He sighed, something he had gotten very used to doing, and ducked under the windowsill. Shoving it up higher would just make more noise. He dropped his coat on the floor, and pulled off his shoes, thinking the same thing. Then, still thinking, hm, window’s only ten feet away, he went to the bathroom door and peered inside.
For a moment, Buffy didn’t notice him. It wasn’t like she could see him in the mirror or anything. Besides, singing into the shampoo bottle like Britney Spears seemed to be taking up so much of her concentration that she wasn’t even aware that her nipples kept bobbing up and down out of the suds, which seriously eroded his concentration. Then she tossed her head a little too enthusiastically, and noticed him. It didn’t appear that it was her nudity that she was concerned with; it was the fact that she’d been caught performing the ouvre of Ms. Spears that paralyzed her. Then she recovered, tossed her head----sending suds everywhere-----and glared at him.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Don’t you look all…minty fresh.”
He pulled his shirt off, then shucked his jeans off. She eyed him warily, but he slid in behind her without a problem, and began scrubbing her sudsy hair, while she glanced back at him suspiciously. Bit by bit, she relaxed, and she leaned back against him, hands dropping to his thighs and sighing. He could even see the tension seep out of her bit by bit as he scrunched her hair and then rinsed it off with the sprayer.
He rather wondered what other uses the sprayer could be put to, but it seemed like a really good idea to let that one go till later. Then he got to work on her back, squeezing and rubbing, paying special attention to the tension knotted up in her tight shoulders. She leaned forward to add more hot water to the mix and let out some of the cooling shallows they lounged in. Then she leaned back against him.
He settled back against the porcelain slope, and tried to ignore the coldness of the surface beneath his back. After all, she was relaxing against him, and bit by bit his own tension seeped away. The heat of the water soaked into his bones, and so too, he feared, was the scent of frangipani that pervaded the bathroom.
“Bet that’ll scare demons”, he thought idly. “If for no other reason than sheer surprise”.
But she was all slippery and soft between his legs, and he felt no urge to talk whatsoever. Her whole body was slippery and warm and wet and she was utterly boneless against him. She subsided against him peacefully, almost asleep, and although his instincts told him it was a bad idea, his common sense argued relentlessly for it.
“Slayer.” He whispered. “You don’t want to fall asleep in a tub.”
“No.” She muttered. “I want to….”
Then she turned, nudging against him, her lips finding his, and she sighed against him. What startled him was that she felt so bonelessly relaxed against him, her lips gentle and soft on him. He wanted only to cup as much of her skin against him as he could, and do that for several centuries. They kissed for years, turning, twisting, mmmmm-ing against each other, he stroking her back without even being even aware of it, and she….was holding his face in her hands, as if sheltering it.
He recognized this as something she wasn’t even aware of, and one day, he wanted to experience all of her secret little signals at once. There was the blush, the tremble, the sigh, the mmmm, the suddenly held breath, and best of all, the kitten gasp. She was utterly unaware of most of them, and he wanted to keep it that way.
He clutched her hair in both hands, and tried to concentrate on her mouth. Maybe it was the water; he felt so calm, so soothed…Maybe it was her. The thought made his lips quirk up a bit and Buffy felt it and looked at him. She didn’t say anything-verbally, that is, but she raised her eyebrows.
“Enjoying the novelty,” he explained. “You, me, and no fighting.”
Or anything else, he could have added, but it was rather nice. Buffy gave him one her patented Buffy shrugs, and snuggled against him once more, her breasts soft against him, her hands caressing his shoulders. Finally she just laid her head on his shoulder, and almost but not quite yawned. “Long day at the office?”
Buffy actually thought about it. First, the nightmares, then working late---and him. Then tiptoeing home, and well, not sleeping really well. Then more patrolling---and him. Then the Magic Box, and the Bronze---and him. And now. And Willow.
“I have to talk to Willow.”
He hesitated for a long time. “What, exactly, did she see?”
He figured pointing out the use of the word ‘us’ was not a good idea just yet.
“When are you going to talk to her?”
“Not now.” She said emphatically.
She snuggled again, and he wondered if he’d been forgiven.
She picked her head up, gave a little yawn, and looked at his face. She gave him a sleepy little smile and then kissed him again. He could feel her smiling while she did it. He traced stupid things on her back, wondering how tired she was. She sighed mid-kiss, and he figured that was it; she was a rag doll now. “C’mon, Buff, up you go.”
With her grumbling and muttering in a not very effective way, he pulled her to her feet, and grabbed a towel. Suds went everywhere, but his hands didn’t, carefully avoiding all erogenous zones. She tried to return the favor, but she was so tired, her coordination wasn’t the best. They tripped and stumbled over each other, till he managed to wrap a big towel around her and hold her up that way. He dumped her on the bed, and yanked the covers back, and she nuzzled into them and closed her eyes. He went back to the bath to get his clothes, and returned to the bed uncertainly with them in his hands. Buffy opened one eye.
“What are you doing?”
He cocked his head at her. She rubbed the bed next to her.
He didn’t need a second invitation, climbing in beside her. She didn’t open her eyes, draping her self over his chest and shoulder, and stroking his chest once, twice, three times…and then snoring. He glanced down. She was comatose.
“Poor Slayer”, he thought. “But lucky me.”
He dozed off himself.
Continued in Chapter 6