Indigo Overture – Chapter Nine

Rating:  Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – R to be safe J

 

The bike shifted as Buffy settled behind him, her legs brushing against his as she scooted forward.  She jiggled her feet onto the pegs while every inch of Spike’s body reminded him that she was touching him.  A lot.

 

Maybe this wasn’t the most brilliant idea.

 

Shrugging the thought away, he gave it a little gas then squeezed the brakes to make sure the chain didn’t have any plans on flying off again.  Buffy slammed into his back with a surprised grunt, her inner thighs clamping around his hips. 

 

Well, he’d never been one for thinking things through, yeah?

 

“You better hold on, Goldilocks,” he said, and when her lithe little arms wrapped around his middle, he could only think one thing as took off.  Not tight enough.

 

He opened the throttle, satisfied when her arms and legs pinched him tightly from behind, her pert little breasts pressing into his back.  “Too tight?” she asked uncertainly. 

 

“No, you’re fine,” he called back, loudly enough for her to hear.

 

He sped them through the grass and trees, away from the picnic, from Angel, from reality.

 

Buffy tilted back her head to drink in the sunshine.  Wind in her face and sun on her skin.  Yeah, this was just what the doctor ordered.  She laced her fingers together in front of Spike, feeling his muscles flex responsively beneath her touch.

 

Spike ducked into a series of turns, and she tightened her arms against his sides.

 

“Chicken,” he teased and she deliberately let go with a snort.  He downshifted and she grabbed him again, scowling at his neck when his chuckle rumbled back to her. 

 

“Jerk,” she said, glad she was behind him so he couldn’t see her grin.

 

Spike leaned into another turn, biting his lip as she tucked her body closer to move with him.  Made him think of all the girls he’d ridden with before, ones that sat like planks of wood or even worse, wobbled back and forth like apes in comas. Buffy rode like she fought, smooth and tight.  Made a bloke wonder what other activities she could blow your mind with. 

 

“Look!” Buffy shouted, and he frowned at the absence of her left arm which was now pointing at the horizon.

 

In the distance, he saw Anya and Xander on their way back.  She, with a lunatic grin and the engine at full throttle, blazing her own trail through the grass.  Xander, white as a sheet, but happier than he’d ever seen the boy, his helmet tucked tightly against Anya’s, his palms on her thighs. 

 

Spike heard Buffy giggle against his neck.  Well, he felt it more than heard it, a tickling heat against the back of his neck that made him dizzy.  With her arms now crossed over him and her breath on his neck, he’d wager this was as close to heaven as he was likely to get. 

 

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut when they crested the next hill, curling her fingers into Spike’s side as they soared down the steep grade, Buffy’s stomach somersaulting all the way.  He tensed and she opened her eyes, pouting in confusion.

 

“Hey? You okay?” she asked, giving him a little poke which made him tense more.

 

“Fine,” he coughed, though a chill was running over his skin. 

 

Buffy held on tighter, her hands pressing into his abdomen, like a cat kneading in contentment.  Every little press of her fingers was sending another flick of fire and ice up his spine, his muscles convulsing beneath her touch.

 

“You sure?” she asked curiously as she experimentally waggled her fingers against his sides. 

 

“Yes!” Spike barked impatiently, but Buffy grinned as he twitched again.  All that muscle tightening wasn’t exactly the worse thing a girl could feel, but Buffy knew it wasn’t just random flexing. 

 

Someone’s ticklish.

 

She bumped her helmet into his back, snickering into the soft fabric of his shirt as they rumbled over a rough patch of ground. 

 

Spike bit his lip as they bounced over the rutted section of path, the fiberglass of her helmet pressed against his shoulder blades.  Her nails flicked against the tender flesh of his sides as she dug in a little tighter. 

 

“A little too tight, luv,” he said, trying for a casual tone.

 

“Oh,” she said innocently, stilling her fingers then poking his rib with a wiggling digit, “Like this?”

 

“Oi!” he barked, jerking abruptly enough to jog them left of the path.  As he tugged the wheel back, he snarled, “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

 

Buffy chuckled, “How about this, Spikey?”, she teased, prodding him again.  Spike jerked, cursing under his breath as he pushed the engine faster, dipping the bike a little recklessly down the hills.  Buffy’s hands stilled and her arms tightened.  With a satisfied grin, he sped into a turn at a terrifying speed, braking at the last possible moment so that the back tire spit dirt as they made the arc.

 

He eased up, the engine softening to a purr as they glided along, and Buffy’s arms relaxed.  “Crazy much?” she said to his back.

 

“It worked, didn’t it?” he said testily, and she immediately pinched him.

 

Spike jerked away and narrowed his eyes.  When her laughter floated up to him, he bit back a curse and abruptly pulled left to take an unexpected jump.

 

Buffy startled and squeezed her legs against his hips, abandoning the crazy finger tap dancing.  Spike sighed in relief as she moved her hands in front of him again.  Good.  Much better.

 

Then, he felt a single fingernail scrape the thin material of his t-shirt just above his navel. 

 

“You really don’t learn, do you?” he said, reaching back with his hand to swat her arm away. She clutched her hand to her chest to avoid his smacking. 

 

“Guess not!” Buffy said, her hand traveling up his spine like she was doing scales on the piano.

 

He held his breath, torn between being ticklish enough to shudder and turned on enough to…well, yeah, shudder would work there too.  Before he could react, she pushed her little nails in and he jerked forward.

 

“Quit menacing me, woman!” he warned, but she just giggled into his shoulder. 

 

Spike grumbled, gunning the engine fiercely over the next hill as he headed off the path into a cluster of trees. 

 

Time to pay, princess.

 

Buffy closed her eyes tight as they flew down the steep grade, holding her breath as the fear and excitement swirled through her.  They hit bottom hard, Spike pulling a left that would have given Evel Knievel a coronary.  Buffy scowled at the back of his neck playfully and resumed her fun. 

 

Both hands grabbed at his ribs and he twitched left and right, trying to avoid her touch.  The snorts of his laughter fell behind him, trailing into the noise of the bike.

 

“You’re pissing me off!” he said through his laughter.

 

Yeah,  you sound real pissed, wanker.

 

“I totally rule,” she mocked, sighing in satisfaction as she relaxed her grip.

 

Oh, we’ll see about that.  Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth and cracked the throttle wide open, yanking the handlebars hard enough to pop the front wheel off the ground.  Buffy gasped, her limbs suddenly holding him like a vice grip.  Satisfied, Spike smirked and pumped the rear brake to set the wheel back on the ground.

 

“Are you insane?!” she shrieked, smacking his flank forcefully.

 

Spike nodded, “Barking mad,” he tossed back at her, “Best not to toy with me.”

 

She felt her face flush, as she pursed her lips irritably.  She loosened her hold, eyes focused on the straight line of his shoulders.  The moment they relaxed, she dove both hands in, flicking every last one of her nails over his ribs. 

 

“I warned you!” he growled, reaching behind his back to flail for one of her hands.  His fingers caught her, wrapping hard around her wrist, but she pulled free, snickering at her success and sticking her tongue out at the back of his head. 

 

He lunged for her hand again, but she was too quick, switching sides faster than he could while still driving them.  “Sod it,” he hissed, punching the front brake so hard that the back wheel hopped off the ground in a stoppie. 

 

Buffy shrieked and squeezed her arms so tight, Spike could barely breathe.  His grin faded quickly into something dangerously different when the momentum inched her thighs up over his own.  The little maneuver was waking up parts of him better left alone, so Spike let off the brake. 

 

He gunned the engine as the back tire slammed into the ground and Buffy shuffled her legs back into a position that made her feel a little less “Scarlett on the Staircase”. 

 

“You pig!” she shouted, her heart pounding so hard she wondered if she would hear her ribs rattling if it was quiet. 

 

“You asked for it,” he said with a shrug that came close to pissing her off.  Her thighs were still sizzling from the coarse rub of his jeans against them, but she shook her head, intent on putting said pig in his place. 

 

Buffy tiptoed her fingers up his sides, ignoring his shudder and the instant increase in speed until she was just under his arms.  Then she leaned in, tickling hard and blowing on the back of his neck at the same time.

 

He swerved left, nearly ramming them into a tree before zipping right in the nick of time.

 

“Geeze, keep us in one piece, will ya?!” she laughed, her hot breath sending an endless frisson through his bloodstream as he groaned in frustration.

 

Spike grunted as her attack continued.  She squirmed behind him, fingers raking from his hips to his armpits, the sensation cresting to exquisite torture.  He pushed the engine for all it was worth, willing the speed to dull the feeling.  Buffy tugged at the edges of his shirt, pulling it out just enough to scrape her nails on the sliver of flesh above his jeans.

 

Alright, pet.  Game over.

 

Buffy gasped as Spike abruptly threw the front brakes again, the back wheel chirping up and bouncing down as they skidded to an abrupt stop in a tree-dotted glen.

 

The engine died and they were enveloped by a sudden wave of quiet, interrupted by Spike’s low rumble, “Get off the bike.”

 

“What?” she blinked, totally confused by his sudden reaction and still pressed so close to him from the stop that she could feel his heartbeat through the thin cotton of his t-shirt and smell the Irish Spring soap that he always used.  Of course, she really didn’t want to think about the afternoon in the grocery store she’d spent curiously sniffing soap packages until she figured that out.

 

“Get. Off. The. Bike.” he repeated with a low growl, as he pushed the kick stand down.

 

Her eyes wide, Buffy gingerly got off the bike, taking off her helmet and turning to him, hands on her hips, “Boy, you got bad moody fast.”

 

He meticulously removed his sunglasses, resting them and his cigarettes on the handlebars before he  flicked a curious eye at her. Buffy saw the spark of mischief in that eye, “Did I?”

 

Like a flash of lightning, he was right in front of her, the five inches of height he had on her growing impossibly as he stalked forward, jaw clenched tightly.

 

Buffy dropped her helmet and backed up automatically, stuttering out awkward steps through the patchy grass.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked, as he moved ever closer, head lowered, lips curled in amusement.

 

Buffy’s back hit a tree and she put up her hands instinctively, her palms meeting the relentless surface of his chest. 

 

“What am I doing?” he repeated rhetorically, tilting his head, the sun behind him creating strange shadows on his features, “I’m…” he purred slowly, leaning in so close that her throat felt tight and her knees started to give, “…getting,” he continued, his eyes glittering hazardously, “….even.”

 

Buffy sucked in a tight breath as he plunged his hands forward, long fingers digging expertly in that horribly ticklish place just above her hips.  Shock and a really unwanted sense of disappointment washed out in a wave of giggles. 

 

Now what?  Fight or flight?  Probably both. 

 

Buffy kneed at his thigh, Spike’s hands plunging instinctively between his legs in case she miscalculated.  “Sucker!” she said, then whooped as she slid right, breaking into a dead run. 

 

“You better run, little girl!” he shouted, sprinting after her.  She sucked in breaths and pumped her legs for all they’d give her.

 

She was sure she had out-distanced him, absolutely sure of it.  When she turned to check, she was just in time to witness his tackle.  Together, they tumbled to the ground with grunts.  “Ow,” he said, and she snickered, quickly standing up and checking for grass stains as he slowly stood, rubbing his head. 

 

“We’re supposed to be riding, not fighting,” she reminded him as she bent her knees.

 

“We’re always fighting,” he said, and she launched a kick towards his jaw.  His head jerked left and he caught her ankle in his long fingers, “Ah ah,” he said with a shake of his head, lifting her up and dumping her unceremoniously on the ground.

 

“Aw, the little kitten went boom,” he mocked, before pouncing on her like a panther.

 

His knees hit the ground on either side of her waist, his tongue touching his teeth as fireworks exploded in the pit of her stomach.  His hands raked the tender flesh of her ribs with an intensity that sent her snorting with laughter.

 

“Next time, try your tricks on someone less big and bad,” Spike sing-songed as his fingers tickled up and down her sides.  She laughed and gasped, laughing with the tickles, gasping when his thumbs grazed the sides of her breasts. 

 

“Now I know why you don’t wear the helmet,” she managed to sputter, landing two swift punches in his gut that sent him reeling, “That ego doesn’t fit in there, does it?” she finished, pulling her knees into her chest then launching them forward into his shoulders, effectively knocking him the rest of the way to the ground. 

 

His head smacked the dirt hard enough to make him see stars and he decided at that moment that there wasn’t anything hotter than a girl who could kick your ass.

 

“Good move,” he complimented, catching her wrists as she dove towards him.  As he lurched to his feet, dragging her with him, he added, “Just not good enough.”

 

Buffy grunted, her smile wild as she kicked at his thighs.  He swung her easily off target with her arms, “Might want to think about eating something,” he jeered, with a pointed glance at her dainty waist, “Good thing I have a hold of you else a stiff breeze might whisk you away.”

 

“I hate you,” she said unconvincingly, eyes glittering with humor as she landed a sloppy kick to his shin.

 

“Feeling’s mutual, luv,” he teased back, before releasing her hands abruptly.  He lunged in before she could react, taking her waist and plucking her off the ground. 

 

Spike tossed her over his shoulder so fast that by the time Buffy’s vision cleared, she was staring at the denim-clad ass of Spike.  Admittedly, not the worst thing on earth to look at.

 

“See?” he said bouncing her gently, “You could really stand a donut or two, pet.”

 

“Put me down!” she howled through her laughter, hammering at his butt and legs with her fists.  Spike jostled her on his shoulder to keep her flailing weight properly distributed.

 

Spike locked his arms around her golden legs, fingers poking at the sensitive skin on the backs of her knees, “Tickle you more?  Why, Buffy Summers, you’re insatiable,” he said, his accent clipping into something polished.

 

“I’m serious!” she screamed, sounding anything but serious, with her snorts and cackling.  In desperation, she aimed for the one defense she had left.  Spike gasped as her teeth clamped onto his leg just beneath his ass, a shock of white hot fire zipping up his spine. 

 

“Jesus!” he hissed under his breath as he stumbled to his knees. 

 

Still laughing like a kid, Buffy’s hands braced her own fall.   She flipped her feet over her head, using an awkward handspring to escape.  Still panting on the ground, he jolted forward as she pinched his ribs from behind.

 

“Who’s the big and bad now?” she asked, straddling his ass as he lurched forward face first into the ground.  She dug into his spine with both hands. 

 

“Bitch!” he stuttered through a completely unmanly chorus of squeals and laughter. 

 

“That would be bitch in charge, thank you,” she corrected, still intent on her task when Spike grunted and rolled over beneath her, leaving her straddling his middle.

 

“No,” he disagreed, “Just bitch.”  Then he dug into her ribs, sticking out his tongue as she arched her back, her laughter raining down over him.

 

She shrieked in a breath as she leaned forward, double fisting the front of his shirt.  Before she could use any advantage the shirt-hold was giving her, Spike rolled her to her back, biting his lip when her thighs clamped around him. 

 

“Fine,” she said, reaching for his stomach, “I might be a bitch, but you’re getting your ass kicked by a girl.”

 

She tickled him mercilessly, and Spike shuddered, arching his hips away from her.

 

“You’re a cocky little thing,” he mused through gritted teeth, grabbing her wrists and dragging her hands up over her head, pressing down with his pelvis to pin her completely.  Which was all in all, maybe not the best move. 

 

“You’re one to talk,” she said, and his eyes went wide.  Fortunately, she did not glance towards his zipper, but in his split second of hesitation, she did manage to swing a leg out and maneuver a knee with impressive grace to the center of his chest.  Buffy pushed hard and he fell onto his back. 

 

Spike ground his teeth as he tried to get a handle on the piece of him that had a whole different spin on this fight.

 

“Sod off, will you?” he snapped at his cock, but thinking he meant the words for her,  Buffy stuck out her tongue at him.  He tried to sit up, but she scrambled forward, pouncing on his torso.  She punched him in the chest, then pinched at his sides. 

 

Spike flailed helplessly beneath her, trying to ward off her attacks with his arms.  He was grunting more and laughing less as her bouncing started sending flashes of light behind his closed eyes.

 

“Quit it,” he tried to warn, his jaw tensing ridiculously as her hands roamed all over his torso, little flicks of fingernails across his stomach, and endless tickling across his chest. 

 

“God, look at you,” she mocked, fat tears rolling down her cheeks from her laughter, “You’re twitching and totally at my mercy.”

 

No shit. 

 

Spike groaned at her ministrations, digging his heels into the ground as she wriggled on top of him.

 

“Quit!” he growled desperately, his hands flying to her hips as he jerked suddenly upright.  Buffy’s legs shifted forward and just like that he was trapped beneath the scorching heat of her core.

 

Buffy gasped and Spike groaned, their eyes locking together as her hands found purchase on his shoulders.  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came.  Spike’s eyes burned through her with an intensity that scared her.  Then again, now that they were chest to chest and she on his lap with her legs on either side of his hips, a lot of things were getting scary.  Moving was scary.  Breathing was scary.  And sitting there with his pelvis pressing into her bottom and his impossibly hard shoulders tightening beneath her palms was downright terrifying.  It dawned on her that she really ought to disentangle  herself.

 

Spike tilted his head, taking her in.  The sight of her was beyond description, daylight filtered thorough that golden hair of hers.  Her whole face was reflecting some unearthly light, as if she’d tapped into the sun and it was running through her veins. 

 

Perfection.  He was drowning in those big soulful eyes, something swelling and straining behind his ribs.  She licked her lips and he held his breath, moved to a place where reason is only for hindsight.  He curled his fingers into her jeans, sighing as her lashes fluttered.  His blood roared and his heart screamed, and it was enough to gap the distance between danger and disaster. 

 

Haven’t felt this in forever, He thought, wetting his own lips and leaning forward, Not since…

 

Spike’s eyes flew open and jerked back so hard and fast that he dumped Buffy on the ground between his legs.

 

Drusilla.

 

Buffy’s shoulders tensed as her butt hit the ground.

 

Oh, God.  I almost.  He almost.  *We* almost.

 

Her eyes flicked to him warily, but his expression was very different.  What the hell had just happened?  There had been tickling and wrestling and then…almost.  Buffy let that thought trail away, her eyes guiltily seeking his again.

 

Yeah, now what.  “Gee, Spike, did we almost just kiss, or am I really just so hard up for a good roll in the hay that I’m imagining things with my fighting buddy?”

 

Maybe she had imagined it, but the slickness between her legs was telling a different story.  Spike wasn’t giving anything away now.  Something dark and unreadable had shadowed his features. 

 

His eyes drifted away from her, leaving her strangely cold, despite the still aching heat in places no Spike-related aching heat belonged.  Shaken by her traitorous body, she crossed her arms over her chest and avoided looking at him.

 

“What is it?” she asked, her whisper like a crack of thunder in the silence. 

 

“Nothing,” he said, his voice low and wavering.  She’d never heard him like this before.  He sounded defeated.  Or afraid. 

 

“You’re just a sore loser,” she tried desperately, but the playful jab was like dead weight on her lips.  The game was over, and something about that seemed terribly final.

 

When she tapped enough courage to look up, Spike leveled her with a stare that frightened her.  She felt like a stranger; or an enemy.  Iron walls slid up behind his eyes and Buffy frowned dismally. 

 

“We should get back,” he said coolly, then with a shake of his head, slapped his trademark smirk into position as he lumbered to his feet, “Can’t have Angel looking for you.”

 

Buffy winced at the words, concern about Spike’s new coolness fading to her own issues.  What the hell was she doing here?  Here, romping around in the grass tickling Spike while her boyfriend was mingling with the music people that she was supposed to be getting a job with.  Shame crept up her neck the way darkness took over his mood as she nodded and climbed to her feet.

 

They made their way back to the bike, Buffy retrieving her helmet while he started the engine.  Buffy climbed on quickly, heavy with guilt as her trembling hands worked to fasten the helmet strap.  She worried her lip, hesitantly reaching around his waist because there was nothing else to hold on to. 

 

He started the bike and she closed her eyes, feeling her shame like a bowling ball in her stomach as they made their way back to the real world.  Buffy kept her hands tightly fisted, her knuckles aching at the pressure. 

 

Spike was done.  That much he was absofuckinglutely sure of.  No more sparring, or flirty banter, and definitely no more tickling.  It had gone too far.  Way too far. 

 

He gritted his teeth and drove hard, the bike slicing a straight path back through the land while his body still buzzed with her closeness.  He focused on the horizon, on the slender ribbon of smoke that promised the picnic was just a few more hills away.  All the while, he rejected the image of her that was flashing constantly in his mind.  He kicked her face away again and again, and with it the all too familiar flutter in his chest that warned him of something he didn’t want to think about, something he wasn’t about to let himself feel. 

 

Spike cursed into the wind as he felt a warm rush when her helmet bumped clumsily against his back.  After the last agonizing hill, they pulled into the park, grinding to a halt inches from the trailer.  Buffy got off quickly, and Spike hopped off the bike as if the thing was on fire, slamming down the kickstand. 

 

Buffy removed her helmet, watching out of the corner of her eye as Spike ripped his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with shaking hands.  She noticed his nearly crushed pack of gum had dropped out in his search for the cigarettes.

 

“You dropped this,” she said quietly, and he lifted his eyes to see her holding his pack of Big Red chewing gum.  And damn it all to hell, it was still there.  Sinking in his gut and closing up his throat as he stared into those stupid green eyes of hers.

 

“Thanks,” he said tersely, looking off to the side, tucking the gum into his pocket.

 

Spike watched out of the corner of his eye as she frowned down at her outfit, brushing off the bits of grass and checking her ass for grass-stains, which were definitely there, though he really didn’t fancy thinking about that bit too much.

 

With a bitter sigh, Spike turned to the trailer, pulling his Live Bait embossed black sweatshirt from the rail where he had left it earlier.  He turned to see Buffy flushed and nervous, trying her best to discreetly rub at the stains that weren’t going anywhere.

 

“Here,” he said absently, tossing the sweatshirt at her.

 

She caught the material and glanced at him furtively.  He shrugged and sucked at his cigarette, “You can tie it around your waist.”

 

Buffy turned scarlet as she nodded, tying the shirt around her waist, then running her hands over her tousled hair.  Damage control complete, she bit her lip and braved a look at the silent statue that he’d become.

 

“I’m going to go find Angel,” she said softly, gaze lowering to the ground as she toed the dirt, “Thanks for the ride, Spike.”

 

“Yeah,” he said with a bitter laugh, turning away from her and calling casually over his shoulder, “You should grab a bratwurst for the road or something.”

 

When he heard her begin to move away, Spike followed her with his eyes, watching her walk away in silence.  He clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails bit cruelly into his palms, allowing himself one last sigh before he retreated behind his stoicism. He inhaled a mouthful of smoke, rubbing his eyes tiredly beneath his shades. 

 

“Be careful, there,” he heard and whipped around, shocked to see Oz crouched in the open door of the van.  He was retrieving a sweatshirt for himself, and by the looks of it, one for Red. Spike realized the temperature had dropped several degrees.  Good thing he had his misery to keep him warm.

 

“Didn’t see you,” Spike said coolly, then after another long hard draw from his cigarette added, “Be careful of what?”

 

Oz smiled a little and stared off in the direction Buffy had walked.  Spike cocked his head and leveled a deadly glare at him, “Nothing to be careful of.”

 

“Nothing?” Oz asked gently, stepping out of the van and closing the door. 

 

“Not a thing,”  Spike ground out, exhaling a curl of blue smoke into the air.

 

Oz nodded, wadding the sweatshirts beneath his arm, “Okay.”  He walked in the direction of the picnic tables, then paused, turning over his shoulder, “Oh, Spike?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You have grass in your hair.”

 

“Fucking hell,” Spike cursed running his hands through his curls irritably.

 

He crushed the last half of his cigarette under the heel of his boot and waited for the picnic to be over.  Four hours and half a bottle of scotch later, he was still fighting the golden image of that stupid girl, with her stupid eyes and her stupid bouncing hair.  He tipped his head back on his couch, grateful to at least be home and blessedly alone. 

 

He tapped the volume on the remote until the screams of the Ramones shook off the memory of her laughter.  He almost didn’t hear the doorbell.  Probably wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been ringing over and over in a mindless little jingle, as if someone was trying to play an annoying song.  Not in the mood for company, he stood, ready to tell whoever it was to shove off real quick-like.

 

Spike rubbed a hand absently over his face, noticing the grass stains on the t-shirt he still hadn’t changed.  He stumbled to the door, taking another gulp from his bottle before swinging the door wide.

 

His visitor was a familiar leggy blonde, with a six-pack of beer dangling from her red tipped fingers.  She blinked flirtatiously and let her tongue touch her full bottom lip meaningfully,

 

“Hiya, Blondie Bear.  You up for some company?”

 

Spike blinked away the fuzzy edges of his drunkenness and sighed as he took in Harmony’s long curvy silhouette in his doorframe.  He opened his mouth to answer, but she walked past him with a wink before he could form any words.  Spike exhaled and closed the door. 

 

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