( spike ) as if you were awfully made for life.

[chose]

Although it's only coming down at a faint drizzle when Buffy sets out for the Compound, the heavens take their cue to come down on her when she's only a few minutes from her destination, close enough not to accidentally drown yet far enough that she's thoroughly soaked by the time she gets inside. Fortunately, laundry was always the endgame, and

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[nobler_things]

Even Big Bads had to do laundry, now and then. He sat on top of a washer, painting his nails with polish he'd borrowed from that distant-eyed girl at the strip club, minding his own business when suddenly, there was five-foot-nothing of drench, pissy Slayer scowling up at him.

Arching a brow and tipping his head to the side curiously, he said, "Can I help you, luv?"

[chose]

"Can you? Don't you kind of live to do the exact opposite?" It isn't true - not even remotely - and she knows it, but it's the first thing that pops into her head and so it's the first to come out of her mouth. Spike has been more helpful to Buffy than most, more than Angel himself, even, but that streak hasn't exactly extended to the island of Tabula Rasa. No one to slay but countless to annoy.

"My body," she says, the two words sounding more like a demand than any kind of statement. There's no use dancing around the subject; dancing around anything at all usually doesn't bode well for them. "I want to know what you did with it. Where you went, who you saw, who you spoke to."

[nobler_things]

"Oh, come off it," Spike muttered with an expansive roll of his eyes, "Kept my hands to myself like a perfect gentleman."

Well, that was mostly true.

"It's not like I could get up to any mischief was that Angelus-shaped shadow following me everywhere I bloody went."