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Hot water.
Buffy shivered just thinking about it. Her focus was entirely on the prospect of a bath as she walked past Spike toward the pails of steaming water. Days on the trail, sitting in the hot sun, sweating and toiling along with the rest of the wagon train’s travelers, had left her covered with dust and dirt that she couldn’t wait to scrub off. On the trail water had been a commodity that they couldn’t afford to waste on hygiene, but Buffy had still managed to clean up a bit. Her mother would've called them spit baths. Spike’s label of a ‘whore’s bath,’ while less eloquent, was fairly precise.
“Okay, how do I do this? I mean I know you didn’t carve me a tub while you were walking through the woods. Maybe you can just pour it over me? God I wish I could just jump in.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Spike who was staring at her, his mouth open, a blank look on his face. “What?”
Spike blinked at her. Once. Twice. Thrice.
He seemed no nearer speech than when she first turned and Buffy squinted at him, at last noticing his eyes seemed focused a bit below eye level. She glanced down at herself, clad in her chemise and petticoat, then back up to Spike.
“This?” She plucked at her chemise. “Spike I can’t wash with that dress on. There is grit that is hermetically sealed to me. I’m talking industrial strength loofah time.” When his expression didn’t change, she continued. “Come on, I’ve had flannel nightgowns that show more skin than this.”
Spike’s mouth snapped shut, the glaze in his gaze drifting away as his eyes rose to meet hers. Buffy wasn’t sure, but it seemed his entire body tensed, although the only sign was a small muscle in his cheek twitching. Before she could object, he’d grabbed her by the arm and drawn her away from the fire toward the rear of the wagon.
“Doesn’t matter what you think, Slayer. Only matters what everyone else thinks. To those folks out there, you’re walkin’ around nearly starkers.” His furtive glance out to the circle of wagons alerted her to the seriousness of the situation.
“Sorry.” She shrugged out of his grasp. “I forgot for a moment that we’re residing temporarily in Repressionsville.”
Spike shot her a look.
“I know, I know. When in Spain . . .”
With a soft laugh, Spike seemed to shake off his annoyance. “That’s ‘when in Rome,’ pet.”
Buffy was happy to see his mood had changed and she smiled back at him. “Here’s one. Cleanliness is next to . . . impossible here. Can we get moving with that hot water?”
“You stay here, eh? The back of the wagon will give you a bit o’ privacy. I’ll get the water.”
She watched as he took his leather gloves from the pocket of his duster and pulled them on. He grabbed the water pails by their handles, pulling them from fire, the steam swirling up and around his hands, wrists, and forearms like serpents.
“Gonna still hafta rough this. There’s some clean rags in the side box and I think some laundry soap. Best I can do.”
He sat one pail on the ground and the other on a small stool he’d pulled from the back of the wagon. Returning to the side of the wagon, he rummaged through the side box and pulled out a lump of something that looked like yellow wax and an arm full of soft, well-worn rags.
She took the items from him, looking at the water then back at him. “I’m not sure . . . what is this?”
“Soap. Well, at least what’s considered soap ‘round here. Mostly used to wash clothes, but I think it will do in a pinch for . . . you and, well, your hair. I can hang a blanket from that limb over there, give you some more privacy and then you can, well, get on with it.”
Buffy scrutinized the soap and make-shift towels, before turning to watch as Spike hopped into the wagon and retrieved the thread-bare blanket from her tick. He then tossed it across the lower branch of the tree near the rear of the wagon. It shielded her from the rest of the camp, but was by no means private to anyone that was behind the wagon. Right now, that was only Spike, and Buffy steeled herself to make-do. She would do anything to get the grit and grime off her and have her hair smelling clean again.
Spike brushed his hands off on the backside of his jeans and turned to Buffy. “I’ll jus’ go, uh, heat up the supper again.” He gestured toward the fire where the meal he’d prepared earlier sat cooling.
He wasn’t half way to the campfire when her voice caught him. “Spike?”
He turned back to her, watching as she looked from the lump of soap in one hand to the toweling in the other. “Yeah,” he offered hesitantly.
Buffy chewed her bottom lip, then looked at him. “I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, shower massages I can handle. Buckets of water, not so much.”
“Wish I could offer you a tub, pet, but this is the best I can do.” The disappointment was clear on his face.
“No, I know that,” Buffy rushed on. “And I really appreciate it. I was just wondering … well, maybe you could help me?”
Spike’s right eyebrow did a slow rise towards his hairline. “Help you?”
“Yeah, well, the bath part I can manage, but the hair washing thingy I might need a hand with. I mean what with those pails looking uber heavy and the whole lack of Slayerish strength these days . . .”
“Guess you could use an extra hand.” Spike smiled at her.
“Or two.” She nodded, looking again at the steaming pails of water.
“Lucky for you, I got a couple to spare.”
“Yeah,” she said, sniffing the soap and wrinkling her nose, “lucky me. Say, what’s this made of?”
Spike grimaced. “Well—”
“No,” Buffy threw up a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“Good choice, luv. Don’t wanna ruin the moment.”
“Nope.” She looked at the soap suspiciously, then back to Spike. “Now how do we do this?”
Spike glanced at the water pails, then back at Buffy. “You’re gonna get wet, no matter how we work this.”
“That’s fine. Get me wet.” Spike smirked, covering it quickly with his hand, and Buffy rushed on. “I mean, baths usually equal wet, so no problem.” She turned away from the ex-vamp, trying to ignore the flush of heat that had suffused her cheeks and hoping that in the dark Spike didn’t notice.
“Sounds good,” Spike said, obviously trying to hide a chuckle, and walked over to pick up the pail of water from the ground at Buffy’s feet. “Best for you to bend over, I think, let me pour the water over your hair, get it wet, then you can wash it.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Buffy nodded, bending forward at the waist, her long blonde hair spilling down to almost touch the ground. She felt a little vulnerable, and more than a tad silly, standing bent over in nothing but her underwear in front of Spike, but she tried to shrug it off. It was either this, or hair that gnomes could build a home in. Besides, she had to admit that Spike had been on his best behavior lately and, anyway, it was just Spike. She tried not worry why his presence had begun causing a little tingle of energy to work its way up her spine.
Spike tested the water to make sure it had cooled enough, then tilted the pail so that the water flowed over Buffy’s head until her hair was completely saturated. Buffy twisted her hair into a pony tail, before standing up and flipping the mass of now dark hair to her back.
She dipped the lump of soap into the remainder of the water from the pail that Spike still held and rubbed her hands together, attempting to work up a lather. After a few moments, Spike took the soap from her, rubbing the now slimy ball onto the leg of his jeans, breaking free the
wax coating that had sealed the soap and creating a lather between his own two hands.
“No fair,” Buffy said, pushing out her lower lip in her trademark pout. “No one said there were tricks involved.” She watched the bubbles of soap grow between his fingers.
Spike shot her back his trademark smirk. “There’s always a trick involved, pet. Just lucky I’m old enough to know 'em. Now turn ‘round.”
Buffy’s eyes widened as she watched his tongue run teasingly along the edges of his upper teeth. When she didn’t move, he took a step closer, his breath fanning her face. The warmth of it caressed her cheeks and for an odd reason she had to fight to keep from leaning into him.
His voice, deep and gravely, pulled her from her trance. “Turn ‘round, luv.”
Turn around, she did, almost as if his voice controlled her, like the strings that controlled a marionette. Before she even had a chance to worry about this, the ex-vamp’s hands were in her hair, his long fingers massaging her scalp. As he worked the lather through her hair, she felt the tightness flow from her muscles, the pressure of his fingers washing away the stress of the day. Without thought, she leaned back into his hands, breathing deeply as his thumb pressed into the nape of her neck and the fingers of his other hand spread and squeezed the thick soap lather into the length of hair that lay against her back.
Buffy vaguely wondered if she had ever felt this good in her entire life—this relaxed. She took in another deep breath, her eyes drifting shut. It was so nice to simply let go, to let this man take care of her. She was tired and achy, and his fingers—caressing her—gave her a brief respite. And his hands felt so strong, so able. So right.
But at the thought of letting go—of handing over control to someone else—something in her tensed. She opened her eyes, and the world swirled and danced in front of her. Legs wobbly, she felt her knees begin to give out and her vision swam into darkness as she felt her head grow light. In that instant, she also felt Spike's hands leave her hair, as he grabbed her about the waist, turning her in his arms, and keeping her from falling by pulling her against him.
Buffy clutched at Spike’s shoulders, her hands moving down to his biceps, her head feeling as if it might float away, filled with nothing but cotton and fog. She pressed her forehead into his chest, taking deep breaths of his familiar scent. The smell of strong coffee, cigarettes, and a touch of whiskey tickled her nose and helped to pull the fragments of her thoughts together.
Her first coherent thought was, where is he getting cigarettes and whiskey?
The second was, how come I never noticed what great arms he had?
The third was, why in the hell am I noticing his arms?
Hesitantly she raised her head, glancing up only to come nose to nose with Spike, his blue eyes filling her vision. Their eyes held, as time seemed to shift to neutral, still and deep like the night that surrounded them.
At his slight movement, Buffy’s eyes flickered downward, watching as his tongue appeared briefly, running over his full lower lip. Spike tightened his hold on her waist and she felt the now wet fabric move against her skin, the heat from his hands searing into her. Her breasts flattened against his chest and she felt the draw of her nipples as they tightened. A sharp tug of desire coursed down through the pit of her stomach to the core of her sex, and she felt the long muscles of her thighs tighten in anticipation.
Spike’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating, swallowing up the deep blue of his iris. His head tilted a bit to the left, and once again Buffy felt the pull—an invisible string drawing her in, until, at last, her lips met his.
For a long moment it was simply that. A small thing. Her lips pressed to his. Warm, soft, and gentle. And then, slowly, it became something else. Something more. Lips moved, slipping and slanting. There was an adjustment of noses and chins. A shifting of hands encircling her back, pulling her hips flush to his. A sliding of her arms up around his neck as warm, soft breaths mingled. Their tongues began gentle explorations of the warmth of each other’s mouths, the softer movements turning to nibbles and nips and bites of lips and jaws and necks.
Buffy’s lips moved from Spike’s neck back to his mouth, her hands moved up to grasp his neck, fingers twisting in to the curls at his nape. His hands followed suit, moving up her back, one hand tangling in the wet strands of her hair, the other flowing up over her shoulder to grasp her neck and pull her lips more firmly against his.
Buffy’s fourth coherent thought was, oh my god oh my god oh my god.
To Be Continued
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Author's Chapter Notes:
If you enjoy this chapter it’s all because of my lovely betas, beanbeans, eman, beans, and Holly. They pushed and pulled until they got this outta me and then helped me make it “just right” – at least I hope you think so!