.”
The Slayer arched a brow.
“What?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I think I want you in there with me.”
Spike favored her with a skeptical leer. “I thought you wanted to desticky yourself.”
“We can do that, too.”
There was a pregnant pause, but in the end, he opted with a loving smile and a nod to the tub. “There’s plenty of time for the other, sweetheart,” he promised softly. “Come on. In with you.”
The water was warm and pleasant; the bubbles complete with foamy goodness. Buffy rumbled an audible groan of approval and leaned back, eyes falling shut. “Mmmm,” she mused. “You draw a wicked bath.”
“Thanks, luv. I try.”
Her eyes wedged open after a minute. Spike had situated himself onto the counter and was studying her with a small smile on his face. The picture of everything she thought herself to have earned after such a long trial in fighting for the contrary. It was frightening how quickly he had become so important to her. A long time on the opposing side of her affections. Now they had been through hell and back together. Hell and back, and there was still much to face. So much lingering on the horizon.
So much they had put on reserve.
Buffy rumbled a deep breath. “What do you want to do?”
He quirked a brow. “About what?”
“You know about what.”
A sigh shuddered through him and he looked down. “’m really the wrong person to be askin’ about this, luv,” he replied. “My opinion’s a li’l biased.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Jessica Fletcher, everyone in this building is a little biased. Even those who don’t know Angel.”
A small smile played upon Spike’s lips. “Zangy’s a loyal bloke.”
“Loyal to you.”
“An’ Cordy an’ the Bit.” When she frowned, he held up his hand to signify a person of small stature. “You saw her the other day. The girlie. Rosie. That’s Zangy’s daughter.”
“Oh. That’s the small child he was referring to?”
He nodded.
“The one that makes him play with Barbies?”
Spike grinned. “’m willin’ to bet he secretly enjoys it,” he observed. “Trust me, you get to know Zangy, you know ‘e’s not the kind of bloke that would do somethin’ he doesn’ like.”
Buffy chuckled lightly and stuck out an arm to lather. “You speak as though it’s a crime to enjoy playing with your daughter.”
“Givin’ her past, ‘s a small wonder that she’s interested in Barbies at all.”
“Doesn’t she have that older sister type hanging around?”
“Nikki.” Spike nodded. “’S her aunt. Li’l stake-happy bint. Trust me, she’s even less likely than Zangy to have introduced the Bit to the wonderful world of all things frilly. Who bloody well knows?”
“I’m thinking about inviting him to come back with us.”
There was a still pause. “Zangy? In Sunnydale?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, why not? He’s your friend and after this Darla business is over—remind me to remind you to never tell me the full story there, because, well, blech—he can come conscience free and help us beat the baddies. Besides…you two obviously mean a lot to each other.”
Spike tilted his head curiously.
“Well, you do!”
“I don’ think he’d go for it, pet.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Well, Zangy’s not liable to settle down,” he replied with a shrug. “An’ even ‘f he did, I’d wager it’d be close to Cordelia. They’ve grown bloody close over the last few weeks. An’ though he’s a vagrant bloke, he’s not the type to form attachments without them…you know…attachin’.” A sigh broke through his body. “Truth be told, I’m not too wild ‘bout goin’ back as it is.”
Buffy blinked slowly before the first wave of objection overwhelmed her. “I—”
“’m comin’, luv,” he reassured her. “You better bloody well believe it. I’m not lettin’ you get outta my sight again.” He exhaled deeply. “’S jus’ the everythin’ else that comes with it. You saw the way Glinda reacted to us. None of the rest of your Scoobies are gonna be too thrilled with the way things ‘ave gone since—”
“They’ll deal.”
“I—”
“I don’t care what they think.”
He looked at her dubiously. “Yeh,” he retorted, “you do. They’re your mates. An’ they happen to be very anti-vampire.”
“Well, yeah. And hello, me vampire.”
“You’re the Slayer. You’re also the owner of a shiny soul.”
“Spike, I don’t care what they think. Maybe I would have at one point…but I really don’t care.” Buffy shook her head, eyes determined. “I love you, and if they love me, they’re gonna have to accept that.”
“They’re gonna think I put some whammy on you.”
“Well, they’ll be wrong.”
“Or that you’re jus’ going through the Stockholm Syndrome.”
She frowned. “The what-a syndrome?”
He chuckled. “They’ll think it’s ‘cause I came after you an’ got you away from Peaches.”
“That was just a nudge.”
Spike held up a hand. “Regardless, they’re not gonna like it, pet. An’ yeh, they might get used to it an’ what all…I jus’ prefer it here. With the Angel Wankers White Hats. They treat me like one of their own without the soddin’ guilt trip.”
“I’ve noticed that you act mostly human around them.”
He smirked. “I have my human moments.”
“I was kidding.”
“Yeh. You’re a riot.”
“I try my best.” Buffy sighed and leaned back, arms stretching to either side of the tub. “Well…I don’t really like Los Angeles…though I don’t like the Hellmouth, either. Besides, there’s still Glory to consider—”
“Relax, pet. ‘m not suggestin’ we move up here. You’d hate bein’ away from the Scoobies, an’ I’d hate bein’ away from you, so sod that idea.” He shrugged, crossing his arms. “But there might be weekend visits. Perhaps daily visits, dependin’ on how much Harris pisses me off.”
“You’d really drive up here every day?”
“No. I’m jus’ sayin’.”
Buffy’s brows arched teasingly. “So you’re all talk?”
He stared at her for a long minute before allowing a large grin to spread across his lips. “Not all talk, luv,” he purred. “You found out that much last night.”
“And I reiterate, pig.”
“You love it.”
She gestured at the tub. “You sure you won’t come in?”
“You jus’ got through destickifyin’ yourself,” he observed. “That’d be a bloody waste of bubble bath, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, fine.” She pouted petulantly for a few seconds before caving and releasing a long sigh. “Will you hand me a towel, then?”
His brows arched and he nodded, hopping down from the counter and turning to investigate the prospect of towel locale. The sight of his turned back was all the incentive required. Buffy’s jolted out of the tub, seized him around the waist, and yanked him back down with her so that his back was pressed provocatively against her breasts and his head rested wearily against her shoulder.
A sigh sounded through her companion, though it was more than obvious that he was far from put out. “I should’ve known you were gonna do somethin’ like that.”
“Well, you were being difficult.”
“Villainous minx.”
“And here I thought you’d be happy that I can’t seem to keep my hands off you.”
She could feel his grin stretch across the expanse of his body, wring across his skin and fill every previously empty cavity with life. It was a wondrous sensation—exploited and deepened from her share of its feel. “Ohhh,” he purred, stretching against her. “’m happy, luv. Very, very happy. Now let me up.”
Immediately, Buffy’s arms clamped down with an exercise of strength that was—by right—wholly unfair, but she couldn’t help herself. For her purposes, she needed him right where he was, even if it was as a hostage. “I think,” she mused contemplatively, “that I wanna see how happy you are.”
Spike’s hand instantly rose to stop her own in its course. While his eyes had done nothing but speak promises of love and a desire to continue what they had started last night, he seemed otherwise intent to keep to business this afternoon. And though she appreciated the sentiment, she desperately wanted a little more time before they returned to the reality that lurked downstairs. Before she had to sit down and have a conversation with her conscience about what action would best suit Angel. Before she had to consider the inevitable return to the home that waited for her, and the friends that might shun her in light of her transformation.
The friends that would, regardless of their opinion of her, blame and reject Spike for his part in everything that had occurred.
“No,” she breathed into his ear. “Please.”
A raw, tense nerve triggered effectively and sent a wave of desire in its utmost state through his form. With a strangled, nearly piteous whimper, he nodded urgently, caressing her inner arm with a fervent kiss. Small shivers rippled across her skin in turn, her hand sliding down his abdomen with unhurried comfort. She enjoyed the full feel of him—the smooth firmness of his stomach, the way he moaned when her fingers slipped under the waistband of his soapsud-laced sweats. Everything he gave, no matter what it was.
“Buffy—”
“Shhh. Let me play.”
Another long whimper scratched at his throat. “With fire? ‘Aven’t you heard? Vampires an’ fire don’ mix.”
She grinned and nibbled lightly on his ear. “I’ll take my chances.”
Her fingers circled the base of his erection playfully, earning another garroted gasp. She murmured her approval, her other hand sliding down his arm at its convenience, barely touching him so that dribbles of water teased him in her place. “Well,” she said softly. “You are happy.”
Spike nodded desperately. “Bloody ecstatic.”
A tender smile warmed her lips. She maintained a tantalizingly gentle rhythm to her caresses, sweeping her hand along the length of him: up, back, and up again. Over and over, her thumb brushing the aching head of his need with the maintenance of a delicate afterthought. When she traced a particularly sensitive vein with her fingernail, he gasped and arched back, buttocks grinding provocatively against her burning center. She figured, however, that he didn’t even hear her answering whimper. His own coloring the air touched her in a way she didn’t think possible, even with everything that had happened between them, and she dropped her mouth to his throat, encouraging more of the same with wet, affectionate kisses.
“I love the way you feel,” she whispered, teasing his ear with her teeth. Her other hand had finally reached its objective. With restrained composure, she crossed his hipbone, outlined his skin with tentative approach, and finally cupped his sac when she knew he was on the border of losing himself completely.
“I love the way you feel, feelin’ me,” he moaned in turn. “God…you…Buffy…”
“What do you think we should do?”
That earned a blink of surprise. A palpable struggle to find his breath. Finally, after long seconds, he jarred himself to awareness and tried without success to find her eyes.
“Wh-what?”
“Well,” she replied with an innocent shrug. “You wanted to talk.”
Another pause.
“You expect me to talk like this?”
“Should I not?”
Spike moaned and his head collapsed wearily against her shoulder. “Buffy…”
Her grip on him constricted ever so slightly. “It helps take my mind off things,” she replied. “Gives me…strength.”
“While drainin’ mine, I notice.” His hands found purchase on her knees, his grip tight as he thrust against her touch. She let him set the pace, indulging slight victory in the notion that he had conceded fully to her advances. Granted, he had put up more of a fight than she would have expected, but it made the reward all the sweeter.
Only a few days into their relationship, and she knew there had never been anything within its vicinity.
“I also thought…” she continued calmly, her grip on him becoming more boisterous, her touch more demanding. “…that if maybe I talked to you like this, you’d be a little less bias.”
In response, Spike thrust eagerly against hers. “You’ve got the most incredible hands,” he commented with bated breath.
“Why, thank you. I’ve grown rather fond of them, myself.” Her thumb settled along the head and, rather than sweeping back, lingered with small, sensuous circles. Her other hand squeezed the weight of him in her palm, and when she sensed he was about to tumble over the edge, she allowed her fangs to extend and sink into the tempting alabaster at his throat.
That was it. Spike released a hoarse, reverent cry, and came. His sharp movements sent splashes of water over the tub’s side, his grip on her thighs near painful but not. Buffy kept her incisors latched in his skin, her hands stroking still, until she knew the waves were over. Then, delivering a fond and ridiculously virtuous pat to his penis, she released him completely and smiled as he collapsed against her, panting for air as though his dead lungs would collapse.
“Whups,” she said, ignoring his needy breaths of recovery. “It appears that I’ve made you dirty.”
With numb, nearly weak astonishment, Spike was finally allowed to turn in her embrace. The way his skin trembled against hers gave her the most absurd satisfaction, but she did not question it. She would question nothing with him.
“And if we want to follow this through to conclusion,” she continued casually, “we need to clean you up. And hey! We’re in the bath. Already a step in the positive, don’cha think?”
He stared at her for a long, disbelieving minute.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
“You are,” Spike said determinately, “without a doubt, the most shameless, brazen li’l hussy I’ve ever come across.”
“Actually, honey, you came on yourself. Not on me.”
Emotion stormed his eyes. “We can fix that.”
Buffy giggled, and the sound made his gaze glow with even more fervor than before. “And to think,” she mused, “I was nervous about facing you when I woke up.”
He quirked a brow. “Nervous?”
“Because of the endless and inventive sexcapades that was last night.” Even as she spoke, she could feel the should-be-nonexistent heat rise to her cheeks, and from the look coloring his features, the sight enchanted him. “I don’t know what I thought, but I was nervous. Then you woke up and everything was all right.”
A slow, seductive smile crossed his face, and he neared to plant a kiss on her nose. “You’re adorable,” he decided.
“Well, I try.”
Something slipped against her moist opening. Buffy’s eyes went wide and she arched against him. He immediately seized initiative, edging two fingers into her with smooth, learned ease.
“Mmm,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat. “You’re also slippery.”
“Uhhh…”
“Wonder ‘f that’s you or the water.” Spike quirked a brow of interest. “Think I better go check.”
As he began to descend, nibbling teasing lovebites along the way, she managed to find her voice and pounced before it could abandon her again. “Another…one…of your…scientific…observations?”
He winked at her. “You catch on fast.”
That was the last thing he said before his head ducked under the water. But then, by that time, words were highly overrated.
“How long have they been up there?”
Cordelia glanced up from her notepad, phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear. Tara was sitting on one of the plush sofas in the foyer and had spent the past half hour or so glancing nervously to the veranda in anticipation of Spike and Buffy’s debut for the evening. Thus far, she had maintained tacit patience, which was more than the Seer could say for herself. However, no one in their right mind was about to approach the bedroom chamber. The entire floor had practically been labeled as off limits.
“A long ass time,” Gunn ventured from where he was sprawled on the opposite settee. “What’d you say, Cordy? More than twenty four hours?”
She nodded. “Easily.” Then returned her attention to the phone. “Okay. So you’re taking her over to her place? Well, I guess you can bring her here if…oh no, that’s definitely better. Very. I think Zack’s a second away from making Anti-Kate Campaign Posters. Oh, lighten up. Yeah. Okay. I’ll call Wes and have him bring something for you, too. Oh come on. That’s what mortal former-enemies are for, right? Right. Later. Buhbye.”
“He’s comin’?” Gunn asked after she hung up.
“Yeah. He might as well. He’s helped us as much as he could.” The Seer shrugged. “Might as well let him in on it.”
“Wh-where is Zack?” Tara asked.
“He chaperoned Nikki and Rosie to the cinema, even though I didn’t think it was necessary.” When Gunn arched his brows, Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Well, you’ve seen the way she handles herself. Besides, the theater’s right around the corner.”
“And we have three very scary vamps running around out there.”
“And also a child to entertain, two vampires to draw out, and a big blubbering baby who can’t admit when he’s wrong.” The brunette sighed emphatically. “It’s the hard-knock life. Anyway, the last I knew, the plan was to get them there, then meet Wes at Caritas and possibly look at the library again for that girl I saw in my vision. They’ll swing by to walk the girls home and pick up some grub along the way.” She emitted another deep breath and shook her head. “I tell yah, it’s gonna be worth it for this thing to be over just so we can concentrate on work as per norm. The girl in my vision didn’t seem to be of the type that could just…wait for us to get to her, you know?”
He glanced to the upper level. “They deserve this,” he decided softly.
“Oh, I agree. I totally agree.”
“So w-we shouldn’t…” Tara gestured emphatically. “You know…get them?”
Cordelia and Gunn exchanged an amused glance. “Um, no.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’,” the brunette advised.
“They’ll come down eventually.”
“And if they don’t, we’ll drag them out.” The Seer shook her head. “It’s been hell on Spike these past few weeks. They deserve one friggin’ day off. It’s no big.”
“Besides,” Gunn added, “until she makes her decision about Angel, we’re sitting ducks.”
Cordelia frowned. “Ummm, yeah. About that. Wes’s decree that the full of our friend’s fate being left in the hands of someone he nearly and did torture to death? Not a likin’ that. I say we ensoul him now.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Yeah, it is. You know Buffy’s not gonna want him back.”
“No, we don’t know that,” he retorted hotly. “And even so, who’re we to say? After what he did, maybe he doesn’t deserve to be back.”
Tara bit her lip, uncertain.
“What happened to him wasn’t his fault, Gunn,” Cordelia spat, eyes wide with incredulity. “I can’t believe you. You’re his friend. You should—”
“Look, C, I get it. Angel has a clause. Angel’s special. Angel’s different. Angel had a soul, and therefore we oughta cut him some slack. Angel is my friend. Sort of. We have an understandin’. And that’s somethin’ that we oughta take into consideration before even mentionin’ soulin’ his ass up, all right?” The man released a deep breath and shook his head. “What I don’t get is the soul clause. If we soul him up, what’s to stop us from soulin’ every vamp we come across up? Then we’d have a society of Undead Americans—and some illegal undead aliens—runnin’ around, ‘causin’ all kinds of hell.”
The Seer’s eyes widened incredulously. “That’s so off-scale.”
“Is it? How? If it works for Angel, why not everyone else? What makes him so special, other than the fact that he’s sort’ve our boss?”
“And this is the reason we should stake him? Because it’s not fair to the others?”
Gunn reeled forward harshly. “Okay, now you’re just putting words in my mouth. I’m just sayin’ that if Angel was just another vamp, we’d kill him. Especially with what he’s done.”
“But he’s not—”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s not. He’s Angel. Our boss. I get it, O Hypocritical One.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes and pivoted sharply to Tara. “Hey. You’ve talked to the others, right? Giles and Xander and all them?”
The Witch blinked unthinkingly for a minute before she realized that she had been directly addressed. “Oh. Oh! Y-yes, I c-called Willow the f-first night…t-to tell her th-that B-Buffy was all right.” She glanced down sheepishly. “Spike had f-forgotten to call Mr. Giles.”
The Seer smiled softly and offered a sheepish nod. “It’s been hectic around here. And Spike was all worried there at the beginning that Buffy would hate him because she was suddenly a vampire.” She shook her head slightly, eyes going wide with the hint of remembrance. “When he first got here, he was like Zombie Spike. He wouldn’t leave her bedside for anything. And then after…anyway. Did Willow tell you anything about what she thinks should be done as far as reensouling Angel?”
“W-Willow doesn’t kn-know that Buffy was turned. None of them do.”
Gunn frowned. “You didn’t tell them?”
She shook her head. “I d-didn’t think it w-was my place.”
“Well,” Cordelia prompted, “regardless, what does Willow think about reensouling Angel?”
Tara shrugged self-consciously. “I—um. We t-took a poll before I left. Giles, Willow, and me all th-thought that it w-was for the best. Of course, w-we thought Buffy was still w-with him at the t-time. But Willow didn’t tell me a-anything about having changed h-her mind, even though she’s back now.” She glanced down. “Xander wanted him dead.”
The Seer snickered. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“So did Dawnie. Anya said she d-didn’t care. And Joyce is with the Council’s physicians. B-but we put wards around her room…to g-guard her from Glory.” She looked up again. “They’re taking c-care of her t-tumor.”
Cordelia frowned. “Joyce is sick?”
“They think she’ll be okay n-now. Unless s-something…they think she’ll be okay.” Tara tossed another apprehensive glance upstairs. “Are you s-sure we shouldn’t check on them? S-something might’ve happened—”
“No,” Gunn and the Seer voted unanimously.
“But—”
“No.” Cordelia shuddered. “Spike walked in on me once, and I’m really, really not looking to return the favor.”
The man’s brows perched appraisingly. “He walked in on you and Zack doing the wonky?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“He did, didn’t he? You and Wright gave Evil Dead a free—”
The Seer’s gaze widened in warning. “One more word and I’ll have the witch turn you into a newt.”
Gunn immediately sobered. “You can do that?” he demanded Tara.
Cordelia nodded emphatically. It wasn’t difficult to catch on.
“Oh, yeah,” Tara replied. “But something might go wrong, and there’s no telling if we could turn you back. Magic’s unpredictable that way.”
The lack of stutter from her tone should have indicated comfort, but Gunn was effectively silenced.
The Seer caught the blonde’s eye when he wasn’t looking to mouth her thanks. She received a shy grin and a shrug in turn, and was thus satisfied.
The floor was covered in puddles of water and they had somehow managed to flip to the opposite side of the tub. Her hands were holding his shoulders for balance that she didn’t need, his own having found purchase at her hips as she moved over him in slow, languid strokes. He once reached up to brush damp locks of hair from her face, smiling and cupping her cheek with unnamed tenderness before his itching fingers slid down the length of her. Their mingled breaths tainted the air with nothing more—not even a whisper as they came together. Falling through oblivion only to land where they had started from. Buffy’s sigh of release was almost more pleasing than his name on her lips would have been, and when she moved to rest against his chest, it was the only warmth he cared to know.
The Slayer rested against him for what felt like an eternity, panting softly as his hands skated over her back and drew her hair away from her shoulders. His touch was so gentle—beyond anything she would ever have credited him capable of. The feel of his skin against hers was enough to send her reeling through the recesses of any reality.
Not long had passed since she thought it impossible to ever endure anyone’s attentions. And while she had never doubted her ability to accept Spike’s loving caresses, she noticed she was more than antsy when it came to others. Her time with Angel had taught her to hate human contact. And yet, without it, she never would have found herself here.
A cold draft settled over her and her eyes darkened. There was so much out there that she would never have again, but even more that Angel wouldn’t. Should Angel be brought back, she knew that the torment he would face would easily compensate for everything she had suffered. The knowledge of his malevolent deeds. How he had so willingly tested her endurance. How he had resolved himself to get her to scream, no matter the technique. He had done so much to her. He had robbed her of more than she was worth, and her body ached at the thought of it.
He could have killed her. He would have. Whether from the infliction of his hands or his own prescribed notion of raping her death—she would have eventually crumbled. Every scream that she had kept inside had nearly torn her vocals out, even if it never touched the air. She was honestly amazed that she still maintained the ability to weep, for he had driven her to tears with a mere look. A look of promise. What he intended to do with her. To her. Over and over again. Just because he wanted to. Because it was a fucking riot. Because if he could get her to scream, that would jolly well make his day.
Buffy drew herself to an irrevocable inward standstill, hardly aware of the intensity with which Spike held her, as though attuned to her thoughts. And something occurred to her for the first time. Something that she suspected was implied, even if its meaning remained guarded under lines of ill recognition.
She was hurt.
But even more than that, she was angry.
Hell, she was furious. Angel or Angelus, it didn’t matter. Her insides were reaping the consequences of his abuse. Her body, though healed, still bore the innate marks of torment. She couldn’t stand it. The stink of his impression upon her.
As though the weight of the world came crashing down.
He had taken blood from her, and he owed it back. Rudimentary in theory but no less valid. Buffy had never considered herself a person bent on vengeance, and while she was still far and away from seizing what she knew she had right to claim, there was something else there. Something that was hers.
She must have tensed horribly, for Spike’s grip on her tightened in turn. “Buffy?” he murmured softly, rubbing small, soothing circles into her back. “What’s the matter?”
“I know what I want to do.”
He paused. There was no questioning her meaning. “You do?”
“Yeah.” She pulled back, a weak smile on her lips. She brushed a kiss against his own and enjoyed the shudder that rippled through his body. Amazing that the slightest touch could affect him. She hoped that never changed. “I love you, you know.”
A gorgeous smile swept his features. “Yeh…” he replied shyly.
“Okay.” Buffy smiled back in kind, squeezing her thighs as he hardened within her. “I tell you, you get a reward for being quiet, okay?”
“What kinda reward?”
She planted a kiss in the hollow of his throat. “The best kind. Just don’t interrupt me—despite what I say—until I’m done.”
“With the explanation or the reward?”
A devious smirk flickered across her face. “Both.”
An indeterminate amount of time later, Spike boomed onto the veranda, gazing out into the foyer. Every inch of him was bursting with life—the floor felt new under his feet. An entire day had passed since he last saw any of his colleagues, and for everything good and pure in the world, his mood had never been better.
Not for what he knew, however. Whatever fears and misplacements he had harbored about Angel were thoroughly eradicated. He had just had the most incredible night of his life, and existence beyond the horizon, for all the horrible clichés, looked sparkly and new.
And thus, he decided to announce it to his friends. They deserved to know, after all.
Of course, Spike was never one for convention.
“Oh what a beautiful mornin’!” he sang loudly, drawing everyone’s attention to him with delayed bemusement. “Oh what a beautiful day! I gotta beautiful feelin’, everything’s goin’ my way!”
“Hey, Casanova!” the Seer shouted in turn, unable to conceal her grin. “Do you have any earthly idea what time it is? Here’s a hint: not morning.”
“Cordelia, you are gorgeous an’ intelligent,” the vampire observed dismissively before turning his attention to Wright, who looked to have just walked through the door alongside Wesley, Rosie, and Nikki; several cartons of takeout bunched in his grasp. “Zangy, you are shrewd an’ invaluable. Charlie, you are strappin’ an’—”
“Okay,” Gunn interrupted, eyes wide. “Stop it. That’s scary.”
“Wes,” Spike continued, unabashed, “you are able an’ brilliant. Tara, much too smart for the rest ‘f us.”
“What about me?” Rosie ventured.
He grinned. “You, Bit, are the light of my bloody eye.”
“I see your scary,” Wright muttered to Gunn, “and raise you a ‘what the hell’?”
Cordelia shrugged, unmoved. “He’s just happy ‘cause he got laid.”
“I hate to think how long it’s been if he’s this happy.”
“What’s got laid?” the child inquired.
Nikki rolled her eyes, grip on her niece tightening as she led her into Wesley’s study. “Oh, real nice,” she muttered irately. “Never mind that I—yes, I—get the fun task of topic avoidance.”
Barely a soul noticed their stealthy exit, or the girl’s continuous demands.
“It’s different with the person you love,” Cordelia explained, unhampered.
“Different, I get.” Gunn tossed the vampire an uneasy glance. “That’s just unnatural.”
“What can I say? ‘m an unnatural bloke.” Spike nodded to Wright, brows perked. “You get us the goods?”
“Couple bags of O poz, that work?”
“Jus’ a couple?”
The demon hunter grinned. “Weetabix for you, chocolate for Buff. I thought you’d work up an appetite.”
“Now, that’s what I like to hear. Give us a sec; we’ll be right down. Buffy’s come to a decision.”
It was amazing how rapidly the casual jollity could plummet throughout the lobby. The simplest phrase brought them to a crashing halt.
“Very well,” Wesley said a minute later. “Be quick.”
“We should wait for Lindsey,” Gunn observed.
The former Watcher pursed his lips, unmoved. “Be quick,” he said again.
Spike delivered a mock salute. “Aye, aye, cap’n.” He whirled and retreated without another word, not reacting to the stunned tension wrought through the atmosphere. Instead, he resumed whistling showtunes, the sound carrying with him for long seconds following his withdraw.
“Here we go,” Cordelia muttered.
“We don’t know what she decided,” Wesley observed softly.
“I have three guesses, and all of them are the same thing.”
Wright’s eyes narrowed. “Just because you know what you would do if you were in her position.”
Fire ignited behind her gaze. “Now just one—”
“Stop,” the former Watcher barked. “No more bickering. It was getting us nowhere to begin with, thus there’s no reason to assume it will help us now. Buffy is the only one that Angel hurt. She saw the blunt of his power…felt it firsthand. What she decides will be honored.”
“Yeah,” the Seer sneered. “And she’s also the one that doesn’t have to deal with the consequences of what she decides. She gets to go back to her life where Angel’s an afterthought. She decides, Wes, and we’re left cleaning up what’s left over! Call me crazy but, that idea doesn’t fly well with me.”
A stormy gaze set over the former Watcher, but his rebuttal died with the sudden intrusion of the entry doors swinging open and closed again. With calm, nearly dry harmony, all eyes turned with drained, nearly apathetic observation to the new arrival.
“Angel an afterthought,” Lindsey mused in greeting. “Sounds heavenly.”
Everyone stared at him numbly, beyond the point of comment.
He frowned. “What? Have I missed something?”
To be continued in Chapter Forty-Three: Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc...