Chapter Text
Spike is being totally obnoxious. Not to mention loud. He managed to miss the sunrise this morning (right, like I believe after 150 years he didn't notice it coming) and so he's been hanging out at the house all day. Oh, lucky me, he made me breakfast, which meant the kitchen rang with "bloody hells" and "bleeding stupid eggs", not to mention the cheerful clang of breaking dishes.
Then, when I'm talking to Giles, Spike grabs the phone out of my hand so he can transatlantically insult Chelsea's recruitment strategy. Since Giles has to shout right back, that's the end of our nice calm discussion of where to place Taylor.
Oh. Speaking of Taylor. Spike volunteers to give her a lesson in staking. In the living room. And he puts on his most incomprehensible North London accent, so Taylor's constantly saying, "Excuse me?" and "Come again?" in her most annoying North Texas accent. Spike eventually explains, "Why would I want her to get good at staking me?" and is summarily fired as instructor.
Then he decides to make a heavy metal occult-evil mix CD for Faith. And he has to sing along. At the top of his underused lungs. He really lets loose on that Rob Zombie song:
Dead I am the life, dig into the skin
Knuckle crack the bone, 21 to win
Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry
Devil on your back, I can never die
But then he starts up "You Shook Me All Night Long," and expects me to dance to it, because, just in case Taylor doesn't get the message, I shook him all night long. Thanks, Spike. Turn it up. The neighbors might not have heard yet.
And then Xander stops by with the first Godfather DVD, and he sprawls out on the recliner and Spike takes the whole couch and they shout in unison all their favorite lines:
In Sicily, women are more dangerous than shotguns.
I'll make him an offer he can't refuse.
Luca Brasi held a gun to his head, and my father assured him that either his brain or his signature would be on the contract.
I'm trying to write my final psych paper. But does he care? No. He comes in to the den and sits down and wants to have a serious discussion of the future of our relationship. His voice is echoing plaintively in my ears.
I put my head down on my desk. I raise it up and bang it down again.
And then he's right behind me, his arms around me and my chair, his mouth against my neck. "I knew it," he says. "I knew it. Only take a week, and you'd be missing poor dumb Spike."
I swivel in the chair to face him, and then I push him back and down so he's on the den rug and I'm straddling him. And I lie down on top of him, and I say, "From now on, I'm going to be happy with any Spike I'm lucky enough to get."
So I have to get up at dawn to finish my paper. Spike inquires sleepily from the bed if I need any help typing the references, and I think, it's the sweetest sound in the world, his voice. Pavarotti has nothing on him. Heck, Josh Groban sounds like a fishwife next to him. "No, baby," I say. "Go back to sleep."
He murmurs something about me and love, and that's all, and that's all I need to hear.