CHAPTER FIVE
There is a date circled in red on the calendar in the kitchen. It is the 22nd of December, the last day the Bronze will be open before the holidays. The last night Buffy will have to work until January 1. Thanks to its status as the-only-place-in-town-to-hear -live music, the bar does not rely on Christmas depression to keep it hopping. The owner is taking off for Colorado. The employees are going to be given nice, if not totally compensatory, Christmas bonuses. And Buffy will be coming home to Spike.
Ten whole days she will be his and his alone. He can't think of any occasion in their lives that they have been able to spend even the barest smidgeon of time without the interferences of her work. Her slaying, of course, will continue through the New Year because demons are loathe to take holidays as a rule, but he can still be with her as they bask in the moonlight, weapons in hand, hand in hand. They will make love in the cemetery, on their usual limestone slab, the one that reads Beloved Wife. Buffy likes that tomb because of the romantic engraving: "My sorrow is such that my life dwindles from day to day without your tender caress. When we meet again, our hearts will be fire once more." He might surprise her one night, have a blanket and one of her fluffy pillows there. It is getting chilly at night and the last time they made love out of doors, Buffy trembled against the wind and he couldn't warm her. His touch made her shiver even more.
It has been ten days since they have made love, outdoors or in. He wakes aching for her sometimes, but she continues to sleep as Dawn prepares for school and leaves the apartment. He has been patient for the most part because it is a Herculean task to wake her when she is sleeping so deeply. And it is even more of a bear to deal with the consequences of her interrupted slumber. She can be as crabby as an old man losing at a park chess game when she hasn't had enough rest.
But tonight they will make love. Dawn is out for the evening at a friend's Christmas party. Buffy phoned earlier and said that she would be finished at the bar around 8:00. With Dawn's 11:00 weekend curfew, that will give them three precious hours to play. He intends to make the most of them. Tonight he is going to show her what she has been missing.
At ten till 8:00, he goes into the bathroom to draw a bath for her. Buffy will be tired after her shift. She will need a chance to relax, but not for too long. He will be in the tub with her, once again demonstrating one of the many advantages of having a lover who doesn't have to breathe. He joined her in the bath not too long ago and tongued her underwater, making her thrash around so that by the time he was finished, almost all the bathwater was on the floor. Afterwards, they soaked up the mess with towels moved across the floor by way of their passionate lovemaking. Buffy remarked that it was the most fun she had ever had doing housework.
As hot water pours from the faucet, he sprinkles some sea salt into the flow, followed by a generous spurt of Buffy's favorite vanilla scented bubble bath. While the bath is brewing, he goes to check on the candle supply. There are already a few votives lining the rim of the tub, but he wants the room to glow from every angle with soft candlelight. He ventures into their bedroom for the ones they keep on the bureau and bedside tables. While he's in there, he notes that it is just now 8:00. Perfect.
The tub is full and foamy as he is lighting the last of the candles. He snaps his lighter closed and sits on the rim of the toilet, admiring his work. He wonders briefly if he should have bought flowers for the occasion. But it's too late now.
Now, how to present himself to his lady tonight. He paces around in the living room, passing his thumbnail over his bottom lip while he thinks. He supposes nakedness is always a welcome sight. He begins to untuck his tee shirt and almost has the garment pulled over his head when he has a sudden change of heart. No, this isn't right. He doesn't want to be so blatant. Though at this point he thinks he could take her right at the threshold, with the bath and the candles and the soft mood lighting, he knows the evening calls for a little romance. This is where the silk smoking jacket would come in handy. Where might she be hiding his presents?
There's only one place in the apartment where she could be stashing away the presents. Their closet. He goes into the bedroom and tears open the closet door. On the top shelf where there were previously bags and bags of stuff are now just the usual clutter of shoeboxes and purses. Damn. She's found a new spot. Where else? Under the bed? He checks there, but the only thing occupying that space are a growing family of dust bunnies and some balled up Kleenex.
There is a linen closet, he remembers.
Out in the hallway now, he goes to the slim door between their bedroom and the bathroom. After opening the door, he flips on the light switch. No, still just towels and sheets. He moves some of the bulkier towels aside, thinking that they may be just a façade, but again, there's nothing behind them but more towels.
"Oh, well," he says to himself. "Wouldn't be right, sporting her gift before Christmas morning." He again begins to strip off his tee shirt. "This will have to do."
After thirty minutes on the sofa in front on the TV, Spike is beginning to realize it's hard to feel sexy while watching a sappy episode of Providence. He checks the clock over the mantle. Yep, it's 8:35. He should have offered her a ride home. Now he doesn't know why he didn't. Oh, that's right. He wanted to make tonight special for her. He pads into the bathroom and dips his fingers into the tub. The water is now lukewarm. He unplugs the drain to let out just enough water to allow a top off of hot water. Some of the candles are beginning to melt down to their wick holders. Such a waste, he thinks in dismay. She would love this and she would love him for it. He can just imagine her girlish squeals and happy Buffy cheerleader moves she does when she's really excited about something.
He moves his hands through the suds, creating a menacing claw mark in the blinking bubbles. So what is it about a tub dip that's so soothing and relaxing? He has seen Buffy, dressed in her robe, hair tossed into a messy bun on top of her head, cucumber in hand, nearly salivating for her solo soak. He wondered about the cucumber for a long time, wondering what she was doing with it exactly, until one night he walked in on her and found slices on her eyes, making her look like one of those scary Diva Dolls in the toys section of Target. He has never been curious enough to find out what the great joy of soaking in one's own filth is all about. But tonight, he might be.
Maybe.
He is already naked. And the water does feel very warm to his touch. Like Buffy. If Buffy were liquid and rectangular.
He puts one toe in. Then the whole foot. That done, he thinks he can manage to put in the whole leg. The other leg follows. And soon he is scooting his bottom against the slick base of the tub. As his head is resting against the seashell bath pillow, it occurs to him that this is sort of nice. Sort of…womb-like. Sort of something a nancy boy longing for his mum's sweet teet might find very comforting…
Wait. Is this something a poof would do? Because he is not a poof. No, not this vampire, though he has known plenty who are. Not him. No. But this is…this is nice. This is warm and fragrant and soothing. This is…
"Paradise," he exhales slowly as he allows his whole body to relax against the porcelain. It almost feels as though the tub is conforming to the contours of his body, or that he is melting into the mix of salt and vanilla. Salt and vanilla. The ingredients for homemade ice cream. Mmm…homemade ice cream. Ice cream! There is some in the freezer. He should get it. But this is too pleasurable, too indulgent. A little like a murder spree, but with bubbles.
As he lies there in total splendor, wondering why in the hell he hasn't tried this sooner, there is a ring sounding somewhere in the apartment. His eyes jerk open. He can't identify the source just yet. Then he realizes it's the phone. Before he can even make a move to pry himself out of his heavenly bliss, the answering machine picks up.
"Hi. Buffy, Spike and Dawn are otherwise occupied. Leave a message. And don't hang up, unless you're a bloody telemarketer."
This was the message Buffy dictated to him after she was horrified to learn for three weeks the outgoing message was, "Buffy and Spike are fucking now. Leave a message."
The beep sounds, followed by Buffy's breathless voice. "Hi, honey. Are you there? Guess not. Where are you? Anyway, there's been a delay. Some biker demons decided to zoom in right at closing time and guess what? Yep. Slayer carnage ensued and property damage accumulated. So instead of being really grateful, the boss is, like, 'Clean it up or you don't have a job next year!' I'm almost done. I'll be home as soon as I can. Love you!"
He smiles, letting the bubbles baptize his shoulders again as he sinks back down against the pillow. "Love you too, sweetheart," he says lazily as the bubbles adorn his chin like a shaggy Rip Van Winkle beard.
He is awake now. Though he can't believe he was ever asleep.
The systematic undoing of locks trumpets someone's return to the apartment. Spike springs from the now chilly water and hurdles over the side, diving for the terrycloth towel on a nearby rack. He dries himself off as best as he can, wrapping the towel around his waist as soon as he stops making puddles on the floor. As Buffy is walking into the apartment, he is exiting the bathroom, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.
"Hello, sweetheart," he says, still cinching the towel around him.
"Hi," she says warily.
"I was just getting out of the shower," he says. "Wanted to be nice and warm for you when you got home."
"Aw, honey," she says, approaching him with open arms. As she falls into his embrace, she murmurs against his shoulder, "You're so sweet…so sweet and…vanilla scented." She pulls away from him, aiming an accusatory glare his way, tinged with a laughing amusement. "You've been taking a bath!"
Spike snorts and begins to stammer. "Wh…what, me? No…just a shower. I accidentally used your bubble bath, thinking it was shower gel."
But Buffy has him tagged. "Oh, honey…The candle scent? The sleepy eyes?" She offers his own hand for evidence. "The prune fingers?"
"So what if I have?" he asks, whipping his fingers away from Buffy's probing, mocking stare. "It was very relaxing! And it was supposed to have been for you, Goldilocks."
"Really? You made a bath for me?"
"Yeah," he says, recovering a bit of his cool as he draws her closer. "Thought you might need it after a hard night, perhaps a hard slay." He breathes into her ear. "Nice preparation for a hard lay."
"Oh, baby!" she says. "Do you ever know what I like."
His masculinity effectively still in tact, he feels brazen enough to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom. As they are making their way down the hall, Buffy doffs her top and leaves it on the floor. Spike's hands are under her bra strap as he ferries her into the bedroom. They are kissing as they land one on top of the other on the bed. Buffy ferociously undoes her own bra, allowing her breasts to bounce free in front of Spike's delighted eyes as she straddles him. She braises his neck with kisses, rubbing her hardened nipples against his. Growling with the overpowering need to be inside of her, Spike flips her on her back, simultaneously whipping off his drenched towel and Buffy's pants in two swift moves. All that is between them now is the small strip of her satin thong. He gazes at it, breathing in the pungent fresh bread scent of her arousal. With two thumbs hooked on either side of the thong, he maneuvers the small obstruction down her thighs, kissing the areas in its wake as he slips it off her quivering legs.
Spike positions his pelvis between her thighs, guiding himself with one hand to her entrance. But just then, the phone rings beside the bed.
At the sound, the two of them jump. Their gazes are locked in miscomprehension for a few moments. When Spike thinks that she's just going to let the machine get it, he pulls his hips back, ready to gun himself right into her. Then suddenly, she pulls away from him.
"Honey, it might be Dawn," she says in a cautionary way.
He settles back on his folded legs, silently cursing the Nibblet. She has some timing, he thinks bitterly as he watches his lover reach for the phone.
"Miss Summers?" a deep, unfamiliar voice intones.
"Speaking," she says, pulling her hair away from her mouth.
"Your sister has been in an accident," the voice says without emotion.
Her heart falls in an elevator failure fashion to the base of her stomach. "Oh, God. Is she OK?" she somehow thinks to ask.
"She's being treated at County General. She's all right. Just a little bruised."
"We'll be right there," Buffy says. "Thank you."
As she puts the phone back, Spike asks, "What's wrong?"
"Get dressed," is all she says as she begins reassembling her clothes.