Setting: Post-"Destiny" (AtS)
A soft, ululating keen behind him, telling him everything. He knows that voice. Has heard it raised in anger, pitched low in passionate moans, shrilly desperate for completion – but never so wild or primal as this.
He turns, shoves his hands in his pockets, strives for cool. "Buffy."
Her eyes are impossibly wide, hands stuffed against her mouth to stifle the wordless cry. "You're alive..."
He shakes his head, so very sorry. "Undead as ever, love."
"No." She reaches out an impossibly short distance to touch. How'd she get so close...? "Not ashes. You're whole. Real. Here."
"That I am, luv." His arms ache to hold her. But he doesn't quite dare –
She solves his dilemma by flinging that tiny frame against him, gripping with all arms and legs. Sobbing against his chest, tears that he can feel, warm and wet and salty, full of the delicious essence that is her - pure Buffy. "I am going to kill Angel!" she swears.
Why, because the Pouf didn't tell her he was around and about again? That makes him laugh. She's a tigress, this girl. His girl. Still his girl? He takes the chance, offers encouragement and endearment: "Stand in line, sweetheart."
She laughs, too, a woman's laugh – the kind a man can never hope to understand – and then she's kissing him, sweet lips on his own, dainty tongue slipping into his mouth and dancing with his own.
How their clothes come off he doesn't know or care, only that they're suddenly if not quickly enough skin to skin and stretched out luxurious as you please on the plush lawyer carpet. And he's sliding into her, back home, right where he belongs. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, her hands twined into his hair. He's kissing everywhere he can reach – the tiny strawberries that tip her sweet breasts, the dip between her collarbones, the arch of her neck, and oh! she doesn't mind, she's writhing and keening beneath him, bedamned if anyone hears them!
He tries to go slow, time his thrusts, hit all the sweet spots to make her wetter than drenched, to make a rhythm, set the pace, but they're both desperate. It's been too long, and this is so good, this is so just what they needed –
They stiffen, shudder, shake as climax hits them both, gouging lover's furrows into each other's shoulders, arms, backs. Fine trembles rack her from scalp to toes as he holds her tight – so tight, never going to let her go again, not ever.
He lavishes his unspoken declaration on her with another kiss so deep it touches his soul, and knows again that he's home. Home is with this lady, so fine and precious.
But he has to be sure. "You'll be leaving soon?" he murmurs against the curve of her ear.
"I was." Her arms tighten. "Not without—"
"Like hell without. I'm coming with you." He bites delicately, loving her heightened shudder. "Where to, love?"
She laughs again, weak, happy, satiated. "Out of LA. Away from Angel. Who I'm still going to kill, but from a distance."
And that sounds just fine to him. "When do we leave, then?"
"How about now?"
Now? He lets her stand, rising gracefully to his feet. They're nude as Adam and Eve, and don't care; it feels right; it isright. He tilts his head to a side. "Just got here, didn't you? Don't you need what you came for?"
"No." She pulls him to her for another hungry kiss. "I've got all I want. I've got you. Now let's get the hell out of here."
Yes, ma'am. He follows her without a second thought. Let Angel fight all he wants for a Shanshu that might or might not be real. Spike's following his own Lady Redemption down the hall, out into a new life.
This is what he came back for.