Spuffy. PG.
Cold
“You’re sick.”
Buffy pouts. And blows her nose again.
“I don’t get sick,” she protests, and, balling up her Kleenex, looks
for a way to dispose of it. Scrunching up his nose, Spike picks up the
battered trash can that usually serves for beer bottles and wing
buckets, and presents it to her. The tissues, thankfully, disappear.
“You’re sick,” he repeats. “And I had forgotten how disgusting sick humans can be.”
Judging by how the kicked puppy, pouting look changes into a glare, that might not have been the best thing to say.
“Fine. This disgusting human is going to go away then and you… you… oh… nice. Cool.”
He only placed his hand on her forehead to check if she has fever – she
does – but she leans into the touch as though into a caress.
“You’re burning,” he points out. “You should never have come out in the first place.”
“’M the Slayer,” she mutters. She has stepped closer and she is now
pressing her cheek to his chest where his unbuttoned shirt reveals his
skin. “Gotta slay the innocents and protect the vampires.”
“Do you, now,” he chuckles, amused by her ramblings. “How about you
rest your not sick slayer self for a little while, just to indulge me
then?”
As he talked, he has brought them closer to his sofa and he sits,
pulling her down onto his lap. Her head comes up and she watches him
intently for a few seconds, seemingly warning him she knows he’s up to
something, and she would certainly know what if she wasn’t feeling so
bad. The state she’s in, it’s a miracle the girl got to his crypt
without becoming anyone’s snack on the way.
“Just a little while,” she finally consents, and returns to her place
against his chest, mumbling nonsense that sounds a lot like cool, nice
and pretty vampire. It takes some delicate maneuvering on Spike’s part,
since she has woven her arms around him and won’t let go, but he
manages to lie down on his back and pull her on top of him. In seconds,
the mumbling stops and is replaced by a light snoring; Spike rolls his
eyes at the ceiling. Not only snotty, but snoring too. The things he’ll
do for love. For her.
It is rare that they have such a quiet moment, doing nothing but being
together. And yeah, he’s a wanker and he wouldn’t admit it to save his
own life, but this is almost as good as doing naughty things with her.
Just almost. She’s weightless on top of him, completely relaxed, and he
loves that she can be that relaxed in his arms. They have come a long
way.
Thing is, she soon starts trembling. Maybe being in a cold, slightly damp crypt is not exactly what is best for her right now.
“Buffy? Wake up luv. We’ve got to get you home and put you in a nice, warm bed.”
Incomprehensible murmurs answer him. She doesn’t move. He tries to talk
to her again, but there’s still no answer. Half amused, half annoyed,
he manages to stand while holding her to him. Vampire coordination and
strength are beautiful things. One handedly, he wrestles his duster
around her until she’s covered, then secures his hold on her. She never
so much as bat an eyelash, and he’s starting to become alarmed.
“Buffy? Come on, now. Give me a sign of life before I get really worried.”
She finally opens a bleary eye. “Just five more minutes, mom,” she mumbles, and then she’s snoring again.
Reassured, Spike gets on his way. Meeting a big bad wannabe now would
be rather tricky, and Spike is on the look out, but they reach Revello
without problem. He lets himself in and sends Dawn to bed when she
looks at him a little too guiltily from her seat in front of the telly.
She asks about Buffy and sounds truly concerned until he assures her
that it’s just a bad cold. Then she rolls her eyes and claims she told
Buffy not to go since she wasn’t feeling well, but Buffy said she had
to because Spike would be waiting for her. He holds her just a little
more tightly as he climbs the steps to her room, and mentally
apologizes for the ‘disgusting’ comment from earlier.
Getting the duster off her is as much a pain as it was to put it on,
but he manages to do it, and in the same movement deposits her on the
bed. He starts pulling over her the blanket he had drawn back, but it
occurs to him he probably should take her shoes off. And while he’s at
it, he might as well finish the job and undress her. She’s like a doll
in his arms, limp but sometimes muttering or protesting, bits of
sentences that don’t make much sense. Once she’s down to her underwear,
certain parts of his anatomy awaken – he’s a bit surprised they
remained dormant that long – but he silences them ruthlessly. Alright,
he does take a peek or two, but he’s supposed to be evil, isn’t he?
He gives up on the idea of putting a pajama on her and finally pulls
the blanket over her until it comes up to her chin. With a murmured
goodbye, he brushes damp hair from her forehead and presses his lips
there, just above her brow.
“Mmmm… Spike…” she breathes.
“Yes luv. Get all better and I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?”
“No, not OK. Stay.”
He doesn’t need her to say it twice.
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The characters and names used in these stories do not
belong to me. All copyrights remain with Fox and Mutant Enemy. No
profit is made from this fanfiction.
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