Day Three – Relax


Something was missing when I opened my eyes.

Two somethings: Spike and the sense of dread I’d grown accustomed to first thing in the morning.

What was very-very present was what had woken me up. More precisely, a loud screeching that felt like someone was set on scraping my brain out with an ice-cream scoop. I hopped off the bed and assumed my offensive position—shoulders square, fists clenched at hip-level, knees slightly bent, feet at shoulder-width—while assessing the danger. It had to be a demon; no human and nothing human-made could make so much noise.

“Spike?” I had to find him. If he’d already engaged the enemy, I had to help him, and if not, he should be warned. “Spike, where are you?”

“Hold your horses; I’m coming. This fucker’s stuck.”

Huh? His voice was muffled and came from the entrance to the sewers. I approached slowly, carefully, my senses on alert. Whatever the threat was, Spike obviously had it under control for the moment, although the lack of verbal assault on his part indicated he had his work cut out for him.

Ducking my head through the hole, I saw what Spike was fighting with, and my breath got caught in my throat. At first glance, it looked like a giant porcelain white whale had swallowed him whole except for the boots—because, really, who would want to put Spike’s DocMartens in his mouth? When I looked again I realized it was... a bathtub.

A huge-ass, clawfoot bathtub, to be exact.

“What are you doing?” The answer was obvious: he was carrying a ginormous tub through a not so roomy tunnel and scraping it along its walls.

“Preparing for today’s lesson.” The effort had killed his snarkiness. How far had he dragged that thing, anyway?

“What’s today’s lesson? Next time remember lube?”

He snorted—a sound that sounded extra gross amplified by the contours of the tub. “No, luv. It’s Relax. I know, the word’s not in your vocabulary, but I think I have a dictionary upstairs, if you wanna look it up.”

So the snarkiness wasn’t dead, just resting. Good.

“You want me to relax, so you got this monstrosity from God-knows-where and expect me to use it?” I couldn’t have put more “eww” in my tone, although I was enjoying myself. Spike’s plans are generally not famous for their rate of success, but they always get brownie points for wackiness.

He bucked and shoved, and twisted, and the thing had the decency to slide a couple of feet forward. I couldn’t wait to see how he’d round the corner to get it in his bathroom. “No. I expect you to go upstairs and make yourself breakfast. I promise to scrub this clean before having you anywhere near it.”

So I wouldn’t bear witness to his futile efforts? Bummer. And hey! “Make myself breakfast? What about relaxing?” I felt a giggle try to break free. I let it. The sound echoed in my ears undeniably more natural than any semblance of laughter I’d made an effort at up to a couple days earlier.

“Relaxing starts in an hour or so. Bugger off. Eat. See if there’s any teen-drama on the telly. I’ll call you when everything’s ready.”

I bounced upstairs. Bounced. Me. I’d giggled and bounced within only a few minutes, and it wasn’t because of chocolate or mind-blowing sex. Woah! Just for that, after I had a cheese sandwich and some OJ, I reheated some blood for Spike and took it down to him.

The screeching had stopped, but I hadn’t expected to find the tub where I did. Which was in the bedroom.

Spike was wearing just his black jeans, now strewn with blotches where the bleach must have splashed on them, and scrubbing the tub furiously with a piece of black cloth. His t-shirt. I stared, mouth agape. I still don’t know what stunned me more, the fact that he was so intent on doing a chore, or the flexing of his muscles that our hurried—okay, they hadn’t exactly been hurried—trysts had never let me fully appreciate.

His skin was almost as pale as the porcelain, but he was nowhere near as lifeless. How could I ever have thought of him as a thing? He was buzzing with life, much more so than I was. There was so much energy surrounding him that I could almost see an electric current flowing. His brow furrowed in concentration; a clenched muscle in his jaw; his neck stiff; his shoulders tense; his arm pumping; his hands, one curled tightly around the lip of the tub, the other fisted in his shirt, rubbing the smooth surface clean—all of him screamed life. I wanted to touch that life.

I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling like a peeping tom.

“Did I call for you?” His utter lack of surprise let me know he’d already been aware of my presence.

Instead of answering, I approached and held out the mug of blood to him. He didn’t reach out for it.

“Thought you’d be hungry, too.” I gave it a little twirl, mindful not to spill. “It’s warm.”

He looked at me like I’d grown a third boob.

“What? Can’t I do something nice?” I looked at where my hand hovered, mug still firmly grasped, and brought it closer to my body.

Spike rounded the tub and stood so close to me that, if I took a deep enough breath, our bodies would touch. “Are you the Buffy-bot?” he asked, his face serious.

I glared, took a step back, and all but shoved the cooling blood into his stomach. “Drink. It’ll clot. I can finish up here.” Putting some distance between us was of the good; it cleared up my head.

He downed the yucky stuff like it was the tastiest thing ever, but didn’t let me take the shirt-turned-rag from him. “You’re relaxing today. I’m almost done anyway.” Returning the empty mug to me, he went back to rubbing the tub vigorously.

I took his breakfast’s leftovers to the bathroom to wash them. I was turning the faucet off when a sound behind me made me jump. “What are you doing, exactly?” Stupid question. I could see what he was doing: he was replacing the shower hose with a longer, plastic one.

“I know the original bath experience calls for a bucket, but this will fill it faster,” he replied, “and wash the bleach off more efficiently.”

I followed him out as he uncoiled foot after foot of the mile-long tube and at last held the muzzle over the tub. “Here, you want to help? Go turn on the water.”

“Won’t that just fill the tub?” I was honestly impressed by the thought and preparation he’d put into his plan, but I wouldn’t be Buffy if I didn’t find something wrong with it.

He tapped his boot in lieu of an answer. I looked down, by his foot, and saw a second, wider tube running from the bathtub to the bathroom.

“Made myself a drain for the day.” His smirk showed he was proud of himself.

I decided to let him have his victory. “Wow. You’ve thought of everything!”

“That I have. Now run along, and stay in there until I tell you to come out. The fumes aren’t good for you breathers.”

When he was satisfied with the results, he told me to turn the water off and wait. He joined me long enough to get some bath salts and left me sitting on the cover of the toilet seat.

“Turn the water on again. Make it hot. I’ll tell you when it’s enough,” he yelled.

I was seriously bored and about to go out anyway, when he finally told me my bath was ready.

The scent of jasmine filled the candle-lit room and stopped me in my tracks, before I even noticed how gorgeous Spike looked in that light. He had his back to me, but the sight was breathtaking, nonetheless. I could see his tension in the way he held his shoulders, and I wanted to massage it out of them. I took a step closer, planning to do just that.

“Tell me when you’re in the water. I won’t peek.”

Whu-huh? “Spike, there’s nothing I have you haven’t seen before.” Or touched, or licked, or nibbled on. And please feel free to do so again!

“Bath. In. Now.”

Not negotiable, then. Great. I lost the sweatpants and t-shirt like my life depended on it, and slipped inside the hot water with nothing of the grace you usually see in movies. It was too hot, and the bottom was slippery, and did I mention hot?

Naughty parts fully immersed under the bubbles, I said, “You can turn now.”

His fingers on my shoulders startled me, but I didn’t let it show. When had he closed the distance between us?

“Dip your hair in.”

I didn’t even think about thinking about protesting. Moving forward a bit, I let my head fall back and my hair soak. Spike poured some shampoo in his palm, worked it into a lather, and began massaging it into my scalp. I didn’t realize when my eyelids drifted shut, but I was fully aware of the appreciative moans that escaped my throat from time to time as his skillful fingers worked from the top to the base of my head and back again, taking the tension away.

“You’re so good at this,” I told him when his thumbs dug into the knots that had long ago replaced the muscles at the base of my neck.

“I used to do that when...”

Welcome back, tension! “With Dru?” I tried to sound casual.

“My mom had severe migraines. I didn’t give her baths, but I did give her head and neck rubs. She always said they helped.” I couldn’t see his face, but his voice sounded sad, and I was sure his eyes would be misty.

“Talk to me about her?” I had no clue where that came from. Still, for about two years, Spike had been attuned to my needs, and some part of me sensed that he maybe needed that now.

“She was strong, smart, kind. Joyce reminded me of her.” He stood, and I thought maybe that was it for both the bath and the conversation, but when I opened my eyes I saw he was just getting something from the chest at the foot of his bed. It was a small towel, which he soaked in the tub when he returned to my side.

“My mom had to practically raise me by herself, too,” he went on. “She had too much responsibility for a woman back then, but more than managed.” Taking my right hand, he began scrubbing from wrist to shoulder with the towel, using circular movements. “She ran the estate with an iron fist, yet the workers loved her. I loved her.” Done with one arm, he moved to my other side and repeated the process. “She is responsible for the man—” His voice didn’t so much linger off, as he suddenly stopped talking.

“The man you are?” I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do next, with the safest parts of me all soaped up already, but any thoughts of wild sex had fled my mind. Spike was exposing himself to me more than he’d ever done in the past. More than I’d ever done, even counting the times he’d been inside me.

“Was,” he said. “The man I was. That man couldn’t have turned her. The man I am did.”

The piece of cloth moved to my breasts and down my stomach, like they were nothing more than forearms or elbows, like they held no significance to him. I didn’t blame him. I barely registered the fact he was touching me there; what he’d just said had stunned me. “You turned her?” The lack of accusation in my voice must have surprised both of us. “Why?” Placing my hand on top of his when he didn’t answer, I managed to meet his eyes. “Why?”

“She was dying. Tuberculosis.” He heaved a tremulous sigh that sounded suspiciously like an effort to keep a sob at bay. “When I—when Drusilla turned me, I felt I hadn’t changed. Thought my mom wouldn’t, either. Thought I was saving her.”

Freeing his hand from mine, he moved to my foot and began rubbing there. He’d gone all the way to my hip before I realized that was all he was going to tell me. What could I say in return? There were no words that could make it better; he’d killed his mother, even if he’d done so believing he’d save her. My heart ached for him, and I felt so small, so insignificant for my inability to take his pain away.

“I killed Angel,” I said.

“Angelus,” he retorted. “I remember that whole destroying-the-world deal.” It’s possible that his relief at the change of subject was all in my head. “I was there, remember?”

“Angel,” I repeated. “I killed Angel. Sent him to hell. That last minute, when the vortex had opened and I held the sword at his chest, it was him. He had his soul back, and he was looking at me, not knowing what was wrong, expecting me to help him, and... I told him to close his eyes.” The memory of how I’d betrayed the man I loved should have hurt; it always had in the past. The way Spike’s blue eyes were locked on mine now made that old, lost look on Angel’s brown ones nothing but a distant echo of an ache.

Spike’s hand was resting on my lower belly, the towel forgotten, the bath forgotten.

“We both did what we thought was right,” I whispered.

He nodded. I smiled. Somehow, those little things acted as absolutions.

***

Rinsing me without looking at me was impossible unless Spike didn’t mind getting his entire room wet. It turned out he minded, so he pulled the plug off the tub and went to the bathroom to run the water while I rinsed myself.

I swear I don’t know how on earth he’d sneaked into my house, but he gave me my own bathrobe to wear. What was more, when I was dry and warm, he handed me an overnight bag and said, “This is all I could find. I’m sure it all fits.”

When I looked through it, I saw its contents had come from my closet!

I put on my pink terrycloth shorts and a tank-top and was amazed all over again when I discovered my flip-flops at the bottom. Piling my hair on top of my head and securing it with a scrunchy, I followed my nose to where Spike was shooing away a green-skinned pizza guy.

“Was that—”

“Utterly harmless family guy in the service industry, Slayer. Pipe down. I tipped him less than I would a human.”

Meh. I was “Slayer” again. “Do I get my nails done after pizza?” I asked, refusing to come out of relaxed-mode.

“Yeah.”

“Do I also get to know how you got your paws on my clothes?”

He gave me the first honest smile since talk about his mother had started. “I have my sneaky ways.”

“Dawn let you in, didn’t she?”

He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know?”

I hadn’t until just then, but knowing made me feel better. At least Dawnie knew where to find me, and Spike wasn’t as cool as he played it.

I rolled my shoulders. “Pizza. Gimme.”

The pizza was way too good for something that fattening. At least Spike hadn’t gone overboard with the meats. We ate and then he painted my nails. Black. Because he couldn’t have smuggled a bottle of pink nail-polish from my room. Insert eye-roll.

I declared I’d be doing the story-telling that night, and that he had to lie in bed beside me. He didn’t give in very easily, so I had to tickle him. I think he only conceded when I climbed on his lap and bounced, though I swear it was completely innocent at the time.

I went with “Cinderella.”

When I started telling the story, he narrowed his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe I had cracked his super-secret code.

“You weren’t all that subtle with your choices,” I told him. “Although, come to think of it, most fairytales have one transformation or another brought about by love.”

There was that awed look in his eyes again, the one that made me want to kiss him.

I didn’t hold back. I abandoned Cinderella right where she sat among the ashes, never having met her fairy godmother and cupped Spike’s face with one hand so I could touch my lips to his. It wasn’t a demanding kiss. I didn’t, wouldn’t, press for more. “You’re a good man, William,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

I pretended not to see the tear that escaped his long eyelashes, down his sharp cheekbone. Lying back on my pillow, I closed my eyes. “There was a whoosh, and Cinderella was shocked to see a chubby lady, dressed in layers and layers of silk, and with wings sprouting from her back, standing before her,” I began.

“Fairy godmother wasn’t chubby,” Spike grumbled. He acted like the kiss had never happened, but I could hear the secret smile in his tone.

“Are you telling the story? No. I say she was.” I went on all the way to the happy ending. Then I turned and spooned behind him.

Naturally, I was freaked out in the morning to wake up and find we still lay the same way.