Indigo Overture – Chapter Seven

Rating:  Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – PG-13

“So much for pancakes,” Buffy said, blowing hair and flour out of her eyes.  

She had followed the directions! So why the flour covered kitchen? Buffy picked up the box, shook off the remnants of the disaster and read the directions aloud again. 

“Okay, place 3 cups of dry mix into bowl. Add 1 cup of water, and ¾ cup of oil. Mix on low for thirty seconds. I did all that!” 

Buffy paused and re-read the final line. Mix on low for thirty seconds. She tossed the box on the flour covered counter and looked at her mixer, which was still dripping gooey ropes of partially mixed pancake batter. Apparently, she breezed right past low on the speed setting and rammed it into high.  

“They should bold that or something,” she complained to herself, dusting the pancake mix coating her shirt to the floor. 

As she reached for the mixer, the fire alarm went off, which instantly reminded her that she had been preheating the griddle on the stove. Apparently it was nice and toasty now, gauging from the thick smoke that she could now see rolling off of it, since the flour cloud had dissipated.  Which at least that explained the acrid burning smell.

“Crap!” she said, snapping the burner off and reaching for the griddle then yowling in pain when it burnt her fingers. As she whipped around for the cold water faucet, her arm tangled with the mixer cord, dragging it and the bowl to the floor.  

“Ouch ouch ouch!” she yelped, reaching for the faucet as the alarm blared on overhead. She turned the water on full blast, then shrieked as it deflected off a plate in the sink, soaking her shirt.

She heard Angel’s footsteps as he rushed into the room, sliding to a stop at the entrance, “Wow. I can see why I do the cooking.” 

Still struggling with the faucet, Buffy snapped at him grumpily, “How about we save the chit chat? Get the smoke alarm.” 

Calm as you please, Angel stepped into the kitchen, reached his long arm up to hit the reset button on the smoke detector, and using a potholder, deftly removed the smoking pan from the burner. By the time Buffy had the water turned off, he was already opening the window to air out the room.  

“You alright?” he asked, teasing smile softened by his concerned eyes. 

“Yeah,” she sighed, stepping towards the refrigerator to get some ice. Her feet found the one tiny blob of oil she had dribbled on the floor, and said blob sent her sliding to the floor with a thump.  

Angel rushed forward to help her up and she groaned miserably, “On second thought, no. I’m a long way from fine.” 

He kissed her fingertips and lightly rubbed her arms, “Anything I can do?” 

“Give me something to hit,” she griped and he backed away with a chuckle. 

“Getting violent on me, are you?” Angel asked, gazing up with a furrowed brow, “How’d you get batter on the ceiling?”

Buffy sighed and leaned into his chest, “Don’t ask. It’s too frustrating to talk about. I was trying to make you a nice breakfast. Of course it might have been good to remember that Buffy plus kitchen equals disaster.” 

She blinked up at him brightly, “So, what do you say we bag the breakfast idea and go hit some stuff?” 

Angel smirked, “Hit some stuff? You mean my kitchen wasn’t enough for you, huh, destructo-girl?” 

“Yeah,” Buffy said, putting up her fists playfully, “We can break in that membership you got me, get all sweaty, hit some stuff,” then she leaned in coyly, “And maybe come back home and shower up?” 

Angel smirked and took a big breath, “Mmm, sounds good. But I have some stuff I need to take care of today.” 

“Stuff?” she prodded, walking to the pantry to retrieve a broom. 

Angel shrugged noncomittaly, “Just some errands.” 

“Oh,” Buffy said, “Want me to tag along?” 

He hesitated just long enough for her to know he wasn’t really interested in company. “Or I could just go to the gym and meet you here later,” Buffy said softly, hoping he’d catch the wistful tone. 

“That sounds great,” Angel said with an agreeable smile, “We could do Chinese and ice cream or something.” 

Or he could be a big dumb boy. 

“Yeah, okay,” Buffy said, sweeping the flour into a pile with a sigh, “Mom made this look so easy. Does the domestic gene skip a generation or something?”

Angel touched her arm, “Hey,” he said, “Don’t worry about it. You might have coated my kitchen in batter, but you certainly don’t have to clean it up.”

Since when did it become his kitchen again, Buffy wondered with a wince. “Well, unless we’d like ants to carry our kitchen chairs away, I’d better sweep it up.” 

“Why don’t I just call my cleaning lady. She always gives me a good deal since my place is pretty small.”

And again with the “my.”

“I like doing the domestic goddess stuff,” Buffy said, then as a little glop of batter dripped to the floor, she pouted, “Well, I like trying anyways.”

Buffy frowned and Angel clicked his tongue, crossing his arms as he gauged her _expression. A knowing smile curved his lips, “You know what I think? I think you need to start getting some of your old hobbies back.”

“What old hobbies?” Buffy asked, confused and mildly irritated by his solve-all approach, “Not exactly remembering the ceramics, cross-stiching…Are you sure you haven’t got me mixed up with someone else?”

Angel frowned a little and uncrossed his arms, “What about that little kickboxing thing you did?”

Buffy gave a cough of a laugh, “That little kickboxing thing? You do realize I was in the nationals, right,” she prodded, “Twice.”

“Of course I do,” Angel said with a placating tone, “I think it’s adorable.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose into his shoulder when he pulled her into an embrace, “And I think you need it back. You spend too much time on stuff like this,” he said, waving at the kitchen, “I appreciate it, Buff, but if we really want waffles, we can order in from The Morning After.”

“The Morning After?”

Angel shrugged as she tipped her head up at him, “Yeah, it’s a little breakfast place uptown.”

“Ah,” she said, because like everything else that was located uptown, she didn’t know enough about it to say anything interesting.

“I tell you what,” he said, kissing her forehead, “Why don’t you go get some sweats on? We could grab some coffee and I could drop you off at the gym.”

“Which I still owe you for,” she said sheepishly, but he shook his head.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, “I don’t need you to pay me back. I just thought you might have a good time hitting stuff again.”

“Do you want to come?” she asked hopefully, “We could hit stuff together.”

Angel shrugged, “Thanks, baby, but it’s not really my thing. You know me. I get more from activities grounded in spiritual transcendence and enlightenment.”

“Sissy stuff,” Buffy joked. Or at least half-joked. Because, it was just a little bit weird that he used words like transcendence when talking about working out. She probably would have been more comfortable with him talking about some gym bunny’s boobs.

Angel chuckled at her comment and stroked her face, “Alright, tough girl,” he said, “I’ll call Juanita for the kitchen and we’ll grab some coffee before I drop you at the gym.”

Buffy forced a polite smile, “Okay, that sounds nice.”

But it didn’t sound nice. Not this time or the last three times she’d asked him to come with her. He always laughed about it and spit out some cutesy euphemisms for what a tomboy she was. Kickboxing had always been a part of her that Angel didn’t seem to want anything to do with. Now in their bedroom, Buffy slipped a white tank top over her sports bra and wondered if he wished she’d never do it again. Because, membership or not, something in his tone had made her feel like that really wasn’t his idea of a feminine hobby.

She slipped on her black jogging pants and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She turned to leave, then paused, returning to the mirror to apply some lipgloss and blush. They were going for coffee, so a little make up was probably in order.

Ten minutes later they piled into the car, and Buffy bit her lip when she noticed what Angel was wearing. She felt like she was wearing overalls while he was in a tux. Well, it wasn’t that bad, but he was wearing nice khakis, a crisp white button up, some brown shoes that looked too expensive to be considered casual.  Even his hair was…well, his hair was like it always was. Firmly fixed in an upright position. Change and Angel went together like oil and water. When’s the last time he suggested a new position in bed?

Buffy snorted at the very idea, and Angel looked over.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, guilty flush creeping up her neck.

Angel smiled and took her hand as he pulled into the parking lot of Common Grounds, “Remember this place?”

Buffy looked up at the café with it’s wrought iron tables and tattered purple awning, “Yeah,” she said with a wistful smile, “It’s the first place you brought me in L.A.”

“Your first trip away from Sunnydale,” he mused as he brushed his lips across her fingers.

She laughed, “Angel, it wasn’t my first time away from Sunnydale,”

“It wasn’t?” he asked, earnest surprise in his expression. ”Oh.”

“No,” she said.  Catching his disappointment, she leaned in coyly, “But it was the first time I ran away from home with a rock star.”

“Well, I don’t know about a star,” he said, gaze drifting sideways. Buffy rolled her eyes surreptitiously at his modesty. She’d bet her pinky that visions of sold out arenas were dancing through his head at that moment.

“Well, you were a rock star to me,” she said, even though he really didn’t need the ego stroke, “Still are.”

“I’ll never forget that coffeehouse, either,” Angel mused, “I thought the crowd was really enjoying me too.”

“Well, they were,” she said, thinking back to him on his little wobbly stool, looking every bit the MTV Unplugged wannabe with his acoustic guitar and intentionally faded jeans. “At least they were until you dropped your coffee.”

“You distracted me,” he said with a frown.

“Yes, I know,” she said with a perky blink, “All the smiling and cute eye contact was a total ploy.”

“You were definitely flirting with me,” he nodded as they moseyed towards the café.

“With every weapon in my arsenal,” she agreed.

“Probably a good thing since I wasn’t likely to get asked back after I dumped my decaf latte on one of the house speakers.”

“True,” Buffy said, pausing in front of the door, “But look at the good it created. First of all, it pretty effectively convinced you that you weren’t cut out for a career as a folk singer in coffeehouses. Secondly,” she said, reaching for the door, “You met me.”

“Yes,” he said, “Meeting you was good, but I wasn’t entertaining a different career. I always intended to go back to Live Bait.”

“You did?” she said in surprise as they shuffled forward into the short line.

“Of course,” he said, “We just took a break for the holidays, and I wanted to do a little something in smaller venues.”

“Well, it doesn’t get much smaller than Willie’s Espresso Pump on the Sunnydale campus,” she agreed, then perched on her tippy-toes to see the menu, “I think I’m going to get a mocha supreme.” To the right of the menu, she saw a neatly printed sign. Help Wanted. Her eyes brightened and she added, “And maybe an application on the side.”

“A what?” Angel frowned.

“An application,” Buffy said, “You know, those paper things one fills out in order to acquire a job.”

“Here?” Angel asked, looking as if she’d suggested a quick screw on the coffeehouse floor.

“Yes, here,” she said with a blank stare, “I need a job. They need help. Sounds like a win-win!”

“Buffy, you don’t need a job,” he said, “Especially not here,” he added, looking around as if the place was suddenly crawling with roaches.

Buffy frowned and turned away. The kitchen? His. The apartment? His. The decision on Buffy getting a job? Oh, apparently that one was theirs.

Angel put his arm around her and pulled her close, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m not trying to be an ass. You’re just too good for a place like this. You deserve so much more.”

Cranky didn’t even cover what this conversation was doing to her mood, “Funny, I thought we were just talking about us meeting in a coffeehouse. One where I happened to be employed.”

“But that was Sunnydale,” Angel said, squeezing her into his side, “This is LA! There is a world of possibility out there for someone like you. In fact, I think I know of something you’d be perfect for!”

They shuffled forward and placed their orders, Angel paying with one of his many crisp twenties. Buffy was sure he had some sort of tree out back until she learned some vague details about something called a trust that apparently provided crisp twenties on a regular basis. Too bad she couldn’t get one of those. But a job would be fine. She just wanted a little cash of her own, so she didn’t have to ask her boyfriend for money when she needed a new tube of lipstick or wanted to indulge in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

The clerk handed Angel his change which he pocketed before turning to Buffy again, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. It would be amazing for the band, and for you too, of course. It’s perfect. You’re going to love it.”

“Okay, what’s this job you’re all excited about?” Buffy asked with a skeptical smile. But it couldn’t hurt to hear him out. He was definitely more savvy in the financial department than her.

Angel took their coffees and ushered them to a seat. As soon as she slid into the booth, he answered, “Alright, the job. It’s amazing. There’s this promotions company…IYF” 

“IY huh?” Buffy asked. 

“IYF,” Angel rushed, “It’s a musical promotions group. They scout out venues, organize publicity, handle general marketing operations. And they have an opening!” he said, slapping the table cheerfully. 

“Great!” Buffy said, “That’s great. Now can we talk about the other job. You know, the one you’re thinking of for me?” 

“Buffy,” he said, “You know I’m talking about you.”

“Yeah,” she said, a bit deflated, “I feared as much, but I’m still swimming in a sea of ‘why’. Angel, I was a fashion design major. I’m not exactly well versed in all things marketey. I kind of dropped out before that part.” 

“You could do this!” he said, handing her a spoon to stir her mocha with, “If you got this job, it could mean the difference between LA clubs and international tours for me. This could be the ticket for us, Buff.” 

“I’d never make it past the application screening! I am a card toting member of the ‘not qualified’ club.” 

“I already have that covered,” Angel said with a toss of his head, “IYF is going to be at The Cherry next Sunday for Wicked Twist.” 

“Wicked Twist is the band we’re playing with at The Cherry, right?” Buffy clarified.

“The very one,” Angel said, “It’s the perfect opportunity for you to make some connections and get pushed through to the interview.” 

“And then what? Not exactly an interviewing pro, here,” Buffy argued. 

“You’re completely charming and you have a lot of talent you aren’t giving yourself credit for,” Angel breezed, “If you get an interview, you’ll have it in the bag.” 

Buffy relented with a sigh and a nod, “Fine. I’ll do it. But no promises, okay? I don’t think my charm is going to get me past the fact that I don’t even know what marketing operations are.” 

Angel laughed cheerfully, “You’re going to do great.” 

He leaned in for a kiss, and they finished their coffee in amiable silence. Twenty minutes later, Angel pulled into the parking lot of the gym and Buffy frowned as they rolled past a familiar black De Soto.

“Hey,” she said with a wrinkled nose, “Isn’t that Spike’s car?”

“Yeah,” Angel said derisively, “He practically lives here.”

“Don’t you go here?” Buffy asked, confused by his snootiness.

“Yeah, but only because Master Xi Chan teaches here. The rest of the place is a bit rustic for my taste.”

Buffy peered over the building. She wasn’t an architect, but the building was in good condition, with a neat, if simply landscaped entrance. She could see a decent-sized lobby behind the row of glass windows that stretched beneath a neon sign. It wasn’t the Regent Beverly Wilshire of gyms, but it wasn’t Vinnie’s Pump-n-Sweat, either. 

“Yeah,” she said with mock sarcasm, “Looks like a real dive.”

“Oh, it’s not too bad,” Angel allowed, missing the sarcasm completely, “But if you really don’t like it, just tell me and we’ll look into some other places for you.”

Buffy laughed and smacked his shoulder playfully, “I’m fine with it, really. So, can I call you when I’m done?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Have a good time hitting stuff, and tell Spike I said ‘hi’ if you run into him,” he added with a smile. 

She nodded as she got out, closing the door and waving when Angel pulled away. 

Buffy hoisted her bag over her shoulder and turned to the gym, taking a breath before she headed towards the door. The morning had done a number on her stress level. But for now, the boyfriend crap would have to wait. It was time for some violence. By the time she reached the glass doors, her fingers were itching for action. 

She pulled open the doors to the lobby which was sparsely decorated with a glass desk and a few sling back chairs. Various health magazine covers and inspirational posters dotted the walls and some energizing music was pumping through unseen speakers. 

“Can I help you?” the buxom brunette behind the desk asked. She was wearing a pink tank top that Buffy was quite sure had never seen a drop of sweat. 

“Yeah,” she said, producing her plastic membership card, “I’m a new member.” 

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed, “Great! My name’s Melody. Let me call Jamie to give you a tour,” she said, gathering a few pamphlets for her. 

“Actually,” Buffy interrupted as Melody picked up the phone, “I’d like to just hit some stuff.” 

“Excuse me?” Melody asked with a blank stare. 

“You know,” Buffy said, with a little jabbing motion, “A little one-two on the heavy bag, working the speed bag,” she prodded. 

“Oh, you’re a kickboxing buff,” Melody said with a sanguine smile. 

Buffy frowned, “No, I’m just a normal Buff. Actually, a Buf-fy,” she added, pointing to her membership card, “So if you can just point me to the bags.” 

“Oh, but you really should have a tour,” she pleaded, picking up the little black phone again.  

Buffy heard the door open somewhere behind her, but she continued on, “I don’t want a tour. I just want to go do the hitty kicky thing.” 

“But you’ve never been here,” Melody argued. 

Buffy tensed and dropped her bag, her pitch rising, “How complex can it be? Me, member. This, gym. I’m sure I can sniff my way to the fighting area.” 

“Or I can just hit you instead,” a not so polite version of Buffy added silently.

“But,” Melody started. 

“I think I can help, luv,” a familiar voice sounded beside her. 

Buffy turned with a grin to the only platinum blonde with an English accent she knew, “Ah, my hero,” she joked, amused to see him in a pair of black (of course) jogging pants and a gray t-shirt. Her lips quirked in a smirk as she realized she’d never seen him in sneakers before. He was a little flushed and damp, the effects of a fresh shower evident in the mess of damp curls on his head.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he offered in greeting, “Come for a bit of the rough and tumble?”

“Oh, Spike!” Melody chirped and Buffy bit back a laugh at the girl’s over-the-top enthusiasm, “I didn’t expect you to leave so soon. Do you know, um…” 

“Buffy!” she said again, but this time she at least had a grin. 

“Yeah,” Spike chuckled with a breezy glance at the receptionist, “I know her. We’re friends.” 

Spike winked at Buffy and took her bag off the floor where she had dropped it, “I can stick around long enough to show her around.” 

“Okay, have a good time. If you need anything, I’ll be right here,” Melody said, her tongue practically rolling out behind him. Which made sense. Spike didn’t exactly look bad in that t-shirt that clung to every muscle of his chest and abs, or in the sweatpants that revealed a remarkably tight pair of buns that she’s somehow missed when he wore jeans. Not that she was looking or anything. She probably wouldn’t have noticed at all if Melody hadn’t been drooling.

They swung through the doors that led to the land of blood, sweat, and tears. Buffy’s eyes lit up as she took in the gym. The right half was a wide open area with a variety of machines. Treadmills, stair steppers and weight machines that looked like torture devices were lined up like metal armies. A sprinkling of people were huffing away, their Walkmans leaving a static of tinny music in the air. 

“Alright,” Spike said, “So, obviously this is where all of the machines and weight equipment is.” 

“Sissy stuff,” Buffy said with a toss of her head, and a brief pang of guilt as she remembered using the same phrase with Angel earlier. Spike laughed and she added, “Show me the punching bags.” 

“My kind of girl,” he grinned, cocking his head forward, “Right this way.” 

Several doors flanked the left side of the doorway, and Spike gave a casual tour as they walked, “Most of the doors are for classes, Pilates, aerobics, all that rot.” 

“Locker rooms?” Buffy asked, as she trailed behind him. 

“They’re at the back,” he said, pointing to a hallway that t-boned with the one they were on, “Girls on the right and guys on the left.” 

“That makes sense,” she nodded and he turned with a quizzical look. “Well, girls are always right,” she explained. 

“Sure,” he smirked, then stopped short. Buffy nearly collided into his back, her sneakers squeaking on the laminate floor. She managed to not run into him, but she didn’t manage to miss the yummy scent of soap that seemed to be lingering on his neck.  

“So this is it,” he said gesturing her to the open door.  

Buffy stepped inside the room, which was a lot bigger than she had expected. The left half was dominated by two full sized rings and the right had a variety of wall mounted pads and punching bags. There were racks of towels and some target pads for member use. All in all, it wasn’t a bad set up. 

She whistled low, her eyes gleaming, “Me like.” 

A couple of men were sparring quietly in the far ring and Buffy and Spike wandered to a row of benches on the wall closest to the door. He dropped her bag at her feet and watched as she started lacing on her boxing boots. 

“So, where’s Angela today?” he asked with a grin.

“Angel is running errands,” she said evenly, a little twitch of irritation at being reminded of their little run in. 

“So you’re out to smack on some bags, yeah?” 

“Well, unless you want me to beat the tar out of you,” she blinked innocently as she put on her hand wraps, “It’s too bad you’re on your way out,” she teased, “You look like you could stand a good ass-beating.”

“Is that right?” he said, quirking a brow at her in amusement, “It sounds like Soul Caliber’s gone to your head, pet. Good thing for you, my mum taught me not to hit girls.” 

“Chicken,” she goaded, pursing her lips at him.  

Spike paused to stare her down for a few seconds, then smirked, “You’re one step away, little one.” 

“Who’s calling who, little?” she retorted with a grin, “C’mon, Spikey, I won’t hurt you too bad.” 

Spike grinned wide and pulled open the zipper on his bag, “Alright, shorty, you’re on.” 

After a few silent moments of stretching, they climbed into the ring. Spike was even decent enough to reach for her hand to help her up. Strange thing a guy being all gentlemanly before he tried to whale on you. Tried being the operative word. Buffy was ready to do some whaling of her own. Four years in high school and two years on the college circuit did not a shabby kickboxer make.  

“Alright, I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said as he peeled off his shirt. 

Buffy’s eyes widened. Yeah, she forgot just how good he looked. It was easy to forget, really. This was Spike! As in, he who hogs the blooming onions and constantly lurks around the sunniest city on earth in a black overcoat. It was something one could overlook in clothing, but sans shirt, Spike really did redefine the word “ripped.” Buffy bit her lip wistfully when Spike stretched, wishing Angel had such pretty abs.

“Are you ready?” she asked impatiently, after a few cursory stretches of her own didn’t help her  shake off the guilt her wishful thinking had invoked.

“I’m always ready,” he said and she chuckled at his typical lecherous self.

She started bouncing lightly on her feet while Spike shook his head right and left. They started dancing around each other in a neat circle. He popped in his mouthguard and without further ado lunged in with a few quick jabs. Two missed. One landed lightly on her shoulder. 

Buffy had always looked good in her little frilly bits, but Spike was convinced from the first second he laid eyes on her today that this is how she should always dress. Her little white tanktop and black sweats were pointing out all the right things. She was the kind of girl that looked perfect in workout wear. Just enough definition to make your mouth water without losing any of the girly curves.

“You sure you can handle it, pet?” he slurred around his mouthpiece, really wishing he could give her something more interesting to handle. 

Buffy moved in with a fast side kick that landed him on the floor, “Oh,” she returned, “I think I can hold my own.” 

His eyes lit up as he popped to his feet. Oh, he’d bet she would hold her own. They traded a round of kicks and punches, the silence punctuated by a few soft grunts and the smack of fists on flesh.  

“Not bad for a girl,” he mused as he caught her in the jaw. 

He was good. Better than Buffy had expected, actually. His technique was deceptive, he jittered so much it was hard to tell what he was aiming for. And his punches were lightning quick. But she had him hands down on kicks.  

Buffy spun and attacked with a well placed heel spur. Spike stumbled back with a groan that flooded her with a heat that she suspected had little to do with the exertion. He quickly recovered, landing a reverse punch to her chest. She grunted as she turned to punch him twice with her right arm. Spike deflected the last one, stepping back only to swing a roundhouse kick in her direction. As she tumbled to the mat, she decided she might need to reevaluate his kicks after all. 

She chuckled on the floor as Spike’s face loomed into view. He popped his mouthpiece out and offered his hand with a concerned smile, “You alright, pet?” 

Buffy took his hand and tried not to dwell on how comfortable his strong fingers felt around her wrist, “Put that mouthguard back in, Billy,” she said, “I’m not through with you.” 

He licked his lips, more than ready to obey. Why the hell hadn’t he run into her here before? Back on her feet, she rushed at him fast, landing an instep kick, followed by an uppercut that sent him stumbling backwards. 

“Billy?” he asked, finally remembering her words as he rolled his neck to shake off her attack. 

“Yeah,” she said, coming at him again, “As in Idol. The guy you so desperately need to emulate.” 

“Big word for a little girl,” he teased, deflecting one but not both of her kicks, “Didn’t know they had words like that on Clairol bottles.” 

“Are you making a comment about hair coloring choices?” she joked, pulling his knee to throw him to the mat. Too bad he was back with a set of rolling kicks from the floor that sent her staggering for her balance. 

“My hair looks good,” he argued. 

“No, your hair looks scared.” 

“Scared?!” he asked, trading blows with her in a flurry of motion. 

“Yes,” she said, landing a nice roundhouse of her own, “Petrified of the inevitable bleach bath it’s subjected to on a weekly basis.” 

Spike laughed as they danced around, “Better to kill it than leave it with roots like yours.” 

“That’s it,” Buffy yelled playfully, rushing at him with a four-punch combo that had never failed her in competition. Swing right, another right, uppercut left, then jab with her right dead center. The punch landed square on his nose and Spike tumbled backwards with a yelp.  

“Ouch!” she yelped, ripping a towel off the ropes and rushing over to kneel over him when she saw the blood on his fingers. He spit out his mouthguard and wiped the blood off of his nose. 

“Bloody hell, woman,” he panted, eyeing her with admiration, “I’ll give you that round.” 

“You gave me a run for my money,” she replied, her breath heaving as much as his. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of that little bit of sweat glistening on her collarbone. Half afraid he was going to lick her if he opened her mouth, he closed his eyes for a slow blink. That’s when he felt her hand in his hair.

Buffy watched his eyes drift shut, and wondered if he was in that much pain. She had clocked him pretty hard. As if moved by their own will, her fingers brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead. Buffy froze in place as she watched his eyes flutter open. She held her breath, shivering beneath the intensity of his stare.

When her fingers grazed his forehead, Spike opened his eyes. Because there was something different about her touch, something tender that he found mirrored in her eyes. But that wasn’t what scared him. Girls were supposed to be tender, yeah? But he wasn’t. He wasn’t supposed to feel like nuzzling into the curve of her shoulder or tickling the little bit of flesh showing beneath the hem of her tanktop. No, he wasn’t supposed to be feeling any of that. But he was.

There were a few awkward seconds of intense eye contact and awkwardly heavy breathing that somehow seemed to be getting worse, not better. She tore her eyes from his and scooted back on her butt while he swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure.

“You alright?” she offered brusquely as he sat up, gingerly touching his sniffer. 

“Yeah,” he said, dabbing the last bit of the blood away and donning his trademark smirk automatically, “You’ve got a hell of a hook for such a little squirt.”

She rolled her neck, shrugging off the frisson of heat that was still coursing through her bones. Fighting always got her blood pumping. That was all. She punched his arm, to reaffirm her thoughts, “You’re lucky all that peroxide on your head will keep that from getting infected.” 

“You’re lucky I went easy,” Spike said as he ran a towel over his hair.  Buffy’s breath caught a little at the sight of him, still flushed and panting. And shirtless. There was no forgetting about that. But it wasn’t a big deal. So, he was a little hot. Okay, fine, he was a lot hot. But he was still just Spike. Just because he was built the way she liked ‘em didn’t mean anything had to change. It was just a thing. A little insignificant thing.

Buffy glared at him for his little macho comment and he held his hands up in defense, “All that feminine grunting was a distraction,” he added with a mischievous waggle of his brows.

Case in point.

“You’re a pig, Spike,” she said, “And I don’t have roots,” she added with a sniff.

“Yeah, yeah, Goldilocks,” he said at last, “You’re hair is lovely. Now let’s go hit some bags before you knock this pig’s nose clean off.” 

Indigo Home              Rikki’s Fic’s               Rikki Home      Feed me Feedback!          Next Chapter!            Last Chapter