He hit the ground and rolled, allowing his shoulder to take most of the blow from the pavement. His jaw tightened in pain. Not the best idea, he realized, considering I got stabbed there two days ago. Spike leapt to his feet but stayed low, fists tight, circling the K'bbeth creature he'd followed into the alley.
"Not as easy to kill as those co-eds, eh ?" he growled, but the demon seemed uninterested in conversation and merely swung his axe in the direction of Spike's forehead. The vampire swore and ducked, and swiped his right leg under the slimy thing's ankles. His opponent was huge and hulking, and therefore particularly suited for falling heavily and not getting up right away. Spike pulled the dagger free from his belt loop and drove it home. There was a brief shudder, and orange bile flowed up like a lame geyser from the wound. Spike fought the urge to throw up. Gross.
There was something like a tentacle attached to his duster sleeve, and he peeled it away with the expression of a man forced to touch sanitary pads. Lucky thing there's running water where I'm headed. He made a face and prodded the stained leather with tender fingers. I can't afford any more wear and tear on the old dear than is absolutely bleedin' necessary.
"Spare some Mardi Gras, pet ?" he asked cheerfully, and Buffy let out something like a squeak. He indicated the paper towels with his thumb. "Coat's a touch soggy. Those K'bbeth don't play nice. And they spit like Mt. St. Helen's when you stick 'em."
"You're breaking my heart. Here." She watched him soak up the mess from his sleeves with an almost loving touch. The coat-affection seemed a bit out of place, but she ignored it, choosing instead to fold her arms across her chest like an imperial guard. "You use a door this time, I hope ?"
"The only civilized thing to do." He replied, raising an eyebrow that dared her to challenge him. The slayer in her was not impressed.
"Huh." She snorted. "You and 'civilized' ever get in the same room, one of you would kill the other." He cracked a grin.
"That was really excellent, you know. Retorts are 100% better. Been practicing long ? 'Cause you know," he slid close to her, risking a staking, he knew, but willing to die for the scent flooding his nostrils, "I was particularly impressed." Her brows arched in a similar challenge.
"You looking to get staked ?"
"Not in the mood." He purred.
"Then get your hand away from where it's hovering, over my ass."
"Right." He itched at his neck, embarrassed, and slung his hips over the kitchen counter. Spike let his heels knock on the cupboard doors, watching her arrange Heaven-knows-what on creamy pale shelving. "Spring cleaning ?" She opened her mouth, and shut it again, and made a small weary gesture with her left hand that was decidedly un-slayer-like.
"Social Services. They're checking up on us on Tuesday. It's-" her hands became fist, instinctively. "It's some kind of stupid test. Like I'm not good enough to protect her !" she yelled, to no one in particular. "Like I need to be 'observed' by a bunch of…"
"Snooping wankers ?"
"Exactly." I came back from the dead for her, she wanted to say, but stifled the thought. Spike knew the story. In fact, he'd been the one to find her, shivering and incoherent, in the middle of an unused stretch of freeway. Something to do with it not being her time. Whatever that meant. All it meant right now was paperwork and housecalls and an ache just to the right and south of a shoulder blade. Her face must have shown something of all that, because Spike eased off the counter and padded silently over to her side. His hands found the spot without asking, and began to rub counterclockwise, with just the right pressure.
"Better ?" he asked, in a neutral sort of voice, when a few minutes had passed.
"Better."