Tango
Part FourBuffy reached the second story of the house and turned into her room. She ripped off her clothing, throwing each piece at the hamper. Kicking free of her shoes, she grabbed her pajamas in one hand and headed toward the bathroom. Leaning into the shower, she savagely twisted the cold tap to full blast, moderating it only slightly with hot. While the water was heating up to barely warm, she scrubbed a make-up remover cloth over her face.
With all of the stomping and slamming, Buffy didn’t hear the front door open and softly close behind Spike. The vampire went through to the kitchen. He carefully selected a bottle of wine from the few choices in the countertop rack. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he cocked his head to listen. He could hear the shower running. He spit the cork into the sink, smiled and started for the stairs. Pausing on the second floor landing, he drained a good third of the bottle down his throat.
Cautiously, Spike crept down the hall toward the open bathroom door. He had almost reached it when the shower cut off. He dived for cover as Buffy ripped the curtain aside with a clatter of plastic rings. Pressing back against the wall, Spike turned his head to listen and noticed the Slayer reflected in the bathroom mirror. Her short shower had barely fogged the glass. Spike froze, watching as Buffy stepped out of the tub. With unconscious grace, she twisted her hair up into a towel, squeezed a generous portion of baby oil into her palm and rubbed herself down. Plucking another towel from the stack on the vanity
table, she blotted off excess water and oil, sliding the sky blue material along her skin. The vampire ran his own hands over his body in imitation of her.
After she was sufficiently dry, Buffy stretched up, tossing both towels over the shower rod. Naked, she leaned over, shaking out her damp hair and combing through it with her fingers. Spike squirmed with pent up desire. Red wine from his forgotten bottle splashed onto the floor and he cursed in distraction. Buffy looked up. She reached for her pajamas. Spike looked around, wildly, but before he could find a place to hide, she had slipped into her PJ shorts and top. She was buttoning the front of her blouse closed with deft fingers as she came out into the hallway.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked in a soft, almost conversational, tone.
Feeling totally busted, Spike sagged against the wall. He turned to face her, leaning into his left shoulder. Closing his eyes, he clonked his head sideways hoping to beat a sensible answer out of his foggy brain.
Finally, he said, “I got a key,” as if that was a sufficient explanation for lurking about watching her shower. Seeing the glint in Buffy’s eye, he added brightly, “And I wanted to use the bathroom!”
“Yeah, Right,” Buffy snorted. She held out her hand palm up, and ordered, “Give me the key.”
“Left it downstairs,” he replied, nice and cocky. “On the kitchen counter.”
“Okay, then,” Buffy said, swinging him around by one arm and propelling him toward the stairs. “Let’s go get it, Brewery Boy.”
It took all of Buffy’s herding skill but they made it to the kitchen. Spike glowered at her like an unrepentant little boy as she scooped up the house key. She pocketed it, wondering, how long he’d had access to her home. As she thought about Spike freely wandering about, she absently plucked a couple of glass shards out of his platinum curls. He gave her a fuzzy look but didn’t comment. Sighing in resignation, she picked up a dishtowel and dusted more sparkling pieces off his shoulders. Then with quick efficiency, she set about cleaning and dressing the oddly complacent vampire’s head wound. That task completed she decided to see about cleaning the rest of him. But first she had to make him stop guzzling alcohol.
“Spike, give me the bottle,” Buffy said, making a grab at it.
“No! It’s mine,” the vampire said, holding it over her head. She reached up toward it and he lowered it behind her. They kept at the game for several minutes.
“Gimme that!”, “Mine”, “Stop”, “No”, “Will you just…”, “Got to jump for it”, “I said GIVE ME THAT BOTTLE”, “NO, NO, NO, NO-OHOWW!”
Buffy slammed the bottle onto the counter top, splashing Chianti up in a red fountain.
“Now, take off your shirt,” she commanded, in a no-more-nonsense tone of voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” Spike said, saluting
He tried to comply but after some time, he was still struggling with the task. He was having trouble coordinating his elbows. He kept pulling the tee up his body, stretching the soft material out of shape but he couldn’t seem to get his arms out of the sleeves.
“Hands above your head,” Buffy, finally, snapped. She slapped Spike until he listened and did as she asked. With one swift yank, she wrenched the tee shirt up and off before roughly shoving the vampire down onto one of the barstools.
“Sit!” she ordered. “And stay sat.”
“You are so cute when you take charge,” Spike grinned. “Like a…fluffy bunny…fluffy…fluffy…Buffy…fluffybuffy.”
He kept repeating his nonsense phrase as the Slayer wiped the excess alcohol off his chest with the back of his wadded up shirt. When she’d finished, she leaned in and sniffed at him.
“Yuck,” she grimaced. “You still reek.”
Tossing his tee unto the counter next to the wine bottle, Buffy went around to the sink. She turned on the taps to wet a dishrag. After wringing out the excess water, she walked back over to Spike. He was eyeing her with unadulterated
suspicion.
“What you planning?” he asked; shrinking away from the wet rag as if he suspected it was drenched in Holy Water.
“YOU,” Buffy clarified, handing him the cloth, “are going to wash up a bit.”
“I want to go to the bathroom,” Spike announced, trying to get up from his seat. Buffy pushed him back down.
“Will you quit that?” she said, exasperated. “Vampires never have to use the bathroom, Spike. It’s physically impossible.”
“Not innposshibile,” Spike slurred, as he started washing, “jus’ unlikely. All it takes is conshentrasshiii… uhm… consentrashhhhuhm… careful thinking about,” he said, tapping his temple with one finger.
“What?” Buffy asked, absently. She was lost in her own thoughts as she watched him rub the washrag over his extremely well defined chest.
“Bodily funcshions,” Spike attempted to explain. “Everything still works…’cept the ticker…can’t make the heart beat again…it can break…but it can’t beat.”
“Actually,” Buffy said, talking mostly to herself and not really listening to his inebriated little speech, “I’ve always wondered how you guys ever sober up. You can’t eliminate the alcohol through sweat or urination or anything so where does it go?”
“Evaporashion,” Spike replied, showing he was listening to her. “Booze just dishappears. Poof!” He handed back the rag in a sodden lump and then he giggled, repeating, “Poof!” He grinned. “Jus’ like Angel,” he said, making a limp-wristed motion with one hand. “Poof! And he evaporated, too.”
Buffy was walking toward the sink to rinse out the dishrag but she turned around at this statement.
“What IS your problem with Angel anyway?” she asked, as if really interested. “Is it all about what happened with Drusilla?”
“Not about Dru,” Spike pouted. “Not my fault he’s a soddin’ chutney ferret, is it? And you making cow eyes at him all the time…even when he’s up and e-vamp-o-rated.”
“Okay, fine, whatever,” Buffy sighed, wondering why she even bothered with the civilized conversation. She draped the rag over the sink edge to dry and walked back to Spike. “Let’s just get you downstairs.”
She tried to lever him out of the barstool but Spike wasn’t ready to move. He had the Slayer’s ear and he wasn’t finished expressing himself on the subject of his Grandsire.
“He got himself a nice piece of you didn’t he?” Spike purred, softly, giving Buffy a look designed to liquefy her insides. “Then he goes and pisses it away. Prancing around town terrorizing your pals. Sending you gag gifts.” He snorted. “Fish on a sodding string! Wouldn’t catch me doing that…not in a thousand, million years.”
“Yeah, I am sure YOU wouldn’t have been nearly as insensitive,” Buffy said, sarcastically. She gave a hard yank on his arm, bringing him to his feet. Spike staggered and grabbed at her. Instinctively, she threw her arms around him for stability, pressing into his chest. The light material of her pajama top left very little to the imagination, in their current position.
“Not sensitive,” Spike returned, gripping both of Buffy’s shoulders to steady himself and looking down into her upturned face. “I jus’ wouldn’t waste time tauntin’ tha’s all.”
“Angelus told us everything, you know,” he continued, “me and Dru? How you walked right in on him while he was all hot and fresh from the shower. How he made you cry. He was so puffed up about how he crushed your delicate spirit. So, I says, ‘If the Slayer didn’t know you were a changed man, why didn’t you jus’ shag her a few more times?’ and the divvy idiot stands there looking at me all slack jawed…like he never would have thought of that.”
Buffy was looking up at Spike with a tightly clenched jaw, as he recalled her painful past from this new perspective. She was definitely not amused. If he’d been sober, Spike would have backed away, as it was he just rambled on.
“Me? That’s what I would have done,” he confessed, with drunken sincerity. Releasing his hold on her, he straightened up and declared, “None of this poncing about trying to drive you mad. Drive you mad in bed…tha’s the ticket. Make no mistake, Luv. I would’ve finished you off quick just after. But, first, I would’ve given you a right good seein’ to.”
“You really are a pig, Spike,” Buffy snarled. Lashing out, she pushed into his chest with both hands, propelling him backward.
He staggered and sat down, hard, on the barstool. He flowed with the movement, reaching one hand back to reclaim his bottle from the countertop, all the while nodding his agreement with the Slayer’s assessment. “Tha’s me, the other white meat,” he admitted, before taking a hardy swig of Chianti. Swallowing, he brought the bottle to eye level and peered suspiciously at the label before announcing, “Which means this wine is all wrong for me. Let me speak to the manager.” He started laughing at his lame joke and in his giddiness nearly slid from the barstool to the floor.
Buffy smiled in spite of herself. He really was the outer limit, she thought.
“Okay, Okay,” the Slayer soothed, propping Spike up with her shoulder and divesting him of his bottle for the second time. “I think that’s about enough of that. We just got you cleaned up and it really is time for bed now.”
Meek as a kitten, Spike leaned into her. Wrapping both arms around the Slayer, he let her guide him toward the basement stairs. Burying his nose in her hair at the curve of her neck, he murmured, sweetly, “Bed, yeah. Tha’s the ticket.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After a certain amount of wrestling, Buffy managed to get Spike down the cellar stairs and safely curled up on the family’s folding cot. A Peppermint Schnapps’’ bottle clinked underfoot, as she turned to leave. Buffy looked down. There were several more empties next to the washer. Spike’s duster was tossed across the top of the machine. By the look of things, he had cleaned out the Summers’ family liquor cabinet. He must have been down there for hours. Waiting, she realized, for her to come home.
Yanking on the overhead chain, Buffy cast the basement into darkness. She did a quick check for light leakage, and noticed the open casement window. The noise she’d heard earlier must have been Spike’s Southern Comfort bottle clinking against the windowpane as he pulled himself outside. Standing on a metal milk crate, Buffy closed the window again. Reminding herself that the neighbors already thought she was odd, she hunted up foil, tape and black plastic garbage bags to complete the sun block.
When she was sure the basement was secure from stray rays of death, she went to work on the empty bottles, piling them into a trashcan. She brushed against Spike’s duster and it spilled to the floor. When she leaned over to retrieve it, the texture of the leather gave her pause. It was as soft as a first kiss. She wondered why she'd never noticed it before. Intent on the puzzle she shook the long coat out and then carefully blanketing it over Spike’s half naked body. She immediately felt foolish for the gesture. Buffy knew vampires were heat sensitive but she had no idea if Spike could suffer from the cold. Nor did she
have any idea why she should care if he did shiver a bit.
Thinking about the concept gave her pause and for a short time she simply stared down at him. Then, shrugging off her inexplicably conflicted feelings, she turned away, hefted the garbage can and headed for the stairs. After toting the
trash up to the kitchen, she sat it by the back door to be carried out in the morning. Almost as an afterthought, she wiped off the counter with Spike’s glass impregnated shirt before throwing it in the garbage as well. A bit of sweeping and a little more trash collecting and the kitchen was presentable again.
Sunrise was less than two hours away by the time the Slayer sought her own bed, desperately grateful she was off duty the next day. She tossed and turned in a vain effort to get comfortable but eventually, she fell into a fitful slumber.
A soft thumping noise woke her up about twenty minutes later. She lay in the pre-dawn darkness, listening to the sounds of the house. Someone was in the hall. There was another bump and then she heard the shower running. Buffy didn’t want to investigate. She told herself, she really didn’t want to know what the hell Spike was up to now.
What did she care if he took a shower? Let him take half a dozen showers! After all, Buffy thought, it wasn’t like he could drowned or anything. And small loss if he did, she thought bitterly. She snuggled back into her pillow and started to drift off again. Of course, her subconscious mind prodded her, he could always flood the bathroom, or totally destroy it trying to peroxide his hair, or create a plumbing nightmare for the entire neighborhood or…. Groaning, Buffy rolled out of bed, conceding defeat. Half asleep, she padded out her door and down the hallway.
The bathroom light was off. The shower was definitely on. Warm steam wafted against Buffy’s face as she stood in the doorway looking toward the tub. After a minute or two, her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the blue nightlight over the toilet. That illumination coupled with the moonlight from the overhead windows lit the scene just a little too well.
The first thing she noted was the shower curtain pushed back. A spray of water was swamping the floor, but the resulting mess was the last thing on Buffy’s mind. Spike was in residence, leaning against the shower’s tile wall, eyes closed. The hot water beat down on him. He was naked, of course, and almost asleep, it seemed, except for the steady sliding motion of his soapy hands.
A tingle of adrenaline washed the last trace of Morpheus from Buffy’s eyes. She blinked in wonder and had a sudden clear recollection of the Buffybot’s extra-perky voice saying, “You should see him naked."
“I mean really,” Buffy whispered, unconsciously completing the robot’s sentence.
The Slayer wasn’t much of a voyeur. She hadn't even watched too many racymovies. The one time she had ventured into the “Adult” section of her local video store, she had departed within ten minutes, stifling a fit of giggles. Not that she was a prude. She was down with the nakedness of men. It was just that she was usually naked herself when said nakedness occurred. Also, generally, she was engaged in other activities. Buffy, as a rule, tended to keep busy during the naked parts.
But, suddenly, she was content to stand back and enjoy the view. Blue light danced in the water coursing over Spike’s body giving him a quicksilver shimmer. His pale skin looked luminous in the half-light, almost translucent. Buffy let her gaze wander over him. His ethereal beauty mesmerized her. It wasn't right, she thought, for something so wicked to be so perfectly formed.
As she looked on, Spike continued stroking his hands across his abdomen and then further down. He swirled soapsuds back and forth in random patterns. Gradually, his movements became more rhythmic, more concentrated. He arched against the
tile wall, muscles tensing, until he was drawn tight as a ready bow. Gasping, he mouthed Buffy’s name, rubbing his cheek along the edge of the towel she’d used earlier and left on the rod.
"Breathing me in," she thought and her heart lurched. She could feel it thudding in her chest.
The enormity of what she was witnessing hit her and her mouth went dry. Masturbation, as she understood it, was a very private thing. It wasn’t something she’d ever imagined she could enjoy watching. But, in the throes of self-induced passion, Spike was wondrous, like a dynamic work of art. She couldn’t make herself look away.
The vampire’s eyes were still closed as, quaking, he pushed past the brink of release. He moaned out her name, his voice louder than the rush of the shower, "BUF-FFY…oh…GA-AHhgghd!"
She responded with a tiny, unconscious whimper in the back of her throat and his seed pulsed up, spilling back along his skin in a glistening stream.
Buffy told herself he had no way of knowing she was watching. But somehow all of this seemed staged for her eyes. It was as if Spike wanted her to see him; wanted her to understand the pleasure he took in her. There was a deep sense of intimacy between them as he sighed into sated relaxation.
Neither of them moved. Buffy had no idea how long it took for her to notice Spike's eyes were open. He was staring at her, as she stood there outlined in the doorway, his steady gaze full of the knowledge of what she had seen him do. Buffy felt a hot blush prickle under her skin. She darted back into the hallway, pressing tight into the wall beside the bathroom door. Her position was identical to the one Spike had assumed earlier in the evening. Praying for the floor to open up and swallow her, Buffy listened to Spike twist the shower taps, ending the drone of water. She heard the whisper of her towel coming down from the rod and the creak of floorboards as he stepped out of the tub. She turned her head, eyes instinctively seeking the steam-clouded mirror. She imagined him drying off.
After what seemed like an eternity to the waiting Slayer, Spike came out of the bathroom. Her blue towel was wrapped around his waist. He stopped just beyond the threshold, glancing over at her. The scent of her body wash mixed with cheap whiskey, teasing at her nose. Spike was swaying slightly on his feet. Still drunk, Buffy thought, as she concentrated on not meeting his
eye. Darn clean though, she conceded.
“I told you,” he whispered, with sexy softness. “I needed to use the bathroom.”
“Oh,” Buffy said, nearly swallowing the sound. Her mind failed to supply any further comment. She remembered his earlier insistence but she had, quite frankly, never imagined 'using' to mean…well…what it now meant.
Without saying another word, Spike turned and wandered down the hall toward the stairs. Buffy stayed put, watching and waiting to see what Naked Vamp did next. The minute he hit the ground floor the Slayer planned to scamper into her room
and bar the door. Sacred prophecy, be damned, some things she didn't have to face in the dark. Holding onto the banister for balance, Spike leaned down to heft the wadded tangle of his jeans from the top step. Straightening, he continued on along the hallway and entered Buffy’s bedroom. After a beat or two, the Slayer followed.
When she reached her room, Buffy stopped in the entrance. She took a moment to study her uninvited guest. Spike was sitting on the edge of her bed, searching the pockets of his jeans. After a couple of circuits of the pants failed to turn up whatever he was hunting, he tossed them aside with an exasperated sigh. Leaning back, he stretched across her bed, grabbed the handle of her nightstand drawer and pulled it open.
“HEY!” Buffy yelped, surging forward. “That’s private!”
And it was, excruciatingly private. The drawer held her personal stash of self-gratification essentials as well as the necessary equipment left over from her time with Riley. There were condoms in her nightstand and flavored lubricant and explicit literature…. and…Spike’s cigarettes. The Slayer's mouth dropped open as the vampire fished his pack, his lighter and an ashtray out of her personal, private, nightstand drawer. Ignoring her shocked sputtering, he lit up and drew in a lungful of blue smoke.
“How long…" she began and then choked and had to start over, "How long have you been…?" She was afraid to say the next word in the sentence.
But Spike seemed to take her meaning.
“Since I got the key from Niblet,” he said, arching his body like a contented cat. He ran one hand negligently along his torso as he considered her question. “Since you died, I guess.” He took another long drag and released it, saying, “I come here to feel close to you.”
It was hard to stay mad after such an intimate confession but Buffy gave it the old college try.
“And when you come here you…what?” she asked, making a vague gesture toward the hallway. “USE THE BATHROOM?!?”
Spike gave her a squinty-eyed look before dipping his head in acknowledgement. He slid down further in her bed, studying the patterns of blue smoke swirling up off the red-ember of his burning cigarette. Buffy thought back on the number of the times she’d caught the faint whiff of tobacco in her room.
She blushed again, as she said, "I can't believe you just go into my bathroom and…"
“Sometimes,” the vampire interrupted, in a sleepy voice, “and sometimes I do it right here…in your bed.”
And that was just a little too much information. Buffy strode over to the bedside and slammed her nightstand drawer closed. She snatched the cigarette from Spike's hand. Throwing it to the floor, she ground it under her bare heel, as she growled, "Get out."
Spike yawned and sat up, tensing his abdominal muscles as he swung his feet to the floor. His eyes were half closed, his movements seductively languid. But as Buffy started to turn away, his hand shot out at her like a striking cobra. He yanked her into his arms, flipped her onto the bed and pinned her in less than a second.
Buffy squeaked in surprise. She squirmed and Spike shifted to capture her wrists. He pulled her arms up over her head, holding her down with the weight of his body. She twisted beneath him, which loosened his towel and brought her into intimate contact with his intimate parts but failed to accomplish anything in the way of retaliation or escape.
The Slayer silently cursed her complacency. Over the past year or two, she'd grown accustomed to thinking of Spike as bumbling or chip-whipped. She had forgotten, in their easy familiarity, how brutally strong and quick the vampire was. From her new perspective, of personal jeopardy and professional humiliation, Buffy suddenly found it easy to remember that Spike had killed two Slayers.
He was, in fact, closer to her physical equal than anyone else she'd ever encountered. But brute strength alone would never conquer a Slayer. Spike, also, needed to be clever and resourceful for the task. Unfortunately, he was. What he wasn't was sober. Buffy knew his physical state gave her the edge. She decided to surrender. Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, she forced herself to relax.
She focused on Spike’s mouth, very close to her own. She noticed he was breathing in sync with her. He had white, sharp, slightly crooked teeth, the product of Victorian England's lack of orthodontics, but the curve of his upper lip was flawless. His bottom lip had a pouty fullness she remembered from their one real and innumerable spell-induced kisses.
She avoided looking into his intense stare as she asked, "Okay? Now what?"
"I won’t have him touching you,” he snarled. "I won't have it."
"Roscoe?" she clarified, though she knew very well what he meant. She almost met his eye but a panicky flutter in her chest made her glance away.
Spike ignored her attempt at innocence. He reiterated his point. “You're mine," he insisted, his fingers digging into both of her wrists. He shook her. "You understand me? He goes.”
“Understand me,” Buffy returned, as her icy gaze caught his squarely. “You don't own me. We aren't one. And your opinion means nothing to me." She paused for emphasis, before amending, "Less than nothing, actually.”
Amazingly, Spike’s lower lip started to tremble. His beautiful eyes clouded over in hurt confusion and a single tear splashed against the Slayer’s cheek. Then with a desperate little moan the vampire buried his face in the curve of her throat. He was a dead weight against her, no longer actively restraining her at all. Buffy slid her wrists free of his suddenly slackened grip. His
shoulders were shaking slightly as he murmured something close to her ear.
She strained to make out his words, "Please,” he was saying into her hair, “Please, Buffy, don’t do this…please…just make him go away.”
The Slayer tried to process the sound she was hearing. "Spike?" she queried, softly, not trusting her ears. “Are you…uh…crying?”
"-no-” Spike replied, in a small tight voice that said, “Yes, but I’d rather you didn't notice."
Buffy couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d made the “Big Bad” cry. It should have been funny…but it hurt.
Hesitantly, she raised her right hand letting it fall to the nape of Spike's neck. When he didn’t move, she slipped her other arm around his waist, shifting himinto a more comfortable position. Snuggling closer, he gave a contented sigh against her skin. She began working her fingers through his hair, petting him and soothing them both. Slowly, the tension between them bled away. Buffy didn't think about what she was doing or why. She let her mind enter a meditative state, concentrating on the repetitive motion of her right hand as she loosened Spike’s damp curls, swirling the strands of hair between her fingers.
They held their intimate position for some time, both at peace, until at last, Buffy whispered, "Alright…I’ll tell Roscoe it's over.”
Spike didn’t respond. Buffy pulled back until she could look at him. His face was relaxed in sleep. She rolled over carefully, taking him, gently, to his back. His towel was no longer secure but it still covered the essential bits. Not, Buffy reminded herself, that she wanted him naked. She pinched his shoulder hard. He didn’t even twitch.
“Out cold,” the Slayer murmured, with a tiny shake of her head.
She sat up on the edge of the bed and looked around her childhood room, seeing it for the first time through adult eyes. She wondered why Riley in her bed hadn't given her a similar insight. What was it about Spike, Buffy mused, that made her feel more like a woman than a girl?
The sky outside was growing light. She padded over to close the shutters, drawing the curtains as an extra precaution. Looking back at her undead companion, Buffy gave a small sigh. She knew the intelligent thing to do was to go into her mother’s old room, lock the door and leave Spike here to sleep it off. But, she told herself, he could so easily wake up and get into mischief again. Plus, she needed rest and her own bed was the best place for getting sleep. After a bit more soul-searching, Buffy drew back her bed covers. Spike, lying on top of the comforter, didn’t stir as she slipped in beside him.
Six hours later, Buffy woke to the sound of a loud choking cough. She peered, through sleep blurred eyes, toward the person standing in her doorway. Dawn, her foggy mind supplied, home from her sleepover. Buffy made a mental note of the fact and closed her eyes, again. Then she moved on to note the arm wrapped snuggly around her waist and the cool body spooned up against her back, flesh on flesh. She came, instantly and completely awake.
“Boy!” Dawn grinned, wiggling her brows at her sister. “I guess I missed one really INTERESTING party last night.”
Buffy started to get up, noticed a towel on the floor halfway to the door, and settled back quickly. With exaggerated caution, she peeked under the covers at Spike. He was buck-naked. He must have heaved off his towel some time during the morning. Probably, the same time he'd crawled in beside her to cuddle up close. Carefully, Buffy tucked the blanket down between them, shielding her sister from the more interesting parts of the previous night's party, and eased out of bed.
“Buffy?” Spike muttered, sleepily. Sliding his hand along the sheets searching for her, he murmured, “Don’t go, Baby.”
Dawn made a gurgling noise and Buffy hastily pulled underwear, pants and a blouse from her bureau. Clutching the clothing against her chest, she hurried out the door. Dawn was doubled over with pent up glee, bouncing up and down in giddy abandon, as Buffy joined her in the hallway. Pulling the bedroom door closed behind her, the Slayer put a warning finger to her lips. Dawn started to speak but Buffy shook her head and pointed silently down the stairs. They made it all the way into the kitchen before Dawn could no longer contain herself.
“Oh, my God," she announced, in a delighted, if sotto voce, shriek as she clutched at her sister's arm. "You slept with Spike!"
“I did NOT sleep with Spike,” Buffy huffed, disengaging her arm. Dawn pulled a clearly skeptical face and the Slayer amended, “Well, okay, I DID sleep with him. But strictly in the non-sexual sense of the word. As in we were both tired and needed a little rest. And there was a bed…and…”
“So, then,” Dawn asked, crossing her arms and leaning back slightly, “why was he naked?”
"How do you know he was…" Buffy began and then sighed, shaking her head. “Dawn, I really can’t explain about last night." She took a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with cereal as she said, “You are just going to have to believe me when I tell you it was nothing like it looked."
But despite her ready denial, Buffy was painfully aware of the truth. It was a whole Helluva lot like it looked between her and Spike. Something was definitely going on between them, something irresistible. It made the Slayer's blood run cold and then very hot. She just wasn’t sure what the nature of that something was. Or even what she wanted it to be. Part of her wanted these new and frightening feelings to just go away. The problem was another part of her couldn’t help remembering the way Spike looked in the shower and how right it felt holding him in her arms.