Author's Note: Set in an alternate Season Five. In Drive It Like You Stole It, Buffy needs to track a Genther demon the next town over. Riley's gone back to Iowa for a visit, so her only choice for a ride is Spike. After a fun-filled evening, he kisses her - and drives away. This takes place the next night.


You might think that being a creature of the night exempts you from routine housekeeping. Not so. Oh, sure, if you’re rich as Croesus, you hire a pack of human servants to straighten your Picassos.

The rest of us mere immortals? We’ve gotta dust our coffins just like the rest of you.

Which is why I’m slouched in the Sunnydale Laundromat at 3 a.m., waiting for my darks to wash and thumbing through a back issue of People when she stumbles in.

Despite her slayer strength, she’s struggling with a backpack and two sacks. Girl’s got muscles, yeah, but only so much she can do about a heavy door on a windy night.

And so I head over and prop the door with the toe of my boot.

“Thanks,” she says, automatically.

Then she looks up.

“Spike.”

***

We’ve wrestled her bags through the uncooperative doorway, and she’s hefted them to the sorting table.

“Care to tell us what brings you to the seedier side of Sunnydale?”

She glares at me and gestures to the table spilling over with the Summers’ laundry.

“Well, yeah, I get that you’re here to do the washing. Just thought that a comfy suburban hacienda such as yours would come equipped.”

She’s sorted everything into three piles, and I start shoveling the towels into an open washer.

“Dawn was tie-dying her bed sheets and there was some sort of mishap. Flooding was involved.”

“Ah. And your mum?”

“Sleeping. This new medication they’re trying is pretty intense.”

“So you’re going to try to sneak in the Maytag repairman when she’s not about, and in the meantime, handle all the housewifery by dark of night?”

She’s loaded up all of her washables. My fingers itch to nab one of her lacy thongs, but wouldn’t you know it? She sorted those personally. As her three machines begin their familiar hum, Buffy flops into an orange vinyl chair and sighs.

I take it as an invitation, and flop next to her.

After the other night’s kiss, I’m looking for a repeat. Maybe even more.

What? A fella can dream.

But she’s all sturm und drang tonight, and I don’t know where to begin.

With a sigh of my own, I pick up my magazine.

***

“Is that, like, a menu for you?”

I lower my reading material. “Wot? People?” I snort. “Not unless I’m going to head over to Dawson’s Creek and take a bite out of Pacey and Joey.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s your joke, luv.”

She fidgets.

“Worried about your mum?”

After a long pause, she finally nods. “Yeah.”

“And something else?”

“Kinda.”

She chews on her lower lip.

A little old lady in a bad wig joins us, bringing the Sunnydale Laundromat census up to a grand total of three.

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

She grimaces.

“Ah. You don’t want to talk about it with me.”

Her expression tells me I’m close, and I take another shot.

“Let me guess. Righteous Finn came back from his visit to Iowa and all is not well with our young lovers.”

She flinches.

“I’m right, then.”

“Spike-” she glances towards the little old lady, but Poligrip is focused on a paperback romance. “Can we just – just not?”

I tilt my head and study her. I’m right. And I’m biting back glee.

“Okay, yes. He came back this morning and … it’s over.”

“Just like that?”

“He’s moving back to Iowa.”

“That right?”

“Mason City.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

“Apparently, they make Jell-o.”

“Captain Courageous is moving back to Podunkville to make Jell-o.”

“No. He’s moving back to Podunkville to help his uncle with the hog farm.”

“Not sure if that’s any better.”

“He asked me to come with him.”

“Ah. And you said?”

Just then my washing machine buzzed. What with the black duffle atop it, and the limited population of the place, it was obviously mine.

“You should get that.”

“It’ll keep.”

“Spiiiike.”

“Fine.”

***

By the time I’ve tossed my Levis and black tees into the dryer, Buffy has her nose buried in a textbook.

Except that it’s pretty clear she’s not really reading, because her hands never lift to turn a page.

I peek over.

“Matisse?”

She nods. “I have to write a paper on The Fovvies.”

“Think you mean Les Fauves.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs.

“Well, if you can’t say it, don’t imagine you’re going to do so well on your little test, yeah?”

She goes back to staring blankly at the page.

“Was there, you know. Could tell you things.”

She stops reading, but doesn’t look up. I pry the book from her hands. There’s a big illustration of La Danse on the page.

“See this? The lines, so stark. And the color? Vivid. To you, it doesn’t look so surprising. But back then? Growin’ up on Gainsborough, this was a revelation.”

She’s staring at me. Fine, I got carried away.

“Anyhow, Les Fauves means wild beasts, and it wasn’t exactly a flattering nickname. Louis Vauxcelles coined the term. Didn’t know him personally, but heard tell he was a real prig. Named the cubists, too – bizarre cubiques.”

She’s still staring.

“What?”

“You speak French.”

“Some.”

“And you know stuff about art.”

“Well, once upon a time, before MTV – before television even, we had to keep ourselves amused somehow.”

“When you weren’t tearing your way across Europe being all scourge-y.”

“Yeah,” I reply, a bit defensive now. “Art galleries, theaters, little cafés, all those places were open in the dark. It’s where we’d go to get a spot of amusement of the non-killing kind.”

“Theaters? I’m so glad I was born in 1980. Next you’ll be telling me you went to see opera.”

I return her textbook and wonder how to reply. “Was in the audience for the premiere of La Boheme.”

Even she recognizes the name, and I see her searching for a snappy comeback. She can’t come up with one, so she snorts.

“Slayer, you know there was nightlife before techno, right?”

“Sure. I’ve heard of disco.”

I roll my eyes and pick up People.

She’s folded up towels and tees, and so have I.

“Give you a lift?”

“Yeah, ‘cause that ended so well the other night.” She swings on her backpack and hefts her bags.

“Or if you want to haul your bundles and risk getting the whites back to Revello Drive in less than pristine condition …”

She pauses.

“Wouldn’t want mum to know you’ve been sneakin’ out of the house to do the washing.” I play that sentence back in my head. “You really don’t have any kind of a life, do you?”

Damn, I think, wishing I could filter my words a little better. Or even just a little.

“Fine,” she agrees, to my surprise, and lugs her bags out to the DeSoto.

She’s still huffy and grumbly as she flounces into the passenger seat. I ought to drive her royal highness home, tip my hat and hope for something better the next time.

Then again, how often are the Slayer and I out alone together without something trying to kill us?

I turn the key in the ignition. “Didja ever think that it might be incredibly unfair to Joe Normal?”

“Sorry?”

“You have a shelf life considerably shorter than the average cheese. Protecting Joe Normal gets you killed, and he’s gotta live with that forever. Assuming something doesn’t take him out as soon as you’re cold in the ground.”

“Is this a commercial for dating vampires, Spike? Because I’ve seen the previews, and it’s gory.”

“Just a fact, Slayer.” We pull out of the parking lot of the Laundromatic. “Everyone around you is a target. How many times have you had to thwart some baddie from sinking his claws into your kid sis?”

Buffy frowns. If she’s mentally counting the number of times she’s saved Dawn, we’ll have to drive to San Francisco before she speaks again.

“Better off with old Broody Pants Angel in some ways. He could hold his own.”

“Can we not, Spike?”

“Not what?”

“Not dissect my love life. Or the shredded remains of my former love life?”

“Just saying.”

“And I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be saying it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” she sputters.

“What? I argue with you and you kvetch. I agree with you and I get those daggers stared into my back.”

I’m pulling up in front of Revello Drive now, dimming the lights and coasting the last little bit.

There’s something about this time of night, just before dawn breaks.

“I … I don’t know what I’m saying, Spike.”

I snort. “Gee, you don’t say, Slayer.”

She’s not listening, though, and I realize she’s trying to tell me something. Something real. “It just feels like … I can handle the slaying, right? But real life is getting away from me. Riley and Mom and Dawn. It’s like Slayers die young because we’re not built for all the grown-up stuff. Especially with our stupid secret identities.”

“Hey … none of that,” I tell her, fighting back a wave of panic. “That’s surrender. And you don’t do that. It’s not your way.”

“How do you know what my way is?”

“I’ve been around a bit longer than you, kitten.”

She scowls at me.

“And I know,” I add. Instead of fighting it, I let all the tenderness I feel flood my voice. “I know that there are rough patches on the road. Even for one as flawless as your precious self.”

She smiles.

Thank god, she smiles.

“You’ve changed, Spike.”

It’s more than I could have hoped for. I think it’s more than I love you. I love you could never happen. This … this is world-shattering.

“Don’t let that get out,” I mumble, looking down and willing myself to stay calm.

When I look up, she’s holding my gaze and leans in to kiss me.

On the cheek.

“Thanks for being my friend, Spike,” she says, and before I know it, she’s out of the car and unloading her laundry bags.

I follow her around to the trunk. It’s strangely familiar, even though we’ve never been here before.

“We’ll never be friends, Slayer,” I tell her, closing the gap between us and pulling her in for a kiss.

She drops her bags; struggles a little against my chest. “Spike-”

“It’s too easy. Too easy for you to take what you want and ignore the rest. I’m not gonna be that guy, that guy who gets chewed up and spit out and runs home to somewhere he can still feel like a man.”

I pull her a little tighter. She’s still now.

“Gonna be the one you want, in the end.” I lean in and kiss her, hard, and unlike last night, she’s ready and responsive and liquid in my arms.

With a force of will that surprises me, I push her away. She is panting, and her lips are bruised.

“I don’t want you,” she lies.

“In the end, you will. You will, Buffy.”

And with that, I unload the last of her laundry sacks on the walkway to Revello Drive, and step back into my car.

A year ago I’d have never believed it, but now I think that it’s just possible that my bravado might be right.

I check the rearview mirror. She’s watching me, bags clustered at her feet, her hands clutching a bottle of Tide and a box of Bounce.

There’s something poetic in that.


AN: Thus ends Laundromatic, but I plan to write at least one more in this little series of mini-tales set in Season Five. I'm not making it into a formal series because, well, I still owe the 'verse a finish to two much bigger WiPs, and don't dare take on one more. Yet. Thanks for reading, and please leave a review!