About: 400 words; Rated R for language and adult themes; Spike/Buffy; set during Wrecked, Season 6.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon and assorted companies.
Finally got to the crypt, after waiting for the sun to clear the alley and then making a run for the sewers.
Finally got to bed, after some blood and booze and telly to take the edge off.
Finally got to sleep, after replaying last night over and over and not replaying this morning at all 'cause I don't know what the fuck happened there.
And now Miss High and Mighty has slammed through my front door and is shouting and stomping and carrying on upstairs. I told her ... not her whipping boy any more. Not her sidekick or lapdog, either. I'll show her convenient. She can fucking work for it this time.
How can anyone make that much noise coming down a ladder? Must be wearing those black ankle boots with the .... Christ, I'm a ponce. Man shouldn't know about a girl's footwear. Vampire shouldn't know either, unless it's to suss out how much running she can do before she turns her ankle and falls to the ground all crying and shivering and begging for ... yeah, well, nostalgia and all.
Can smell her from here ... except it's not her, but a jumble of fake. Lashings of some nasty vanilla scent. Must have scrubbed herself raw to get rid of the Eau de Vampire Shagging. Cheap, supermarket brand shampoo. Supermarket brand washing powder, too, and no trace of those flowery things Joyce used to put in the dryer so Rupert's cheque must have run out. She won't take anything from me, but I reckon I can slip some to the Bit, cover the schoolbooks and clothes. Girl outgrows her kit every two months. Slayer's worked up some heavy breathing ... must have come over at a fair clip.
Does she really think I can sleep through all this shouting? Supernatural hearing, here. Not to mention that being Sunnydale's Most Wanted by both ends of the good-evil spectrum means I haven't had a good day's kip in two years. But for a Slayer she's pig-ignorant about vampires. Did she absorb any of the Watcher's instructions, or did he only teach her where to aim the pointy wooden things?
Fuck it, she wants me and she can come right up close and personal and wake me like a civilised human being. Her, that is, not me, 'cause I'm neither. Not that she's all that civilised, come to think of it.
A kiss or a kick, either, both.
I can wait all night and I'm going to. Even if my leg starts to cramp.
Come on, Buffy, touch me.
Make it real, make it ....