Two - Getting Along

"Good morning!" Buffy sang as she entered Spike's bedroom promptly at 9 AM the next day.

Spike groaned, one hand reaching blindly out and grabbing a pillow, then covering his head with it.

"I don't have to yank off the covers again, do I?" she threatened as she placed a tray of food on the nightstand.

The paraplegic heaved a sigh, pulling the pillow off his face and opening his eyes a crack. "You're a nightmare. I'm gonna close my eyes, and when I open them again, you're gonna be elsewhere." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a few moments, then opened them again. "Bloody hell," he grumbled.

Buffy smiled amusedly. "Want some breakfast?" She popped a strawberry into her mouth, biting into the firm, red flesh. A drop of its juice trickled from the side of her mouth and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

"You're never gonna let me be, are you?" Spike whined.

"Let me think about that one..." Buffy said, cocking her head and pausing dramatically. "Nope. Can't say as I am."

"Give me the soddin' food..." he ordered grumpily.

"Ooh, someone's not a morning person," she chided. "You gonna eat lying down?"

"Not like I can move m'self, is it?" he asked. "Guess you're gonna have to handle my hot, tight little body and... oomph!" he wheezed as Buffy took him by the armpits and hauled him up into a sitting position, again propping him back on a pillow. "Thanks ever so."

"No problem," she replied as she poured milk over a bowl of Lucky Charms. She stuck a spoon into the cereal and handed it to him. "Eat up, you're gonna need the energy."

"You plannin' on makin' me run a marathon, luv?" Spike asked sardonically between mouthfuls.

"Not yet." She bit into another strawberry, chewing the sweet fruit slowly, then swallowed. "Today, you get your first massage."

"Um... not to burst your bubble or anythin', pet, but I've 'ad massages before." He scooped another spoonful of Lucky Charms into his mouth.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Therapeutic massage. Not quite the same thing."

"I'll believe it when I see it..."

"I'm sure you will."

~*~*~*~*~

"Ow! Where the buggerin' 'ell did you learn to massage, you bint? Madame Desdemona's House o' Pain?" the mountain climber ground out ten minutes later.

"Not my fault," Buffy reasoned. "If you'd been getting therapy all along, your back wouldn't feel like a badly-knitted scarf. Now lie still." She squirted more lotion into her palms, then slapped her hands together and rubbed to warm it up, then worked on him some more. "You wearing underwear today?" she asked, reaching for the sheet that hadn't as of yet gone lower than his waist.

"No," he said, wincing in discomfort as she attacked a knot at the small of his back. "Ow!" He squirmed slightly.

"Ever get a butt massage?" she asked, right before her lotion-slick hands lowered to his glutes.

"Not really my thing, Summers," he replied, turning his head and burying his face in the pillow as she massaged his buttocks.

"Bedsores look better this morning."

He turned his head once more, resting his cheek on the bed. "Yeah, an' they don't hurt like 'ell anymore either."

Buffy's capable hands began to massage his thighs. "You feel this?" she asked.

"Little pressure," he said. "I can feel you pressin' in, but not much else."

"How 'bout here?" she asked as her hands travelled to his calves.

"Don't feel anythin' from the knees down."

"We'll work on that." She finished up quickly, then moved back. "Can you flip yourself over this morning?"

"Yeah," he said, grunting softly as he rolled himself over using his arms and abdominal muscles. His hands once again cupped his groin. "Listen, Summers, you mind goin' over to my dresser an' gettin' a pair of briefs?"

"Sure," she said, walking over to the large, mahogany structure and opening the top drawer. "Which drawer?" she called over her shoulder.

"Middle," he responded.

She opened up the middle drawer and from the heap of multi-styled underwear, pulled out a pair of dark blue briefs. She was about to close the dresser again when she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She plucked a garment from the drawer, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, then held it up on display. "Never pictured you as the lacy thong type," she teased.

"That's Dru's," he replied. "She must've left it 'ere the last time she visited."

"She's the figure skater, right?" Buffy inquired. "Dawn told me about her."

"Yeah..."

Buffy tossed the thong back into the dresser, closing the drawer with her knee, then returned to Spike's bedside. "How do we want to do this?" she asked, holding up the briefs.

"Usually feet first," he stated dryly.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," she retorted, walking to the foot of the bed. She worked the briefs over his feet and up his legs. "Think you can lift up?" she asked.

"Not likely," he replied.

"Oh well," she said, tugging the briefs as they passed beneath his buttocks. She soon had his groin and hands encased in the cotton fabric, and stood back, turning around as Spike arranged himself within the briefs, then pulled his hands away. She turned back to him. "Ready for stage two?" she asked.

He nodded, and she squirted lotion into her hands, ready to begin loosening up his quads. Once the lotion had warmed between her palms, she lowered them to his left thigh, rubbing firmly up and down from the edge of the blue fabric to his knee, then back up.

"So 'ow long you been doin' this?" he asked, his cerulean eyes on her as she worked at his thigh.

"Five years this May," she replied. "Why the curiosity?"

"Bloke likes to know who's workin' on 'im is all." His eyes followed her hands as they slowly travelled up and down his leg.

"Right." Buffy began to massage the tendons around his kneecap. "Anything else you want to know?"

"Why're you doin' this for me, Buffy?" His voice had suddenly softened, taking on the same vulnerable tone that it'd been laced with the previous night.

Her hands paused in their descent down his leg. "I told you," she said, stepping back and reaching for the lotion, "I owed Dawn a big favor, and she's considering this it."

"What kind o' favor?"

"The kind that makes me work on a guy who asks too many questions," she replied sarcastically.

Spike raised his left eyebrow, and Buffy took that opportunity to change the subject. "So, when do you get the stitches out of your eyebrow?" she asked, climbing onto the bed at the foot to massage his ankle.

He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. "No avoidin' the question, pet."

"You really want to know?"

"I really wanna know." Spike lifted his head, stacking his hands behind it. "Tell me."

"My sophomore year of high school, I met a guy." She massaged his foot as she talked. "His name was Angel, and - "

Spike snorted. "What kind of a name is Angel?" he asked.

"What kind of a name is Spike?" Buffy asked pointedly. "Are you going to let me share my deep, dark secret or not?"

"Carry on, luv."

"His name was Angel, and he was in college. We fell in love, or at least I did. On the night of my seventeenth birthday, we went back to his apartment, and we slept together. The next morning..." she trailed off.

"Wanker was gone, eh?"

"Yeah. I went home, unlocked Mom's liquor cabinet, and drank enough to last for days. Mom had left on a business trip, so it wasn't until Dawnie came home from school that she found me, sitting on the couch with three empty bottles on the coffee table in front of me and a fourth, half-empty, in my hand. She dragged me up to the shower, turned the water on cold, and pushed me in. Sobered me right up. For a fourteen-year-old, she was a pretty smart kid. She promised not to tell Mom, but told me that I'd owe her. Hence - " she broke off, gesturing to him. "Here I am."

"Touchin' story," he said as she began on his right thigh. The vulnerability in his tone had dissolved. "Why do I think that the favor you owed Dawn wasn't the only reason you came out 'ere to try your hand at gettin' me on my feet again?"

"Because it isn't...?" she hedged.

"Oh, do tell," he said.

"Let's just say that Dawn is very good at persuading people," she said. "My argument was that we wouldn't get along."

"Looks to me like we're gettin' along just fine..."

"I also have you completely at my mercy right now. You wouldn't like it if we weren't getting along." She paused. "After she told me that you'd scared away five therapists, she also reminded me of a Hell's Angel that I had to work on my first year. She told me I could handle you - at least until you got back on your feet."

The massage moved toward said feet, and Buffy lightly scratched her nails against his right sole. "Tickle?" she asked, smirking.

"Ha bloody ha, Summers."

~*~*~*~*~

Spike's bedroom door swung open. "Beep beep!" Buffy exclaimed as she entered the room in a wheelchair. "Got you a present, Spikey..."

Spike took one look at the wheelchair and bristled. "I am not gettin' in that thing."

"Have it your way. I just thought you might want to get out of your bedroom, but if you're sure you want to spend such a beautiful day alone in your room..." she trailed off. "Plus, if you know how to get in and out of the wheelchair, you'll be able to go pretty much anywhere you want in the house. Change of scenery would be pretty nice right about now, wouldn't it?"

Spike was silent for a moment. "Show me how to get in the soddin' chair, Summers..."

"Until you can do it yourself, I'm gonna have to help you get in and out. We need to move you to the edge of the bed - " she pulled back the sheets. "Good grief! Do you never wear clothing?!"

"Sorry pet. Habit." He smirked at her. "If my nudity offends you so much, you could get me a pair of knickers from the drawer. Maybe a pair of shorts too."

Within minutes, Spike was dressed in a long pair of Umbro shorts.

"Now," Buffy said. "Let's get you to the edge of the bed. You can sit up, right?"

The tendons in his throat stood out as he slowly sat up. "Huh. Guess so."

"Alright, then. We have to swing you around," she said, taking hold of his ankles. "Brace yourself." She pulled his legs to the side so they were hanging off the edge of the mattress. "Scoot forward?"

Spike reached backwards and pushed, propelling his lower body closer to Buffy.

"Good," she said as she brought the wheelchair forward and locked the wheels. "You're gonna have to rely on your upper-arm strength for this next step, because even though I'm good at hauling you while you're in bed, but I don't think I can pick up all 158 pounds of you."

"163," he corrected.

"I'm figuring for the at least five pounds of muscle that atrophied off you in the time that you weren't having therapy."

"Right then. How's this next step work?"

"Reach over, grab the armrests of the chair, and swing your body into it," she said, stepping back to allow him space.

"That's it?" he asked.

"Should be, unless there's a step I'm missing... oh yeah. Don't fall."

Spike reached for the armrests, then hefted his body up. The muscles in his arms trembled with exertion as he lifted himself, and he was soon panting, but he managed relatively quickly to seat himself in the chair.

Buffy arranged his legs, putting his feet on the rests. "Nice job," she complimented. "Most of my patients fall at least twice before they get into the chair for the first time."

"Never been one to follow the rules, luv," Spike said, looking up at her from his seated position. "So, where are we going?"

"First, we're going to my room, where you'll wait outside while I change out of this," she said, motioning at her light gray workout pants and pink tee-shirt. She unlocked the wheels on the chair. "Ready?"

Spike nodded. "Roll away," he said in a mock-commanding tone.

She took hold of the handles at the rear of the chair, pushing it forward. She rolled the chair through the doorway and down the hall, stopping outside her door. "Wait here," she said, disappearing into her room.

Spike looked around boredly, drumming his fingers on the armrests of the chair. The hallway looked bigger from the new prospective, he noted as he sat by Buffy's door.

She emerged, dressed in a black tanktop, brief, frayed cutoffs, and a pair of black flip-flops. "Let's go," she said, reaching down and unlocking the wheels. She didn't, however, resume her position behind the chair. Instead, she began walking down the hall by herself. When she noticed that Spike wasn't rolling next to her, she turned and planted her hands on her hips.

"Well?" she asked. "It's not that hard... roll them forward and the chair goes forward..."

"Yeah," he grunted, rolling the chair toward her. They progressed down the hall, stopping at the elevator that Buffy'd discovered in her search for the kitchen when she'd arrived.

She pressed the button with a slender finger, and the elevator whirred to life, the car riding up the cables in the shaft. The doors opened and she entered it, Spike rolling in behind her. They rode the elevator down to the ground floor, where they got out and turned toward the pool.

"Thought we were going outside," he commented as the chair rolled to a stop on the hand-laid stone floor that surrounded the swimming pool.

"This counts as outside, doesn't it?" she asked, kicking off her flip-flops. She walked over to a large shelf stocked with fluffy beachtowels and grabbed one, tossing it over her shoulder. "I'm going to swim," she declared.

"And I'm goin' to do what, exactly?"

"Watch?" she suggested, grasping the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head, revealing a dark green bikini top. She unbuttoned the cutoffs and shimmied slightly. The little motion allowed them to fall to her feet, and she stood before him in a tiny bikini that left little to the imagination. She turned toward the pool and walked toward the deep end, then dove in.

Spike's eyes willingly took in her form as her body sluiced through the warm pool water. She did a few laps before slowing down and flipping over onto her back, floating. "The water feels great," she called to Spike. "We're gonna have to get you in the pool for therapy sometime."

"... yeah..." he replied, his mind elsewhere as he gazed at her. He shook his head and tore his eyes from her lithe figure, staring outside through one of the glass walls.

A little water splashed over the edge onto the stone tiles as Buffy hefted herself out of the pool. She towelled herself off and dropped the towel to the side of a lounge chair, then lay down on the chair. Spike rolled the wheelchair over to her.

"Have a good swim, Summers?" he asked, gazing down at her as she situated herself comfortably on the lounger.

"Yeah," she replied, suddenly sitting up. "Is there sunscreen around here somewhere?"

"Should be with the towels."

She stood and padded barefoot over to the shelf where she'd retrieved her towel, plucking a bottle of sunscreen and another towel up. These she carried back toward the lounger, spreading the towel out atop the chair before she lay back down. She then uncapped the bottle of sunscreen and began to rub it into her skin.

Spike's gaze followed her hands once more, this time as they travelled over her own flesh. He felt a stirring in his groin and looked away, attempting to will away a potentially embarrassing situation.

"You have a beautiful home," Buffy said as she rubbed sunscreen into the flesh of her abdomen. "I didn't really picture you in a place like this."

He chuckled. "What type of place did you have pictured for me then, luv?"

"Um... more bachelor pad-ish and less gorgeous mansion-ish?" she admitted. "But hey, when you've only talked to someone a few times in passing over the course of five years without getting into a fistfight with them, I guess that's expected."

"You only like me because of my house," Spike said in mock offense.

"Well yeah. That and the salary that you're paying me."

"Which is how much?" he asked.

She glanced up at him, noticing that he was pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Hasn't been negotiated yet."

~*~*~*~*~

"What the bloody 'ell is all this?" Spike asked Buffy as she opened the door of his bedroom.

"A tilt table," she said, pointing at the object that looked much like a medieval implement of torture, "parallel bars, and a trapeze." She indicated the bar hanging from the ceiling above his bed with the last word. "For your therapy."

"So that's why you wanted me to go to the pool with you?"

"Partly. Also, I wanted you to get up out of bed for awhile. We won't be using the tilt table until the end of the week, but I had to get it here before then so I could have it set up. The trapeze is so you can move yourself around in bed easily, and we won't use the parallel bars until you've regained feeling in your legs." She pulled back the covers of the bed. "Hop in."

Spike rolled toward the bed, and Buffy locked the wheels of the chair. He grasped the armrests firmly, lifting himself up, then heaved his weight toward the bed. The motion resulted with him lying face-down on the bed with his legs dangling off the edge. "A little help would be great right about now, Summers," he said, his voice muffled by the bedding.

Buffy's hands found purchase on his right side, and she turned him over so he lay on his back. "I can tell that getting out of the chair is going to be a little trickier for you than getting in." She took hold of his shorts by the bottom hem, tugging them off, then positioned the boxer-briefs clad man in the middle of the bed on his back. "Up for a little workout?" she asked.

Spike shrugged. "Might as well, now that we 'ave all this nifty equipment in 'ere."

Author's Note: Hey, I promised another chapter of this once part 5 of I Hate You, Be Mine, and I rarely, if ever, welsh on a promise. Thanks to all my lovely reviewers, the plot bunny for this story [whose name is officially Merle] is fat and happy. Thanks especially to Vette, who consistently reviews me with wonderful comments. Feedback is the meaning of life, so remember to hit that review link on your way out of here. ~*~ Magz

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R to NC-17