Author Note: On Tumblr, a user by the name of taramaclayd expressed bitterness over Spike and Buffy's scene on the motorbike never being shown on screen. When magicboxprompts reblogged it saying that someone should write a fic about it, I took it upon myself. This was the result.
Going for a Ride
Spike reckoned Buffy must have got her wires crossed. The day from hell? Hardly! It was like a miracle when she swung open the door of his crypt earlier that evening, with nothing on her mind but to rant and to drink.
Did she have any idea what it meant to him just to have her there, sitting with him?
He sighed, knowing the answer to his own question was no. Damn he loved the chit, but she was bloody clueless.
Then – THEN! - miracle upon miracle, she actually listened to what he had to say, and took his advice. She hopped on his motorcycle behind him, and headed out to the mean streets with him, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Maybe things didn't quite go so well at the demon bar he'd taken her to, but things were pretty damn great besides that.
He was worried that maybe she was already too sozzled to stay on the bike, but there wasn't any need. Indeed, he'd never doubt her grip again.
Spike was actually half convinced he'd find bruises from the indents of her fingers on his flesh in the morning. More than that, he wished for them. Evidence that she'd touched him, even if it was through heavy fabric and leather.
Upon finding out just how tightly she could hold on, Spike pushed the speed higher.
And already he'd been going fast, trying to impress her. The downside of this, however, was that it was all going to be over too soon.
A couple of blocks from the club, Spike realized the journey was much too short – too quick – so he did a few laps and circuited the back roads to draw it out. He was certain Buffy hadn't noticed.
She was glued so tightly to his back he could feel the hammer of her heart reverberate inside his own chest. And wasn't that a heady sensation!
He didn't have to worry about her being scared of the speed, having learned many years ago to distinguish the subtle differences fear and pleasure had on the circulatory system.
Spike wished it could have lasted forever – that they could have rode out of town and never returned to either of their worries or past failures. Part of him was tempted to just do it – head for the border right then and there. He didn't think Buffy would mind. Not at first. In the end, they'd both miss Dawn, though.
Eventually, and with no small sense of loss, he finally pulled into a space at the back of the bar and dismounted.
There was a vaguely awkward moment when Buffy got off. He tried to help her, she tried to do it all by herself, and somehow they ended up holding each other, for just the briefest of moments.
Spike shook his head just thinking about it. It was probably one of the best evenings he'd ever had.
Buffy considered that maybe her day wasn't as bad as it first seemed. Giles helping her out with money was a huge relief, but even before that things were looking up.
She had needed to unload. Let loose. And she had. Going out with Spike had actually been the most carefree thing she'd done in so long.
Surprising fact of the day? He wasn't actually bad company. But she'd started to suspect that before now, and Dawn had been saying it for ages.
Dawn.
Buffy might have asked Spike to run away with her tonight if it hadn't been for the responsibility of her sister. Somehow, the slaying didn't even feel like much of a thing keeping her in Sunnydale anymore. It had now been conclusively proven that the Hellmouth could live without her.
And when she died – again, for good – someday, it would.
But all those thoughts felt too heavy in Buffy's head, so she shook them away, instantly regretting the action.
If her head hurt this much now, she could only imagine how bad it would be in the morning when the hangover really kicked in.
She sighed. It was totally worth it.
When she'd been on the bike with Spike, she'd loved it. She didn't even care that he was driving in circles. And Buffy didn't have to hide her pleasure, or force herself not to hold on to him too much, because she could always use alcohol as an excuse.
Unashamedly, she'd rested her head between his shoulder blades and taken deep breaths of his distinctive smell: leather, smoke, whiskey, and motor oil.
It sounded dirty, and like it shouldn't smell good, but it did on him. Maybe it was because he couldn't sweat and it wasn't tainted but, whatever the reason, Buffy loved it. Couldn't get enough of it.
She'd once thought him crazy for stealing her shirts and sniffing them – yeah, Riley had told her about that – but now she understood.
Lying in her bed, unable to sleep, as rapt as she was in thoughts of Spike; Buffy idly wondered if she could get away with stealing one of his shirts.
No. Not stealing. Borrowing. Taking, temporarily, for… research. Getting to know her enemy better or, okay, even to herself it sounded like a lame excuse.
Buffy shook her head again at her wayward thoughts. Clearly she'd spent too much time with Spike, that his crazy logic had rubbed off on her.
Still, she considered a second time, it was totally worth it.
Time spent away from everything had kinda made things okay again, for a little while.
Maybe she'd go and see him again tomorrow.