If there was one part of the day the Buffy could have borne to have repeated over and over, it was the three shots of whiskey Spike had provided, before the night followed the day’s example and sucked like nothing had sucked since... well since yesterday.
She rested her now pounding head against Spike’s shoulder as he drove them back towards her house. Left on Olive. Right on Leota. Damn her finely honed sense of direction. There was a vampire nest three streets over. They should probably stop and... Her stomach rolled and she tightened her arms around Spike’s waist. No stopping.
Left on Washington, except, no, wait, they’d gone past. Right on Carson. Clearly they were taking the scenic route home.
“This isn’t the way to my house,” Buffy shouted, knowing there was no way Spike could hear her. The knowledge was rather liberating. “I can say anything I want,” she announced to the world as it flew past her. “You hear that Sunnydale? I can tell you exactly what I think of you.”
Maybe she should invest in a motorcycle of her own. Assuming of course she somehow scraped together enough money to make house payments and pay for utilities, and the plumber, and Dawn needed new shoes... A shiny black motorcycle. She could paint a stake on it. She could call it Slayer. People would be freaked out by her even before she did something weird like lift a steel bar as though it was a feather pillow or destroy half a construction site and blame it on a demon.
Buffy’s stomach rolled again and she pushed her nose against Spike’s coat, breathing in the leather. It wasn’t right that someone who’d been dead for over a hundred years should smell that good. Leather and smoke and whiskey and... something else. She couldn't describe it, but it was oddly comforting. Maybe because he was technically dead and she was technically dead. He was a vampire. She was a zombie.
She giggled and felt Spike’s body jerk in surprise. He slowed down the bike and tilted his head back towards her. “You okay? Buff?”
“Braaaaiiiins...” she drawled and then laughed again. “I like that.”
“Brains?” Spike repeated confused. “You like... what?”
Buffy shook her head, then yawned. “It’s too far to the beach,” she said instead of explaining. “Let’s just go home.”
Something about that sentence was wrong. Something about it would give Spike the wrong idea about this ride they were taking. “Take me home.”
That was wrong too, but she could feel him laughing against her and she slid her hand inside his coat to pinch him. “Shut it.”
They took a little longer than they should have done even from there to get home, but Buffy didn’t mind too much. She felt less like she was going to puke and more like her normal, if painfully miserable, self.
Giles was waiting in the doorway when they finally pulled up outside her house. Buffy groaned as she half rolled herself off the bike and slapped Spike’s back.
“Are you coming in? I think Giles wants to talk to you.”
Spike snorted. “I think he wants to yell at me, love. At the very least.”
Buffy stumbled a little and was grateful when Spike’s hand shot out to catch her. “Nice reflexes.”
“You’ll have yours back come morning,” he said. “Go on. Daddy’s waiting.”
Her wave goodbye was a drunken flailing motion and she could hear his laughter as he drove away, and she walked as carefully as she could up to the house.