******************
The Magic Box. The training room. Spike. Familiar territory. It felt
good to be
back.
He hadn't asked. Buffy hadn't volunteered. Instead, they sparred. They'd
begun
meeting regularly just after her return; Spike being the only one not
treating
her like a stranger. And after Angel, well, she needed it. They'd
been
sparring about 10 minutes, Buffy punching and kicking, Spike telegraphing
his
moves enough to avoid setting off the chip, when her concentration
lapsed just
enough for her to lay Spike out on the mat with sidekick to the stomach.
He
hit with a thud and rolled to his side, curling in on his ribs.
"You ok, Spike?"
"Fucking fabulous Slayer. Was it good for you, too?" He growled.
He was fine, she thought. That mouth of his. Even if he
eventually got
dusted, they'd have to beat his mouth to death with a stick.
But, no. She
didn't want to think of that. Spike was... Spike. He came with
the territory.
Her territory.
Seeing him still on the floor, she leaned down, extending her hand to
help him
up.
Quick as a snake, Spike grabbed her hand, swept out a foot, pulled and
rolled.
When the world stopped spinning, Buffy found herself flat on her back,
Spike
lying partly atop her. His weight held mainly on his right hip
and elbow, his
left leg was thrown across her thighs. He still held her right
hand, pinning
it to the mat hear her head. The other rested above her right
hip, the fingers
twitching against the skin bared between her workout pants and sports
tank. She
was in no hurry to move. Instead, she lay watching him study her.
Had he been human and requiring oxygen, she suspected he would be breathing
as
she was, in short, shallow pants. Instead, he stared down at
her, his lips
drawn back from blunt white teeth, mouth slightly open. He was
scenting her,
she realized. Like Miss Kitty Fantastico would do when Willow
come home after
having touched someone else's pet.
A smile worked its way across Buffy's face as she played out the analogy.
Spike a large jungle cat, smelling Angel on her, angry for the trespass,
pinning her down for a good, long sniff. And then-
She wondered if Angel had smelled Spike on her. Spike who had held her
coffin-ravaged hands, who had sat shoulder to shoulder with her on
the porch
talking finances. Spike who now was...
"Don't you DARE pee on me." Buffy blurted.
"What?" he asked, not sure he'd heard her right. He had
felt her relaxing
under him, seen the small smile steal across her face and let himself
bask in
the moment. Her recent acceptance of him in her life, and now
of his touch,
mattered far more than he'd ever admit. Here he had practically set
up camp in
her personal space and she let him. And, to his utter delight
and
astonishment, there was not a trace of his grandsire to be found on
her.
Granted he was fairly well preoccupied with his position atop her,
but still-
"Did you just say..."
"I SAID don't you dare pee on me. If you want to scent me, fine. And
I totally
get the territory thing. But, the other stuff- ew. No peeing. OK?"
Spike, for once, had nothing to say. He was pretty much lost. New territory.