All About Spike

Chapter: 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20  21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31  32  33  34  35  36  37  38  39  40  41  42  43  44  45

By Ginmar

Chapter 13

Spike checked Buffy's alarm clock and groaned, contemplating a drive to LA with nothing in his stomach and no sleep at all. He scrubbed his hair, and gathered his strength to sit up. He wanted a cigarette, but that would require energy he'd need for the shower. Slowly, as if he were a very old vampire indeed, he got up and staggered to the bathroom, where his clothes still lay on the floor. He shook his head, picked them up and hung them on the towel rack, then turned the water on and sat in the steam. He thought about lighting up a cigarette, but this seemed like a rather bad idea. First off, the smoke was a dead giveaway; anyone who ever used the bathroom would know he'd been in here, unless Dawn was smoking on the sly, too. That of course, would raise far too many questions that as yet were impossible to answer. He doubted either one of them could articulate the questions themselves.

The steam was rolling out of the shower now, and he sighed with the weariness of a very old man and stepped in. For a moment he just braced his hands against the wall and faced the steam, finally groaning and tossing his head back as the pounding water punched some feeling into his exhausted cells.

"Hey." He whipped around at the sound of her voice, but before he could form syllables, she was climbing in the tub, smiling at what his hair was doing, independent of his wishes, and grabbing a bottle from the shelf.

"Hey!" He grabbed the bottle. "What's that?"

"Where I come from, it's called shampoo. It makes magic that cleans the hair of bleached blonde people."

"Who are you calling bleached, blondie?" He demanded. "All natural."

"Evidence to the contrary."

"Yeah, whereas you..." He raised one eyebrow at the proof that she was no more a natural blonde than he was, and got a headful of shampoo for his trouble. But his make-believe irritation washed away as she scrubbed his hair, with her naked body pressed against his back, her erect nipples slowly exhausting his composure. His concentration returned abruptly when he realized she'd molded hair and shampoo into one peak on his head. He eyed her over his shoulder with the air of a man beset by idiots, and ducked his head under the stream of water. When all the soap was out, he shook his head like a dog, splashing her vigorously, and then got his revenge. He started with her hair, but as soon as he'd rinsed her, he pushed her up against the shower wall and kissed her so hard he could feel her legs shake.

He didn't stop kissing neither her, nor she him, but he did realize that the shower wall was cold tile, and probably that was why she was shivering. He turned them around so he had his back to the wall, and pulled her tight against him, feeling her mouth opening, opening against his.

He could feel the heat and the steam affecting him, affecting the kiss, making it slow and luxurious, tidal, thorough, as they twisted against and into one another. He was so tired that he couldn't have done more if he wanted to, but he found it was just enough to kiss her. Her flesh was sleek and wet against him, and he could feel, strangely enough, goose bumps rising over her body. He didn't think he'd felt like this before, this slow seeping languor that crept over his limbs as the heat of the water warmed his blood and his lips.

They were so close in height that they fit perfectly together, her hands sliding up his arms and around his back, while she twisted against him. They kissed for an eternity with slow circles of motion, hands roaming across sleek muscles and sinew, supple and fluid, till only the cold water brought reality in.

"Oh, crap," Spike muttered.

They stumbled out of the shower, grabbing towels. Drying was hurried, and followed by a dash for the bed, where they both burrowed under the covers till the chill of the air was gone. Spike was startled that he wasn't startled by the way she curled up around him. How soon we get spoiled, he thought.

"Buff, you know, I have to go."

"Now? It's not nearly daylight."

"There's an errand I have to run."

"Now?" There was a distinct whine in her voice, and he lifted up his head to look at her; she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Yes, now. It'll be a couple of days."

"What is it?"

He thought about it, wondering why romance sometimes seemed more perilous than any form of wartime endeavor. If he told her the truth, she'd freak; if he lied to her, well, he'd lied to her, and he'd yet to meet a woman who didn't have a spy network that made the CIA jealous. If he lied, she'd find out, and that would be it. "I don't want to jinx it, luv. Bad luck."

"Is it legal?" She asked hopefully. She was tracing circles on his chest.

"Completely." He said truthfully. He was sort of amazed at that. After all, what was he doing? Requesting a charitable donation. Ha. His sudden meeting with the truth left him giddy.


"Oh, yes, but tricky. So I don't want to count my chickens before, you know, all that stuff."

"Oh." She subsided on his chest again, but before she could get all comfortable, he reluctantly shifted away.

"Must get dressed, or I'll stay here all day, and then what will we do?"

Buffy looked at him from under long lashes, biting her lip, and every bone in his body turned to mush. A whole day, he thought. A whole day... After which, no doubt, the sheriff would come to toss them out, and then all he could hope was that he never let slip how he'd had this idea and not acted upon it.

He got up and went reluctantly to the bath, where he yanked his clothes on bitterly as if they'd done something to disappoint him. Then, cracking his neck to get rid of the kinks, he went back to the bed, to put his boots on. Buffy gave him a sulky look, and he suddenly realized that only weeks ago, she would have hid that look from him.

He'd pulled on one boot successfully when he heard a drowsy whisper. "Stay."

Perfect timing, of course. He stared through the window at the stars, hoping to find fortitude there. "Can't luv, must go."

"Stay." She whispered again. He turned to look at her and she was drowsy and boneless with sleep. When she felt his eyes on her, she blinked, kittenishly, and then lifted the blankets to lure him back inside. Oh, God, he thought. She was damp and ruffled with sleep and shower, blinking owlishly, and the bed was a nest of warmth and slumber. All it would take would be for him to toss his boots aside and dive in, into warmth and sleep. He leaned over and settled on top of her, to discover that had been a very bad idea. He hadn't zipped up his jeans, and she wrapped her legs and arms around him, trying to push his jeans off with the heels of her feet. Spike felt her warmth seep into and thought, "Five minutes, five minutes, five minutes..." But the sun would rise soon, and he had to do this now. If it was this difficult leaving her now, how much worse would it be later? She cupped her hands around his buttocks under his jeans, and the cute wrestling suddenly became serious. One more second of this and he would have to stay. "Must go."


"Can't, but the sooner you let me go, the sooner I'll be back."

"Stay." The kisses were getting more serious, and he sighed and pulled away.

"You're evil." He said, as she traced her fingers over his crotch. He was sort of amused when she beamed suddenly at him, and chirped, "Thank you!" But her arms loosened, and it gave him the opportunity to pull up and away. Every cell in his body complained bitterly, and as he pulled on his other boot, she kicked him in the back. Then she sat up and wrapped herself against his back, her legs alongside his. He ran his hands up and down her knee, while she hooked her chin over his shoulder.

"When are you going to be back?"

"Two days, I hope. Hopefully faster."

She sighed against him, exasperated and showing it. He had a brief moment where he thought, God, she'll miss me! Before realizing how much he was going to miss her, too.

He leaned over and kissed her, barely touching her, then taking her chin in his hand and leaning close. "I'll be back soon, and I'm warning you now, it won't be pretty when I do. So be alone, okay?" He stood up and shrugged into his duster, then resolutely climbed over the windowsill. His last glimpse of her was one irritated-looking eye visible above the pillow, before he had to pay attention to getting to the ground.

Damned tree....

Continued in Chapter 14

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