"Where's my dinner?" Spike yelled, his hair almost white under the light.
"I'm on the phone," Giles replied annoyed, covering the receiver with his hand.
"Damn," the vampire whispered in disappointment.
Giles let out a soft sigh, rubbed his temples with his free hand, and put the phone to his mouth. The ruggedly handsome man continued to converse on the phone when he noticed how quiet it was. Something had to be amiss. He politely bid his friend farewell and went to his small kitchen to get Spike some blood. Giles got a package out from the ivory fridge, cut it open with a dangerously sharp pair of scissors, and carefully poured it into a midnight blue mug. He warmed it up for forty-five seconds and checked its temperature by sticking his finger into the mug. Giles washed his hands and went back to his bedroom.
"Spike," Giles said, his green eyes looking at the vampire in shock, "it was so quiet I thought you had dozed off."
"I don't want your sarcasm, Ru-pert, I want your blood," he retorted with disdain.
The watcher bit his lower lip, wondering if perhaps Spike's statement had a double meaning.
A few nights ago, before the vampire was restrained, Giles had caught him staring at his
neck, licking his lips. This is why Spike could no longer roam about the house as he
pleased.
"Well, until your chip malfunctions or is removed, this will have to do."
Giles put the mug up to Spike's light pink lips. The vampire drank so slowly that the watcher's rough hand began to cramp. He was almost certain that Spike was doing this on purpose, but he didn't want to give the vampire the satisfaction of a complaint. He flexed his hand thus tilting the mug and spilling the blood down Spike's white shirt.
"Fuck," Spike yelled, showing his pearly whites, "What the hell was that for?"
He was almost certain that Giles had split the blood on purpose.
"Now, Spike, is there really any need for that type of language?" Giles retorted, running his hand through his hair. "You're not attached to that shirt, are you?"
"No," Spike said annoyed, "Thank God."
"That makes the cleanup considerably less difficult," Giles replied.
He left the room rather briskly and returned with the scissors that he had used only moments ago and a warm bucket of water.
"That's right. Undress me, big boy," Spike said.
"What did you say?" Giles asked. He had been too caught up with the cleanup to heard the vampire correctly because surely Spike had not called him big boy.
"I said, '-
Giles carefully cut off the top of the sleeves of Spike's white muscle shirt and slowly
pulled the shirt down. The tips of his fingers were just above the cut and lightly grazed
Spike's chest, stomach, and eventually his leather cladden thighs. The vampire couldn't help
but notice how good Giles's fingers felt on his bare skin. In fact, he had to bite his
tongue so that he wouldn't let out a moan. Giles didn't seem to notice this. He took a thin,
bleached stain washcloth from the bucket and started to clean off the blood. A few minutes
later, his task was completed; and he dried off Spike with a fluffy white towel. The pale
vampire shivered.
"It's a bit nippy," Spike pointed out, Could you put a throw or something on me?"
He gave Giles a pleading look.
"A throw?"
"Yeah, a throw is..." Spike began.
"I know what a throw is. I am, however, baffled that you do," Giles explained.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," the vampire replied.
"Thank God."
As Giles laid the throw on him, Spike threw his handcuffed hands around the unexpecting watcher's neck, rolled on top of him, and pinned him to the large, soft bed.