AUTHOR'S NOTE:  This is an NC-17 chapter. Fair warning. I don't want to hear any complaints! Enjoy the gratuitous bickering and smut that follows. ;) (I don't think this is a scene that was actually in the movie…ponders) Chapter 6

            He heard the phone ringing before he actually entered the apartment. His arms full of groceries and a couple of home furnishings, he fumbled through his duster pockets for his keys as the ringing continued. Finally managing to hook the key ring with his index finger and jam the key into the lock, turning it with his teeth, he jimmied the doorknob until the door swung open. Losing his balance, he fell face first onto the groceries, wincing when he heard something crack and smoosh. As the phone rang again, he jumped up, kicked the door shut, and a couple of curses later picked up the phone.

            "Yes?" he barked.

            "Gee. Hello, to you too, Spike," Buffy said in a sarcastic tone.

            "Buffy. Hi," he said, shutting the door.

            "Am I interrupting something?"

            "No, no," he answered, gathering up his groceries from the floor of his empty apartment. He frowned. He definitely needed to get some furniture. Best thing he had was something to sleep on, and that was just a second-hand mattress with one set of sheets and a pillow. Harmony had taken all the furnishings when she'd moved out. Stupid bitch.

            "So, what's up?" he heard her ask on the other end of the line. "You're all bad moody."

            "Sorry, pet," he apologized, opening the door to the fridge in the kitchen and putting the few groceries he'd gotten inside. "Just came back from a spot of shopping."

            "Shopping pisses you off? That so settles it, I'm taking back any invitation you might have had to come to the mall with me tonight."

            His laugh was cut short as his hand reached the slimy mess that was a crushed carton of eggs at the bottom of the sack. Growling, he flung the mess in the general vicinity of the trashcan at the end of the kitchen counter. "Bloody hell," he griped, running his hand under warm water in the kitchen sink. "I think we're going to have to have a ceremonial burial for the eggs, luv."

            She made a sympathetic noise on the other end. "I'm sorry."

            "S'alright," he sighed. "Just gave up on omelets in the morning. Not that I have a skillet or anything anyway…" He smacked his palm against the nearest wall. Grabbing an ashtray out of an otherwise empty cabinet, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He took a much-needed drag of smoke and slowly blew it out through thinned lips.

            "You wanna borrow one?"

            "Borrow one what?"

            "Skillet. I've got an extra one."

            He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but now what am I going to cook in it? Dust and air? I'm a little egg-less, now, luv. Thus defeats the purpose for the skillet."

            She sighed dramatically. "If it will shut you up, I'll throw in a couple of eggs."

            After taking another lengthy puff, he smiled into the phone. "Could you please not throw them? How about you gently place them?"

            "You know, you're starting to make me wish I'd just continued reading my book instead."

            He gasped in mock astonishment. "You read?"

            "Yes," she said, as if she were speaking to someone inherently stupid. "I just found this really cool book. Like, how to release your inner passionate person, or something like that."

            He raised an eyebrow. This could be interesting… he thought as he perched himself on the kitchen counter next to the ashtray and continued smoking his fag. "Go on," he urged.

            "Well, it says to try a new place to have sex in your home, each time you have sex." She sighed. "At the rate things are going with me, it'll be years and I'll be too arthritic to have it anywhere but a waterbed."

            He laughed deeply. "You know, luv, waterbeds are severely underrated."

            He could sense her blushing on her end of the line. "Yeah, well, it says examples, like the floor, or the kitchen table…"

            "Interesting," he mused. "As soon as I get a table that's the first thing I'll do with it."

            She let out a very unladylike snort. "Do me a favor, don't tell me about anyone that winds up on that table. I'll never eat over at your place. Ever."

            He waggled his eyebrows and, with sensuality dripping from his voice, purred, "Who said you'd be the one eating, pet?"

            There was a moment of silence, then she said in an innocent voice, "You know, I wonder what would happen if I pushed the 'Talk' button on my phone again…?"

            "Hey, you were the one that brought up the subject," he chuckled.

            "Yeah, yeah. Color me stupid." She turned the volume of the television up in the background and he could hear voices.

            "What'cha watchin', luv?"

            "Casablanca," she answered distractedly.

            In the background, he heard Ingrid Bergman's voice pleading with Humphrey Bogart, and he rested his head back against the cabinet behind him. "Ah, yes. Now Ingrid Bergman. There was a bird who was low maintenance."

            "Low maintenance?" came the confused response.

            "Yeah, there are two types of women: High maintenance and low maintenance."

            "And Ingrid Bergman is low maintenance?"

            "Damn straight."

            A pause. "What kind am I?"

            "Depends. Am I going to suffer bodily harm for answering this?" he joked.

            "Maybe. You'll just have to take your chances," she said smoothly.

            "Ah, well, I'm feeling a bit on the dangerous side anyway. You're the worst of all, actually. You're a high maintenance chit who firmly believes she's low maintenance."

            "Oh, I am not!" she protested.

            "You don't see it yourself? What about last week at that Italian place?" he laughed outright. Mimicking her, he said, "I'll have the fettuccini alfredo, but I want the noodles tender. I want to be able to cut them with a fork. And I don't want the alfredo sauce on the noodles. Bring it to me on the side. I want to pour it myself. Oh, and I'll have the hot fudge sundae, but give me strawberry ice cream instead of vanilla, and I want the hot fudge lukewarm, and bring that and the other toppings on the side in separate little cups." He snickered. "On the side is a very big thing with you."

            "Well, I want it the way I want it," she insisted haughtily.

            "Yeah, well, I half expected that waitress to give you a whipped cream enema, she was so bloody pissed."

            "Eww, gross much?"

            He ran his tongue over the tops of his bottom teeth. "Always."

            He heard her flipping the channels, stopping on one with a lot of talking and laughter. "Damn talk shows, they have the weirdest subjects," she was saying.

            "Well, ducks, since I don't have a television, you'll have to just describe for me what it's about."

            She sighed. "It's about people and sexual dreams they have."

            He shook his head and snickered softly. "You and sex, luv. What's up with that? Feeling a bit repressed?"

            "Shut up."

            "Nice comeback, care to try again for a better prize?"

            "Keep it up, Spike. I'll come over there, tie you up, and beat you with this remote."

            "Ooh, luv. I love it when you talk bondage and punishment," he purred silkily.

            "You're such a pig. A very over-talkative, annoying pig," she huffed.

            "Ah, right. Keep telling yourself you hate me, but you know you love me. Chicks can't help but love me…"

            "Love, hate… Let's not get caught up in semantics," she said easily, "I just want to inflict bodily harm, up to and including violent death. Which category does that fall under?"

            He paused, feigning thought. "Eh, could go either way…"

            Later that evening, after he had ordered pizza and eaten it alone for the umpteenth night in a row, Spike rolled over on his back on his mattress and stared at the ceiling. For the last six years, every where he went, that bird was right around the corner, either in reality, or in someone else's face. He hated her at the moment that he first met her, but by the end of their first meeting, he was deeply intrigued by her. Of course, she was annoying as hell with her Royal Family ordering technique at restaurants, but he could work around that. He never figured he'd be friends with her, though. Date, maybe. Sleep with, he'd most definitely try for. What male wouldn't want to shag a girl as beautiful as her? But friends?

            He figured he was slowly but surely breaking down her defenses.  And she was starting to rub off on him. He'd told the pizza place that he wanted his pepperoni "on the side" earlier that evening. He shook his head and smiled, remembering the odd look the delivery guy had given him. She was definitely wearing him down, slowly replacing his mannerisms with her own. It was like a soddin' marriage, and they hadn't even kissed yet!

            He thought about all the times that they'd seen each other as friends in the last two weeks, what she wore, the way certain outfits fit just right in all the right places… Slowly he reached under the blanket, tracing the length of his rapidly growing hardness. In his mind's eye, he saw her walk into his bedroom, the moonlight shining through the window and illuminating her blonde tresses. She would be wearing nothing but a black silk negligee, no underwear, and would have a look of pure, unfettered lust in her hazel eyes. He imagined her crawling up the length of the mattress until she hovered directly over him, her pink tongue darting out to moisten her lips before she crushed them to his in a searing kiss. He could almost picture how she would feel around him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and slowly lowered herself onto his erection, stretching her tight walls, moaning with the pleasure of it all. He could taste her mouth against his as their tongues dueled in time with their passionate thrusts.

            He thought of ripping the scrap of silk from her body, latching onto one of her rosy nipples and suckling hard as she rode him with even more fervor. He thought of losing himself in her molten core as he pumped into her again and again… then "watched" her throw her head back and scream his name as she clenched around him, coming hard at the exact moment he did…

            When Spike finally emerged from his fantasy, he realized he still had a vice grip around his cock, which was starting to go limp from exhaustion. The second thing he noticed was the sticky mess that had just recently been shot all over the underside of his only blanket. Grumbling, he wiped himself clean with the remainder of the blanket, flipped it over and told himself he would be making a stealthy trip to the Laundromat first thing in the morning.