Play Ball!
Parts 1-4


Written by: Pattyanne
Author's Website

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Summary: Hospital smut. Spike Richardson is the star pitcher for the San Francisco Demons He's hit by a car, and winds up as one of nurse Buffy Summer's patients.
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel (The Series) and all of it's characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod.
AN: This won't be a long one, I promise, and I AM working on the next chapters of ATP and BED. I just needed to clear my head with a little pointless smut.
Feedback: Feedback is always appreciated. snapkik@yahoo.com

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The First Inning: Batter up!


"Hey, there! Are you waking up for me? How are you feeling?"

There was an angel standing beside him. Dressed all in white and heart-breakingly pretty, with a glowy kind of aura back-lighting her. Definitely an angel.

Which, unfortunately, could only mean one thing. For some reason....he was dead.

"Don't go back to sleep!" the angel ordered sternly. "It's past time for you to wake up. Come on, now. Open your eyes."

This was a pretty bossy angel.

"I mean it! Open them up!"

**I don't want to....**

"Talk to me!"

**Go away....**

"Tell me your name!"

**Why don't you KNOW my name? Are YOU new here, too?**

"Wake up!" the angel shouted, clapping her hands sharply together right next to his ear.

**All right, already! I'm awake...**

Taking a deep breath, Spike forced his eyes open a crack. "Stop yelling at me," he grumbled, shocked at how weak his voice sounded, and equally surprised to see that his right leg was suspended in mid air.

Oddly enough, his surliness seemed to make the angel very happy. Her face was instantly transformed by the prettiest smile he'd ever been graced with. She was obviously a professional.

"I'll stop yelling," she said, 'if you'll tell me your name."

"William," he croaked, then cleared his throat. "William...Tho- mas....Richardson. But...most people....call me Spike."

"Well, Spike...I'm very happy to meet you. Want a drink of water?"

He nodded, which turned out to be a huge mistake as it made him momentarily dizzy.

The angel smiled and helped him lift his head, offering him a drink from a green plastic cup. He took a small sip, then laid his aching head back down.

"Spike...do you know where you are?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, in as friendly a tone as he could produce.

"Are you sure?"

Pesky angel.

"Sure I'm sure," he said, summoning up a smile for her. "I mean....it's not really the way I've always pictured it, but who am I to question the Lord?"

Angel-face laughed. Beautiful, heavenly laughter. Like bells...like crystal...like....like angels laughing. He immediately searched his fuddled mind for something else amusing to say, just to hear her laugh again.

"Who indeed?" the angel said. "Are you in pain?"

That question gave him a nasty start. His eyes widened in alarm. "Should I be?"

The angel, who appeared to be sporting a name tag on the front of her white robes, shook her head. "No," she said. "You're pretty doped up."

"Excuse me?" Doped up? Doped up on what? On dope? On drugs? They're pushing drugs in Heaven?

What the hell was happening? This was insane. There were no drugs in Heaven. He had been dragged to Sunday School and Church for most of his childhood and early teens, and none of the ministers had ever mentioned a drug problem in Heaven. Not once. Angels, yes. Angel dust, no.

Well, this was certainly disillusioning. And who said they could give him drugs anyway? He hadn't even used drugs when he'd been alive. Hellishly ironic, considering that it was mostly fear of of being killed by them that had kept him away in the first place.

And it hadn't been for lack of offers He was...had been...in a profession where drugs were plentiful and easy to come by.

Nearly everyone he met had something on them that they were willing to share. But the promise of the high just wasn't enough to block out the common sense his parents had drummed into him all his life, not to mention the regular screenings performed by the team doctors.

All that, coupled with the fact that he had seen too many of his friends die painfully unnecessary deaths long before their time, had kept him straight and clean.

And now...THIS had happened! Dead in his prime, drugged against his will, and....strapped to a bed?

**What the hell kind of Heaven are they running here, anyway?**

"Heaven?" the angel asked, smiling sweetly. He must have spoken that last thought out loud. "You think you're in Heaven?"

Oh, no. This was just getting worse by the second. Dead, but not in Heaven.

The alternative was unpleasant, to say the least.

"You mean...I'm not?" he asked meekly, hoping perhaps to hear that he was in Heaven's waiting room and would be called in shortly for his interview with God. Here's a magazine to read while waiting.

"Of course not," Angel-face laughed, a little too gleefully, he thought.

Of course not. OF COURSE NOT? Well, what precisely was THAT supposed to mean?

And why would she say it that way, as if the whole idea of him ending up in Heaven was simply too ludicrous to imagine? Maybe he hadn't been saintly in his earthly life, but he certainly didn't consider himself a candidate for eternal damnation.

How in the hell had he landed in hell? He'd led a good life. He'd never deliberately hurt anyone. He hadn't cheated on any of the women he'd been involved with. He didn't steal, lie, run red lights, drink to excess, duck out on his bills, or park in handicapped spaces.

He'd always been kind to animals and the elderly, had made regular charitable donations, remembered to return library books on time, paid his taxes and called his mother every Sunday.

Jesus Christ! He hadn't even lost his virginity until he was nineteen!

This was completely unfair. What kind of arbitrary criteria did this bunch have set up to earn admittance through the pearly gates? Had he failed some sort of unknown test or something?

And as long as he was asking questions....since when did Hell have angels? And...and windows...with a stunning view of San Francisco Bay....

Where was the inferno, the screams of the damned, the little devils jabbing you in the ass with pitchforks?

He looked beseechingly up at Angel-face. Maybe this was some kind of left handed blessing from the Almighty. Perhaps it was God's way of saying, "Well, William, you haven't been TOO bad, I suppose. Now, I AM sending you to hell, make no mistake, but I'll let you take one of my angels along for company."

Spike tried to push himself into a sitting position, and almost blacked out at the blast of agony surging up and down his left arm. He was surprised to see it wrapped in a pressure bandage and strapped snugly to his chest, but before he had a chance to open his mouth, his arm said, "Nope!" and collapsed out from under him, dropping him back onto the pillow with an unpleasant thump that sent another bolt of pain screaming through his head.

**Okay, NOW it's beginning to feel like Hell...**

"Why would God let me break my arm and then give me a headache on top of it?"

"Spike...listen to me. You're NOT in Heaven."

"I know," he groaned, placing his right arm over his eyes.

"You're not in hell, either."

He moved his arm down an inch, peering up at Angel-face. "Pardon me?"

How could that be true? Heaven and Hell were pretty much the only options. It was one or it was the other.

"You're not dead, Spike. You're in the hospital."

The relief he felt at not being dead was quickly over- shadowed by the fear that he soon might be. In the hospital? Why?

"Why?"

"You mean why are you in the hospital?"

He nodded gently, not wanting to jar anything loose.

"You were hit by a car."

"Oh. Badly?" Big mouth, had to know!

"Not as badly as you could have been."

Angel-face, whom he now identified as a nurse, wrapped her fingers around his right wrist, a move that delighted him until he realized that she wasn't holding his hand, she was taking his pulse.

"You sprained your left wrist, your right leg has a hairline fracture and you have a whole bunch of cuts and bruises. None of those things are too serious on their own, but YOU also managed to get yourself a nasty blow to your head."

She was silent for a moment, counting.

"You've been unconscious since you were brought in," she added, taking an electronic thermometer out of her pocket. "Open up, please."

He obeyed, not wanting to do anything that might make her leave the room. The gadget beeped almost instantly, and she checked the results, writing them down on what he assumed was his medical chart.

Sliding the chart into it's slot on the wall, she turned to him with another one of those killer smiles. He smiled back at her.

"You rest now," she said, heading for the door.

What!? His smile disappeared.

**Say something, you idiot! Don't let her leave!**

"What's your name?" His voice cracked slightly.

**Oh, that was well done. Sound like a thirteen year old boy. THAT'LL impress her!**

But she stopped and returned to his bedside.

Now that he didn't have to be concerned about the disposition of his immortal soul, he was able to con- centrate fully on her.

Angel or not, she was pretty enough to be one.

She had beautifully clear skin that never saw harsh sun or wind. Her teeth were even and white, and she had grass green eyes with tiny flecks of gold in them. Her hair was a lovely honey brown mass, tied back from her face.

The uniform she was wearing didn't reveal much about her figure, but he didn't care. He could live a long and happy life just gazing into those amazing eyes of hers.

"I'm Buffy," she said, extending her right hand. "Buffy Summers."

He accepted her hand with what he felt to be pathetic weakness. "I'm pleased to meet you, Buffy. I'm Spike Richardson....although I already told you that, didn't I?"

Spike watched her face this time, to see if she recognized his name, but all she did was release his hand. That kicked the slats right out from under his ego.

"I'm pleased to meet you, too, Spike. But now, I have to go and let the doctors who've been treating you know that you're awake. There's also a man in the waiting room who came in with you last night, and he's been driving everyone nuts asking when you'd wake up."

Oh, swell. He made a face. "Do I really have to see him?"

Nurse Angel-face looked surprised. "You mean you don't want to see him?"

"Not particularly."

"Isn't he a friend?"

"No," Spike replied glumly. "He's an agent."

"Oh. Well, if you're sure you don't want to see him then I can probably get rid of him. Shall I try?"

Spike nodded. "I'd appreciate it."

She smiled. "Okay, then. I'll take care of it." Once again, she turned and headed for the door.

Spike felt his heart seize up. "Are you coming back?"

"Of course I'll be back," she assured him as she walked out the door. "You're my patient."

He settled back into the pillows, grinning like an idiot. His own little 'Florence Nightingale' would be coming back.

**Sure she will,** he thought smugly, spotting the call button. **I'm her patient!**

He couldn't wait!

---

The Second Inning: The Wind Up


Buffy tried hard to concentrate on her other patients. She only had three, and they certainly deserved the same attention she gave to the patient in room 205.

But there was just something about him. He was just so darn appealing, and funny....with a great smile. Every time he smiled, it transformed his already handsome face to a sweet little boyish look that she would have a difficult time resisting.

She delivered meds, took vitals, and changed dressings on her other patients, making polite conversation, but feeling no urge to stay and talk with them once her work was completed.

Checking in on room 205, she found that her patient had fallen asleep. This definitely intensified the 'little boy' look she'd already noted. His face was pale, with only the slightest hint of a tan starting. He had a mop of light brown curls that were tipped at the end with the results of a previous bleach job that he was letting grow out.

Even though his eyes were closed, she could remember well what a startling shade of blue they were, and how they sparkled when he smiled at her.

She had the oddest feeling that she'd seen him before, but wasn't quite sure where. He had to be from out of town since he was apparently not used to San Francisco traffic. Not too many locals landed in the emergency room for being hit by a car. They knew how to dodge taxis and cable cars.

This general appeal that he had for her had made her feel surprisingly protective of him...and a bit defensive.

She had dealt with the agent in the waiting room briefly and firmly, ready to switch from 'Nurse Nice' to 'Nurse Nasty' if she needed to.

Buffy had explained that although Spike was awake and lucid, he was still very weak and in no way ready to have visitors.

Although clearly displeased, the agent gave her a business card with both his office and home phone numbers on it, demanding to be called immediately when Spike was up to it.

She'd examined the card before slipping it into her pocket. It had a cream colored background and chunky black lettering stating that it belonged to one 'Alexander Harris', who was a member of the 'Rosenberg, Osbourne, and Harris Sports Management Group' .

Well, that explained a lot. Room 205 had an agent who was extremely concerned about his health and well-being, so that meant he must be some sort of professional athlete.

Shift change was coming up, but Buffy found herself oddly reluctant to leave, certainly not without telling Spike goodbye. She bought a can of soda from the machine in the nurses lounge, then sat down to work on her charts.

At exactly 10:45, a call bell sounded. She knew without even looking at the board that Spike was pressing that bell.

As she headed for room 205, she saw an aide coming from the opposite direction. Putting on a bit more speed, Buffy managed to cut her off at the doorway.

"I'll take care of it," she assured the girl. "He's just ready for his pain meds." Another light went on down the hallway. "Why don't you take that one?" Buffy suggested, pointing at it.

Upon entering the room, she saw that Spike had raised the back of the bed and was sitting up a little. He smiled when he saw her, but she could see the strain behind the grin. He was hurting.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

"A bit," he replied, obviously trying for casual nonchalance.

Buffy had prepared the injection over an hour ago, and had been carrying it in her pocket. "Well, I'll fix that for you."

"You really ARE an angel," he said softly.

Her cheeks turned light pink. "That's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," she replied as she tore open an alcohol swab and cleaned a spot on his arm. After administering the injection, she recapped the syringe and put it back in her pocket.

"The doc was in a few minutes ago," he informed her. "He said something about maybe starting an IV?"

Buffy grabbed his chart, noting the time of the injection, then studied the doctors instructions. "Hmm...yes. It's so you can administer your own pain medication. They'll put the proper dosage in the machine and then you just push the button when you feel you need it and it'll give you just the right amount."

Remembering the business card, she pulled it out of her pocket. "I got rid of your agent," she said. "For now. But I'm under orders to call him the minute you're ready for a visit."

"Oh, God...was he terribly rude?"

"Nothing I can't deal with," she said. "But my shift is almost over and I won't be able to..."

"Please don't worry about it," he said quickly. "I've been dealing with him for a while now. I wouldn't want to keep you here when you should be going home..."

It was a pathetically obvious lie. He didn't want her to go anymore than she wanted to leave. He was just too polite to ask.

Buffy glanced up at the clock. "Listen, I'm going to go and clock out now," she said, "but I'll come back and sit with you for a bit if you'd like some company."

His face brightened up considerably, and she nearly had to catch a breath when she saw again how amazingly hand- some he was.

"I couldn't ask you to...." he began.

"You didn't ask. I offered. Be right back."

*************************************************

**She sure keeps her promises!**

Spike was feeling mildly high from the pain medication, and he was pretty sure he was sporting an idiotic grin when Buffy walked back into the room in less than five minutes.

"I'm back," she announced, dropping a handbag and sweater on one of the chairs by the window.

"I see you. A vision in white. My very own angel-nurse," he murmured

Buffy noticed the slight slurring of his words. He must have a low tolerance for pain meds, which probably meant that he didn't use recreational drugs.

Another check in the plus column. He was becoming too good to be real.

Spike could hear how he sounded, but he couldn't seem to restrain his tongue. He wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, and he didn't really care how stupidly he was coming off.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm. Every time you walk into the room, I get a little bit better."

Buffy tried to disregard his blatant flirtation since he was as high as a kite, but she couldn't resist it. He was too cute for words. And the way his blue eyes sort of matched the hospital gown was darling.

"Are you wearing someone else's uniform?" he asked.

"What? Why would you think that?"

"Because it says 'Elizabeth' on your name tag."

"Oh, well...Elizabeth is my given name, and the hospital requires me to use it."

He grinned appealingly. "I like 'Buffy' better."

"Me, too. It's a nickname I picked up as a baby. No one here uses it."

His head tilted a bit. "Can I use it?"

"If you like."

"Oh, I do," he said. "A lot." Actually, he was elated. A secret name. One that only he called her. God was good.

She scooted the other chair closer and settled into it. "What shall we talk about?"

Spike ignored the question. "Are all nurses as pretty as you?"

"Every last one of us," a loud voice announced as a tall and heavy built nurse walked into his room, completely banishing any intimate glow he'd been carefully establishing with Buffy.

This must be the shift change, he thought glumly.

**Well, this just won't do at all. This isn't MY nurse. She's too big and too loud. My nurse is small and delicate, with a gentle voice. She's an angel. So, off with YOU, loud one. And don't even THINK about touching me on your way out the door!**

But Buffy, his angel nurse, was actually smiling at the unwelcome interloper. "Hey, Elena. How've you been?"

The other nurse pulled Spike's chart off the wall and flipped it open. "Over worked and under appreciated," she said. Scanning the chart briefly, she placed it on the bedside table and looked at Spike. "So, how are you feeling, blue eyes?"

"Not at all well," he replied irritably

Buffy smiled. He was practically pouting.

Elena reached for his wrist with a shrug.

"Is this really necessary?" he demanded.

"Do you think I'd be doing it if it wasn't?" Elena asked, looking at her watch and lobbing the ball neatly back into his court.

The instant he opened his mouth to answer back, the woman inserted that blasted thermometer. Spike was about to take it right back out when Buffy grabbed his hand.

"She has to take your vitals when she comes on duty," she explained quietly. "Take them and chart them. Now, behave."

She softened her words with a gentle squeeze of his hand, which pretty much took all the fight right out of him.

If his angel-nurse wanted him to sit still and submit to this harpy's attentions, he'd do it for her.

Anything to make her happy. She could parade every nurse, doctor, technician, orderly and janitor through the room if it pleased her.

"So how come you're still here?" Elena asked Buffy. "Aren't you three to eleven?"

Buffy nodded. "Yes. I'm actually off duty. This is a...a personal visit."

The thermometer beeped, and Spike nearly spat it out of his mouth.

Elena charted the results. "Yeah? Is he a friend of yours?" She wound the blood pressure cuff around Spike's bicep and began inflating it. "Funny that he wound up in the hospital where you work, huh?"

"Hilarious," Spike muttered, rolling his eyes. "Are you done?"

Elena chuckled. "Be nice to me, cutie. We'll be spending a little time together and I have all the sharp instruments," she warned him, scribbling in his chart. "Has he had his meds?"

"Yes he HAS, thank you very much!" he snapped.

The woman hadn't been an RN for twenty-five years without learning how to deal with a fractious patient. "All right, then." She replaced the chart in its slot. "Call me if you need me."

"Oh, you can count on it," Spike called after her. Turning back to Buffy, he smiled. "Alone at last."

She couldn't hold back her laughter. "She's right, you know. You should be nicer. You're gonna need her."

Spike shrugged. "I'll send her some flowers. I WILL," he insisted at her skeptical look. "I'd swear it on my mother's grave but she isn't dead so it wouldn't be binding."

Still smiling, Buffy leaned back in the chair, giving him a speculative look.

"What?" he asked, grinning back at her.

"Nothing. Well, it's just that....I keep thinking I've seen you somewhere before."

"Maybe you have."

"Yeah, but where?"

Spike shrugged. "In your dreams?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother."

"Sorry. I meant to ask if you followed the sports page."

"No. Why? Are you in them?"

"Yeah." He tried not to sound too braggy. "I play for the Demons."

"Oh, the baseball team?"

"Heard of us, have you?"

Buffy nodded. "Of course I've heard of the team. Just never heard of you."

"Ouch. There goes the old ego. Thanks ever so, angel nurse."

She made her 'poor baby' face. "I'm sorry."

Spike took her teasing in good spirit. "Well, I'm fairly new. Only been there one season, so...."

"Well, what position do you play? I don't know a lot about baseball, but..."

"I'm the pitcher," he informed her. "Maybe you...."

She snapped her fingers suddenly. "Oh, now I remember. I saw you on the news."

"Yeah?" he grinned happily.

"Didn't you break some sort of world record or something?"

Delighted that she knew about this, Spike shrugged with a small amount of modesty. "That's right. I pitched two con- secutive no-hitters last season."

"Wow....that's a good thing, right?"

"Damn right," he replied emphatically. "No one's ever pitched two consecutive no-hitters before. Closest anyone ever came was Nolan Ryan back in 1973, and his were two months apart."

She looked impressed, which pleased him no end.

He pointed at a small closet. "Are my clothes in there?"

"Um, yes." Buffy opened the closet door and pulled out a plastic bag. She placed it on the bedside table and opened it up. "What's left of them, anyway." She extracted a black tee shirt and a pair of jeans. "It looks like they had to cut your pants off in the ER," she told him, glancing back into the bag. "Apparently you weren't wearing anything underneath them."

"Nah. Never do," he replied. "Is my jacket in there?"

"Yes," She pulled it out.

"Look in the right pocket."

Buffy did as he asked. Her hand emerged from the pocket holding a baseball.

"That's the ball from my second no-hitter. I pitched a perfect game. Go ahead...ask me what a perfect game is."

She had to smile. "Okay....what's a perfect game?"

"A perfect game is when a pitcher throws 27 straight outs. See, you can walk batters and still pitch a no-hitter, but not a perfect game. In the whole history of Major League Baseball, there've only been 16 perfect games."

The animated way he was talking was really adorable. He was so proud of his accomplishment, but he didn't seem to want to be all 'boasty' about it. The more wound up he got, the more she found herself attracted to him.

"Well, I'm impressed," she said, putting his clothes back in the closet. "But maybe you should let me lock up the ball for you. It sounds like it might be valuable."

"It is," he nodded. "You wouldn't believe how much I've been offered for it."

"Then I should definitely lock it up."

He tilted his head again in that adorable way. "Tell you what," he said, "why don't you have it?"

"Me?" she asked, surprised. "I couldn't do that."

"Why not? It's my ball. I can do what I like with it."

"Because....well, because you hardly know me. Why would you want to give me one of your perfect balls?"

The comment hung in the air between them for a moment, then they both laughed at the same time.

"I meant...I mean...." Buffy said, her cheeks turning red.

"I know what you meant," Spike said. "Look, if you don't want my balls..."

"Stop that!"

"What? You mean you DO want my balls?"

"I'm getting a stitch in my side," she gasped. "Now stop..."

He took a deep breath, and waited for her to stop laughing.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You didn't just laugh yourself back into pain, did you?"

"No. I just...well, I need to...use the...you know," he said, glancing pointedly at his lap.

"Oh. All right. Do you need the bed pan or the urinal?"

Now, HIS cheeks turned slightly red. "Just the urinal."

She handed it to him, then pulled the curtain closed around the bed and waited.

"Um...angel-nurse?" His voice sounded a bit strained.

"Problem?" she asked.

"Just a small one."

She peeked around the side of the curtain, then nearly gasped out loud.

**A small one? Sure as heck doesn't look like a small one to me!!!**

---

The Third Inning: The Pitch


Clinical detachment. It was something that all doctors and nurses had to practice. Let the guard down, let the emotions show, and you'd spend too much time sobbing in an analyst's chair.

Buffy had actually been taught that. It was a part of her nurses training, and she'd been fairly good about practicing it the way it had been preached. Somehow, she had managed to find a comfort zone, a place in between the points of 'not caring at all' and 'caring far too much than was good for sound mental health'.

Then, Spike Richardson had landed in her life, and clinical detachment had flown right out the window.

His charm, good looks, and blatant flirtation had completely disarmed her, and mixed in with all that was a powerful amount of physical attraction.

Simply put....the man was adorable, in more ways than one. How could she possibly be expected to not notice it, or disregard it, when it was coming at her like a freight train?

And she could pinpoint the exact moment her detachment had taken a powder; when she'd been called in by him for assistance with the urinal.

The instant she'd moved back the curtain and beheld his rather charming predicament, it had begun to slip. When her eyes had moved down to the 'trouble zone', it had picked up the pace.

For along with all the other goodies he possessed, the ones visible when he was fully dressed, he also happened to be extremely well equipped in a way most men only wished they were.

In order to keep herself from staring like some over- sexed baseball groupie, Buffy had gone right into 'stern nurse' mode, all business and practical concern.

Quickly deducing that his problem lay in the fact that he was performing the necessary maneuvers with only one good hand, and 'spillage' had occurred...not a lot, but enough to be uncomfortable...she had acted.

After dumping the contents of the urinal into the toilet, she had filled a plastic basin with warm, soapy water and cleaned him up, then fetched fresh bedding from the linen closet and changed the damp bed sheet.

By the time she'd finished with the chores, his pain medication had begun kicking in and was making him drowsy. He fell asleep right before her eyes, and she'd gathered together her belongings and left, briefly stopping at the nurses station to inform Elena of his output.

It was nearly one in the morning by the time she'd arrived home, but she'd been oddly hyped up and had trouble getting to sleep.

Now, when it was nearly time for her shift to begin, she was nervous.....and a little excited....at the prospect of seeing him again.

It seemed that clinical detachment had deserted her for good.

********************************

She pushed her card into the time clock slot, waited for the loud 'chunk' sound, then removed it and slipped it back into its place on the board. With one last look in the mirror to check her appearance, she stepped out of the lounge.

Without even turning her head in the proper direction, Buffy knew that there was something going on in room 215.

Loud voices, raised in the tones of affectionate teasing, rose from the end of the hallway.

"What in the....."

Anything else she'd been about to say was forever lost when a small hand tapped her shoulder and she turned to see one of the daytime LVNs grinning at her.

"Elizabeth!" the girl squeaked. "Do you know who we've got in 215?"

"Um, yeah...." Buffy peeked at the girls name tag. "...Amy."

"Have you seen them yet?"

Buffy frowned. Them?

"Them? Who's them?" she asked, heedless of her poor grammar.

Without her really being aware they were doing it, her feet began moving her along towards room 215. She tuned out Amy's babbling voice and concentrated on the noise coming from Spike's room.

Once she got there, she had to push her way into the room past at least a half dozen young men who looked to be in the same age bracket as her patient, or maybe just a little older.

Two other nurses were in the room as well, and the flirtatious banter was being lobbed back and forth like tennis balls.

"Angel Nurse!" she heard Spike say loudly, and she pushed her way through the crowd of young men towering over her. "You're back!"

"Uh, yeah....of course I am." Buffy tried to do a head count to determine how many of these boys she was going to have to eject from the room.

"Here." Spike held out his arm, still grinning. "Go ahead and take my pulse. She does this every time she comes in the room," he informed his friends.

Absently, Buffy placed her fingers around his wrist and counted. When 15 seconds passed, she grabbed his chart and made a note of it.

"Guess who these guys are?" he challenged her.

Buffy's eyes skipped from one man to the next. "Oh, I'll say that they're probably the rest of the team."

"That's right!" he said brightly. "Yeah....that's Xander... Xander Harris, he's the catcher. And that one there is Riley Finn....best first baseman ever. That's Nick Newmar, our shortstop, Alan Powell...he plays second, and that one there is Jack Calvin....he's on third. Then there's....hey, where did Elliott disappear to....he's our...oh, there he is...Elliott Hodge. We stick him way out in deep left field so he can sleep through all the games."

"Up yours, Richardson," an amused voice stated.

Loud laughter rang out in the room.

"Everyone....this is B....this is Elizabeth. She's my very own angel nurse." He pointed one finger at Nick. "You stay away from her."

"What'd I do?" the shortstop asked, placing one hand on his chest and trying to look innocent. He made his blue eyes wide, and gave Buffy a lop sided smile. "Nice to meet you, Elizabeth," he said, pushing a mop of wavy blond hair back. "Don't let the kid run you off your feet," he added. "He's not as hurt as tries to make out."

"Well, actually...." Buffy began to speak, but was cut off by the third baseman.

"Probably stepped in front of the car on purpose," Jack said. "Just to get a little time off." His eyes, a deeper blue than his teammates, gave off a boyish sparkle that was difficult to discount. When you combined it with medium length sable brown hair, his attraction factor carried quite a kick. He looked to be a little younger than the others, and Buffy couldn't help smiling back at him.

The second baseman, Alan, leaned back against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "You taking good care of our star pitcher?" he asked, his dark grey eyes moving up and down her body with frank admiration.

Here was one who knew exactly how attractive he was, Buffy thought. Those eyes were sharp, and didn't miss a thing. The other two nurses in the room were practically sighing as they took in the blond hair, the nicely built chest and the impressive height. In a room full of tall men, he was the tallest.

"Well, I'm TRYING to," Buffy replied, placing her hands on her hips and shaking her head. "I'm not sure all this racket is helping," she scolded.

"Uh-oh!" the one who'd been introduced as Xander piped up. "I think we're in trouble, guys."

One of the afternoon aides walked in, dressed in a white blouse and peppermint candy striped pinafore, carrying a plastic pitcher of ice water and setting it down on the bedside table....a table that already had a water pitcher on it, Buffy noted, to go along with the one on the other bedside table...and the two on the small counter by the sink.

Spike Richardson smiled and said 'thank you', even though the mission of mercy was highly unnecessary, nothing more than an obvious ploy to gain admittance to the roomful of handsome baseball players.

Dawn, as the girl's name tag proclaimed her to be, blushed a light shade of pink and smiled. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, with a couple of wisps escaping the elastic.

Buffy caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and she turned to see a man she hadn't known was there stand up suddenly. Although fairly tall, this one appeared to be markedly younger than the others, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and she wondered what position HE played.

"Hi," he said, gazing at the pretty teenage girl with an enraptured look in his eyes.

Dawn returned that gaze back at him and murmured, "Hi.."

Seeing that the two kids were slightly tongue-tied, Spike helped them out. "Um....this is Sammy," he said, gesturing at the gawking boy. "He's our bat boy."

Which would explain his relative youth, Buffy thought.

"He's a bit older than they usually are," Spike went on, "but he kept showing up at the park every day, begging for the job. Drove our coach crazy until he finally gave in."

Sammy's cheeks flushed a little, but he didn't seem displeased. With his dark brown curls and eyes like melting chocolate, the reddish tinge looked good on him.

Buffy waited a moment, then tapped the girl on her arm. "Do you think you could start collecting the lunch trays?" she asked, trying to control her smile. "It won't be long until they'll need them in the kitchen for dinner."

Dawn's blush increased. "Oh, I'm....yeah, I'll go and...and do that right now. Sorry...I just...um..."

Sammy practically fell over his own feet trying to get to the door. "I'll help," he volunteered, making the guys in the room snicker and nudge each other.

Buffy found the situation very sweet, and if one of them dared to make any kind of off color remark, she was fully prepared to box that person's ears but good.

She leaned out the door and watched as Dawn moved in and out of rooms, sliding the trays back onto the cart that Sammy pushed along the corridor for her.

Turning back into the room, she saw Spike smiling. "Cute, isn't it?"

Buffy had to agree.

************************************

Deciding to give them all a few more minutes of visiting time before she kicked the team out, Buffy went about tending to her other patients.

Once she had all her medications delivered and treatments performed she charted the results and then made her way back to 215.

Although she would have supposed that a young man who seemed to be so popular with his teammates would garner a great deal of sympathy for his injury, she was a little surprised to hear them all treating it like it was hysterically funny.

It took her a few minutes to realize that this was simply their way of conveying emotion while letting their friend know that he'd be just fine, and that they would do what- ever was necessary to help him along.

Finally, she had to go back and eject them from the room. Visiting hours were over, and she'd noted on her last brief stop that Spike was looking tired and uncomfortable.

They all left, promising to return soon and asking her where the pretty nurses had all gone off to. Buffy waved her hand in the general direction of the elevator, suspecting that they wouldn't be hard to find.

******************************************

She walked back into room 215, and found Spike had fallen asleep. Making a brief attempt to tidy up the room a bit, she tossed out paper cups and half empty soda cans, gathered up the pages of a news- paper with a leading story on the accident and frowned when she saw that the driver of the car had been arrested for being under the influence.

Buffy hated people who got behind the wheel of a car when they'd been drinking. She'd worked in the ER long enough to see the horrible results of such actions, usually visited upon the innocent party while the guilty one suffered no more than a few scrapes and a bad hangover.

She was closing the blinds against the glare of the late afternoon sun when she heard a voice, slightly slurry from sleep.

"Do you date patients, angel nurse....when they're all better?"

Every nerve ending on Buffy's body jumped to life.

"Would you date me?"

She had never dated a patient. Not once, and she'd been asked many times. It was an iron clad policy that she'd adhered to with strict determination, the same way she did when it came to dating men she worked with.

No. Never. Dating a patient was a bad idea, and she never even considered it......

Turning around slowly, she met his intent blue gaze, opened her mouth, and said....."Yes."

---

The Fourth Inning: The Swing!


He grinned back at her, charming her right out of ANY future notions of detachment.

"You mean it?" he asked, his blue eyes as anxious as a child's. "You'll go out with me?"

Slipping her hands into the pockets of her sweater, she moved to stand closer to the bed. "What you asked before, about me dating patients? I really don't. It's just....it's not a good idea to get involved that way. And I shouldn't..."

"But you will," he interjected. "You said it. Can't take it back now."

"I know." She sighed. "And I don't want to take it back."

His grin became even more boyishly cute. "Because you like me?"

"Yes," she said, laughing just a bit. "I like you."

"And we should get to know each other better?" he added.

"I guess so." She took a closer look at him and noticed that his eyes were a little overly bright, almost glassy. That observation sent her right into 'nurse' mode, and she placed her hand on his forehead. "You're a little warm."

"You're telling ME!"

"No, I mean it," she said, pushing away the hand that was trying to grab hold of hers. "I'll be right back."

"I'm fine...don't go....come on, angel nurse.."

She shook her head and ordered him to be still until she returned with the thermometer.

When the gadget beeped, she wasn't surprised at the result. "You're running a fever." She made a quick note in his chart. "I have to put in a call to Doctor Phillips."

"Oh, not him," Spike complained. "I saw him this morning. He has cold, clammy hands." He gave her an appealing look. "Can't YOU just take care of me? I mean, it's not serious, is it? I feel fine."

"Probably not," she said. "It's not unusual to run a bit of a fever after a surgical procedure, but I still have to let him know about it and he'll okay treatment."

"What sort of treatment?"

"Most likely acetaminophen and a tepid bed bath to cool you down some."

That information perked him right up. "A bed bath? Given by angel-nurse?"

Buffy tried hard to subdue her smile. "Yes."

"Call him."


*********************************


Ten minutes later she returned to his room, placing her supplies on the bedside table.

"Are you in pain?"

"No," he shook his head. "Not a bit. Is it bath time?"

"Medicine first." She handed him a small cup containing two white tablets, and his water. "Take them, please."

He swallowed them down obediently, watching her fill a plastic basin at the sink. She placed it back on the table, then pulled the curtain all the way around, cutting them off from view of anyone passing by.

After adjusting his position, she placed thick towels around him to prevent any of the water from dampening his bed. "Lean forward a bit," she instructed, then untied the fastenings of his hospital gown and let it drop around his waist.

Trying to ignore the hard, well cut muscle of his chest and abdomen and concentrate on her job, Buffy dipped her wash cloth into the lukewarm water, then picked up his left arm and washed it from shoulder to wrist, being careful not to disturb the wrappings around the sprain.

"Can I ask you a question?" Spike's voice was soft, and a little husky.

"Yes." Buffy repeated her ministrations on his right arm.

"If you never date your patients....why would you date me?"

She shrugged. "Don't know."

"You said you like me," he reminded her. "Why?"

"Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Richardson?"

"Yes."

She smiled. How could she not, with him being so darn adorable? "Does it matter WHY I like you?"

Now it was his turn to shrug. "Not really. As long as you do."

"Good."

"But tell me anyway."

Running the cloth gently over his shoulders, Buffy considered her answer. "Oh...because it was cute when you thought God had thrown you into hell and slammed the gate after you."

He chuckled. "I was really out of it, wasn't I?"

"You were," she nodded. Taking a deep but silent breath, she re-dipped the cloth and placed it on his chest.

"Well," he persisted. "Is that the ONLY reason?"

Hardly. "No."

"What else?"

The washcloth moved over the flat disc of his nipple. She felt the sensation make him tense up a little as he inhaled sharply.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" she evaded. Looking up, she caught him staring at her hand on his body.

"I...I wouldn't describe what I'm feeling as pain, no," he said quietly, glancing back up at her.

Buffy's hand went perfectly still for a moment when their eyes met. "Did Doctor Phillips explain what he did in surgery?" she asked, continuing to smooth the tepid washcloth over his skin as she attempted to distract herself by changing the subject.

There was a short pause, as if he was giving careful consideration to his next move. "Yeah. He said it wasn't a terribly bad break. He put a pin or something in. Said it won't keep me out of the game, but I'll probably miss the first part of spring training."

She nodded, avoiding his gaze. "You're very fortunate that it wasn't worse."

"I know. If I couldn't play ball anymore...." He let the sentence trail off.

Buffy picked it up. "If you couldn't play ball anymore...what? What would you do?"

He thought for a moment. "I dunno," he finally said. "S'pose I'd have to figure something else out that I like just as much. Right now, playing ball is pretty much what I like best. And I'm damn good at it."

"Modesty is SUCH an endearing trait," she murmured, continuing to apply her cloth.

"But false modesty is annoying and pretentious," he countered with a cocky smile. "Don't you think you're a damn good nurse?"

"Yes...but I don't go around SAYING I'm a damn good nurse."

"It's not the money, you know. There's already more of THAT in the bank than one person could ever spend."

"And there it is again."

"What? I'm not bragging. It's just a fact."

She scooted down a little, then pulled the blankets off his uninjured leg, making sure he was properly covered in the right place. "So, it's all for the love of the game?"

"Uh-huh," he nodded. "Well, that and the babes."

"Excuse me?"

"Girls love ball players. Hey, I'm teasing you. Don't stop."

A spurt of laughter parted her lips. "I think you're a little bit incorrigible."

"I'm VERY incorrigible." He watched her drop the washcloth into the basin and reach for a dry towel. "What, it's not finished already, is it?"

"'Fraid so."

"But you were just getting to the good part."

Buffy gently patted his leg dry, then whisked the towel lightly over his chest. "Sorry about that."

"Well, I don't think I'm clean yet."

"That wasn't the purpose of the bath."

He grabbed her hand and placed it on his brow. "Do I feel warm to you?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh, come on, angel nurse. A fever doesn't get cured THAT fast," he insisted.

"It was a low grade fever," she said.

Spike grinned. "Well, if THAT'S all that's holding you back I can send it sky high."

Before Buffy could even think of a reply, he tugged on her hand, bringing her closer, capturing her lips beneath his.

Although her hands were flat on his chest, she couldn't even begin to try and fend him off. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly of apples and cinnamon, a flavor left over from the dessert on his lunch tray.

When she felt the first light touch of his tongue, she realized it wasn't him she might need to struggle against, but the burgeoning desire she was fast developing to climb into bed next to him, to press herself against hard muscle and firm, bare skin.

His slipped one hand around the back of her neck, deepening the kiss even further, murmuring some- thing against her lips that she couldn't understand.

Breaking apart for air was almost painful.

Panting, he pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. "You're amazing," he whispered, "and I want you."

Buffy had no defense for it. "That works out nicely, then. I want you, too."

"Buffy...angel...." His hands rubbed up and down her shoulders. She could feel their warmth all the way through her sweater.

"We...we have to stop," she said weakly. "You'll have a relapse."

"No, I promise I won't. Don't stop."

The husky quality of his voice begging her to stay close was madly compelling. She was literally one kiss away from sinking into it without another thought, when the PA crackled and she was called back to the nursing station.

"I'll be back," she promised, dragging herself away and gathering up the bath supplies.

"When?" he whispered, trying to catch hold of her again.

"As soon as I can."

*********************************

He let her go with as much good grace as he could muster up. Much as he would prefer to be the sole focus of her attention, he understood that she had other patients.

Right before she left the room, he spoke up. "Buffy?"

She hovered in the doorway for a moment, waiting.

He'd always been a great believer in saying exactly what was on his mind, in spite of the fact that this philosophy had been known to backfire on him at times. "I feel something," he said, laying one hand on his heart. "Right here...you know?"

"I know," she smiled. "Me, too."

After she was out the door, Spike leaned back in his bed and stared at the ceiling, his arms behind his head on the pillow. **A swing and a hit!**

Life was good.

******************************

"I only have a minute."

Buffy dashed back into the room and through the closed curtain. She sat down on the side of his bed and they picked up where they'd left off.

Their kissing was much more urgent this time, harder and fiercer.

In the hallway, a call bell buzzed. "That's for me," she said, kissing him one last time and slipping free when he tried to tighten his hold on her. "I'll be back."

Part of him wanted to protest this loud and long, but common sense advised him to hold his tongue and release her.

That scenario was repeated several more times during Buffy's shift. She moved through her duties with smooth efficiency, returning to his room in between each one for what amounted to an abbreviated make-out session.

She pulled away from him at one point, looking concerned. "I'm sorry, is this bothering you? All this starting and stopping?"

With a negative shake of his head, he shrugged. "I'll take what I can get."

Buffy gave him one more kiss. "Good. I'll be back."

"I'll be here."

"Very funny."

**************************************

"It's almost time for....for shift change."

"Oh, don't tell me that," Spike protested, moving his mouth down the soft column of her throat.

Buffy instantly lost her train of thought, but retained enough sanity to move away when she heard Elena talking to someone in the hall before coming in.

"Staying late again tonight, Elizabeth?"

"I'm just getting a bit of overtime."

"Who okayed overtime?"

"Um...well, no one. It's....well, he wants some private duty nursing, and the holidays are coming up, so....I took the job."

"Did you chart his vitals?"

"Oh, yes," Buffy replied, hoping the other nurse wouldn't check to see for herself.

"Fine with me, then. Less wear and tear on my support hose," Elena said as she left the room.

Spike grinned hugely at Buffy. "Does that mean you have to do whatever I say?"

"Only in your dreams."


***************************************


"Buffy....honey....as much as...mmm...as much as I love doing this..." The last word made his voice break when she bit down gently on his ear lobe. "....it's getting late and...I wouldn't you to...be too tired....to work tomorrow." Each comment was punctuated with a kiss.

"Don't worry." she pulled away. "Tomorrow's my day off."

No angel-nurse tomorrow? He hated hearing that, but he forced himself not to complain. "Is it? And what does angel-nurse do on her day off?"

"Oh...different things. I have two days off each week, but they're not always in a row. So...one of them I usually devote to the necessities of life...running errands, going to the market, house cleaning, that kind of thing."

"And the other one?"

"The other one I usually devote to me. I'll go shopping, get my hair done, maybe a manicure. Sometimes I spoil myself and go to a day spa for a massage, a sea weed wrap and a facial."

"Now, THAT'S something I'D like to do for you."

"What, the facial?"

He chuckled deep in his throat. "The massage. I'll leave the girly stuff to the professionals."

"Hey, a facial isn't just for girls. Plenty of men get them, too."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"




TBC...



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