By Devil Piglet
Disclaimer: All characters of ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ are used without permission.
Author’s Notes: My wet dream of how Season 7 will open.
“Bloody hell, Slayer. That’s creepy.”
“Spike!” She jumped up and began to run to him, then remembered the Very Important Issues that hung between them. Heavy. Blunt. Broad. Much like Marti Noxon’s storytelling. Buffy wondered why she suddenly sensed she was being used to rewrite someone’s bad boyfriend history.
She shook her head determinedly. Focus, Buffy. You’re giving college dropouts a bad name.
“Where the hell have you been, Spike? I had to save the world, again. Well, Xander helped, but in a really lame way. As usual. And I needed to further emasculate you by once again using you as Dawn’s babysitter, but you’d taken off!”
His expression immediately turned contrite. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m a bad, rude man, leaving without a note like that. But I did it for you, Buffy! I wanted to give you what you truly deserved.” He held his outstretched hand in front of her. “Look! Look what I brought you!”
Buffy stared blankly. “It’s a fish.”
“Yes! It’s sole! Genuine Dover sole! I wanted it so badly, Buffy. I knew you would like it – you can’t get a decent bit of it in the States, much less in Southern California.” He sniffed contemptuously. “Culinary philistines, you lot.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It smells. It smells like it’s traveled ten thousand miles in the bottom of a cargo ship.” She paused. “Well, what I imagine that would smell like, at least.”
Spike frowned. His full, delectable lower lip inched forth in a little-boy pout. Buffy wanted to nip at it lightly, and then toss Spike on the ground and have hot monkey sex with him.
“Buffy –“ She blinked innocently.
“You would not believe what I had to go through to get this. The least you could do is appreciate it, you ungrateful, bony bint.”
“Hey! Nobody asked you to get a sole! I don’t want your sole.”
“Well, fine!” He tossed the sole on the ground. “Why don’t you just stomp on it with your pointy Jimmy Choo-clad feet!”
“Fine! I will!” She jumped once on the rejected fish for emphasis.
“You’re such an enormous bitch!”
“Shut up! Just shut up! Every time you open your stupid mouth, you – mmmmpppphhh!”
They kissed furiously, passionately. Strangely, this did not by definition cause Buffy massive amounts of angst and self-loathing. Nor did she stay up that night until dawn’s pale and bleak arrival, contemplating how utterly dysfunctional she must be for perving after Spike. Spike was hot. Spike was sex and yummy fried food and a ‘Simpsons’ marathon all rolled into one. No big mystery; I mean, this wasn’t brain surgery (or so Spike assured her later, and who would know better?)
After much groping and panting, they finally broke apart. The vampire and the Slayer gazed at each other for a long moment.
“You’re wearing a hat,” Buffy said breathlessly.
His hand flew to the top of his head. “Yeah. You like it?”
“Thought I looked good in it.”
“Mmmm.” Buffy’s mind was already filled with visions of Spike wearing nothing but the hat.
“You do, sweetie. You look great in it. Promise me you’ll keep it forever?”
“I promise, pet.” Then he leaned down and whispered a few other promises into her ear. She gave him a playful roundhouse kick to the ribs, and they walked off into the significance-laden sunset together.