by Leadlight
Disclaimer: Yada Yada Yada. Not mine, blah blah, wish they were :-)
Rating: G
Notes: This is pure fluffy Spuffy drivel.
Feedback: Sure :-) This was my first fic ever, so be kind.
Distribution: If you want it, just ask. melissasmailbox@yahoo.com.au
---
It had been two days since he had seen her - two days since that disastrous outing to the demon bar, when she had cut him down to size, only later realizing her concession that he was the only one she could bear to be with.
He hadn't seen her since, realizing her need for space and trusting that she would seek him out when she was ready to talk. His patience was starting to run out though and he was nearly ready to go to her - not 48 hours yet and already he was edgy. "You lasted 147 days mate," he reminded himself, "a couple more days shouldn't be too much. Least you know she's alright - well alive anyway."
"Spike! Up here! Now!" The Slayer's voice echoed through the crypt as the blond vampire climbed the ladder to his "living room". She might want to pound him, he reasoned, but at least she seemed to be feeling something - and that was good in his book. Though to tell the truth he was getting a little tired of being the Slayer's personal punching bag - at least until she decided to patch him up, he decided. Then she could punch him all she liked, he figured.
She sounded annoyed. Apparently she still hadn't forgotten the kittens. He hadn't told her what they were for - and she hadn't asked, exactly - just given him a look that said, "I don't want to know what you're going to do with those poor cute baby animals."
It was pathetic really - but what was a vamp to do to earn a crust these days? He'd given up stealing after she died, part of his setting-a-good-example-for-Dawn phase. And the Sunnydale pet stores paid well for the small fluffy pets. It kept him in booze and fags, and had even bought birthday presents for some of her Scooby mates over the summer. `Course his demon mates all figured he was draining them, or torturing them or something - he'd certainly won enough of the little blighters - but he wasn't about to let on what he was doing. Unless she asked.
"What is it pet? Some nasty demon wreaking havoc again?"
She turned and looked at him, her face wearing the same shuttered look that she had had since her return.
She looked away, then drew a deep breath and looked him full in the face. "Spike, I'm sorry."
Puzzled, he shook his head. "Buffy. Love, what is it?"
"I'm sorry." The words spilled out, "You're blameless - well in this anyway - and I've been beating up on you and ---" She tried again. "I meant what I said you know. Ever since I - got back - you're the only one I can really talk to. The only one I can tell the truth. And all I do is beat up on you. I wanted to apologize. It's not your fault that I feel like this. That they brought me back."
His head tipped to one side. "No need for the sorries love. You're allowed to be a bit messed up you know."
She reached for his hand. "I just wanted you to know. I don't really mean it. What I say sometimes - the mean stuff. It's just habit." She broke off. "Anyway, I - I wondered if you were doing anything tonight."
He shook his head, smiling gently, trying to ignore the gleeful thoughts dancing the sodding can-can in his skull. She wanted to spend time with him. She was holding his hand. She smiled. At him. She frowned at him. Hang on - she was frowning. And looking hurt. Eyes brimming.
"You don't want to do anything tonight?" she asked sadly, misunderstanding the shake of his head. She sighed.
"No. Yes. Pet, I'd love to do something. Did you have anything in mind?"
"Picnic."
"Huh?"
She tugged gently on his hand, leading him out the door to the cemetery. On the ground beside his crypt was a giant red-and-white-checked tablecloth, with a basket on top filled with small interesting-smelling takeaway food boxes.
"I got spicy Buffalo Wings," she smiled.
THE END
