Oh No, You Didn't
Disclaimer: I own nothing but Sam, you know, the adorable one? But this story isn't about him.
I will forever miss Lew.
Shit, shit, shit.
He nearly hit his shin on the coffee table while attempting to reach the bathroom. Dominic was serving him a steaming cup of tea when Spike's eight year old nephew accidentally bumped into him; he was playing tags with his friends. His swearing was inaudible because Dominic was too busy yelling at them in a series of Italian words he couldn't comprehend. Something about no running inside the house, he supposed.
He had been in Spike's home for more than a couple of occasions so he was familiar with the layout of the house. Tearing his drenched shirt off, he practically sprinted to the last door at the end of the hallway and kicked it open. The skin of his chest was burning it felt numb.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Tea-stained shirt dropped to the floor. "Wh- Spike?"
"What the hell, Lew, can't you knock?" Spike shouted, looking as horrified as he probably was. Spike was trying to pull the shower curtain but the vintage floral curtain didn't move an inch. It was stuck.
The stinging on his chest reminded him what he was there for and he picked up his shirt before turning on the faucet. He soaked it under the cold water before pressing it onto the red area on his chest. The contrast of the cold water on his burning skin made him wince.
It was then when he really realized that his friend was in the tub. The only thing missing was a rubber ducky. "Shit, man, you smell like Jules."
"What are you doing here?" Spike demanded; knees brought up close together, he assumed, to hide some things that better left unsaid.
"Your dad spilled some coffee. It burns," he explained distractedly, soaking his shirt under the tab once again. "Why didn't you lock the door?"
"I did! You broke the lock!"
"I didn't," he glanced at the door. The momentum of his kick had pushed it close. "It's five, man, and you're still soaking away like some Italian princess. You think Casey'll dig you smelling like lavender?"
"It's lavender for men." Spike retorted like it automatically justified everything. "Now why don't you get out so I can get out? Seriously, Lew, what if I wasn't in the tub when you barged in? Could have been worse."
He snorted. "Yeah, like finding you having a bubble bath while reading your mom's magazine?"
"You'd better not say a word to anybody. Anybody, especially Ed. He's going to make my life a living hell, you know that."
He pretended to consider the options. He could probably milk this for a good week.
"But maybe Ed likes lavender for men too."
Before Spike could come up with any comeback the door slowly creaked open, revealing the plump and amiable face of Michelina Scarlatti, a checkered apron was tied around her waist.
He was looking at Spike was looking at her mother was looking at both of them. It was an never-ending circle.
"Ma!"
"You forgot your towel, Mikey." She chided him, pushing the door wider and walking in, a green towel slung around her arm.
Lew had to suppress the laughter he desperately wanted to let out. He never experienced first hand how intrusive Spike's mother could be. He'd always thought Spike was only exaggerating.
Okay, so maybe two weeks.
The amusement didn't last long, however. Her eyes darted back and forth between him and her son. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head.
"Ah, Lewis. Mi dispiace. I'm sorry our tub is not big enough for two. I'll go get you another towel. And later I have cookies! I hope you'll like them. They're chocolate chips. Mikey loves them too."
With those parting words, she closed the door behind her.
What the-
"Did she-" Lew turned to Spike. He was leaning against the back of the tub, one hand massaging his head. "Did she just- Did she really—no..."
"Just get out, Lew."
He swallowed, one hand still rubbing his bare chest absently.
She totally did.
He gave a nervous chuckle. "You know that you can't say anything to anybody, right? I mean we're not-"
"Yes, I know we're not, now get out!" Spike had one hand wrapped around a bottle of shampoo. Lew knew he wouldn't blink twice to throw it at him.
Licking his lips, he collected his damp shirt –would have to borrow Spike's—and turned the doorknob. He found the situation to be hilarious in a weird sort of way. They would be laughing at it ten years from now for sure.
All needed now was a grand exit.
"Spike, don't say your mom's still washing your bac-"
"GET OUT!" There's a flash of yellow –the shampoo—and he ducked down just in time. It landed on the floor with a loud thud.
Breaking into peals of laughter, Lew closed the door.
I MISS LEW.