The three days crawled by. The entire city was moping. For all Buffy knew, the entire planet was moping. Prodded by an impatient Buffy, Giles had come up with a plan for defeating Adam involving a magic gourd. The gang was throwing themselves into it so they wouldn’t think about how strange their lives seemed without Jonathan at the center.
She let the full three days elapse before she went to see Spike, but as she’d laid in bed a few hours after he’d threatened her, she knew what her response would be.
She wasn’t a sidekick anymore. She was Buffy.
She didn’t crash the door open when she went to his crypt, but he seemed to know she was coming, sitting alertly on his sarcophagus, eyes bright and amused.
She walked straight across the crypt without pausing, pushed him on his back, and straddled him, the flower-flecked fabric of her sundress pooling up around her thighs. “You were right, Spike. I do want you. You don’t have to blackmail me.”
His eyes flamed and he reached for her. She batted his hands away just as they began to close on her shoulders. “Baby, I—”
“—but, Spike, I don’t like threats. So I’ll tell you what. You be a good boy and keep your fangs to yourself, and keep me happy in bed, and maybe I won’t stake you.”
His jaw dropped. “What?”
“I think you heard me. You got a problem with that?”
“That’s more like it.”
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/287846.html