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I come bearing Spuffy fic. Or…ficlet. When I wrote the first few paragraphs, it was originally intended to be the beginning of a multi-part story. But then it sat around gathering dust bunnies and the comics went off in a different direction, making it most definitely AU.

Not knowing if and when I'd ever get it finished, I took the premise and went in a different direction myself. So like I said…ficlet! Hope you like!

 

Fic: Roomies (1/1)
Author: annapurna_2
Setting: AU Season 9 Comics
Rating: G
Word Count: 863
Summary: When Buffy makes Spike a proposition, she gets a bit more than she bargained for.

 

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Spike took some convincing, even though it seemed perfectly logical to Buffy. She needed a place. He needed a place. Ergo, they needed a place together.

After all, she couldn’t camp out on her sister’s couch for the rest of her life, no matter how long or short said life might turn out to be. And he wasn’t a space-faring captain anymore, having abdicated his role as King of the Bug People after showing up in San Fran and sending that crazy ship of his on its merry way without him.

That's why, when her new apartment with her new roomies took an unfortunate “let me out of here” turn, it seemed only natural to pool her resources with an old friend (and lover, though totally of the “ex” variety) and move in together.

They were adults. They could handle it. She wasn’t ready for any kind of emotional entanglements and wouldn’t be for a long, long, very long time. And he…

Was so completely over her. That much was pretty obvious.

Not that she minded. It would have made it really awkward if he’d still…you know…harbored feelings. There would have been longing looks and loaded silences and sleepless nights (or days) spent just a thin wall apart. Not that it would have bothered her, of course. She would have been totally immune. But Buffy was glad she wouldn't have to put him through all that. It wouldn't have been…nice.

She was all about being nice these days. Or tried to be, anyway. Sometimes it was hard.

Like when her unwashed dishes, which tended to languish in the sink because they needed a really thorough soaking first—not because she was domestically challenged or anything—suddenly started disappearing from the sink and reappearing in the kitchen cabinets. Mysteriously washed and carefully put-away alongside Spike's equally clean dinner mugs.

Or when a blood-stained blouse—one of her favorites—found its way from the bathroom floor to her closet, miraculously stain-free and neatly pressed. Or when junk mail accumulating on the dining room table began sorting itself into read, shred and recycle piles. That's when Buffy finally realized the awful truth.

Spike was a closet neat freak.

At first, she was amused. And then a little insulted. And okay…maybe a tiny bit defensive. But he wasn't the one holding down a full-time job while also maintaining nightly slaying duties. So what if she wasn't Martha-freaking-Stewart? Martha might throw a mean dinner party, but Buffy was pretty damn sure the Queen of Domesticity wouldn't have the faintest idea how to decapitate a marauding Tanker demon without even chipping a nail.

Not to mention the multiple world saveages.

Still, Buffy had to admit there were times it was kind of nice. Waking up after a late night of slaying to a delicious aroma wafting in from the kitchen. Shuffling out of her room to find breakfast waiting—sometimes a plate of scrambled eggs, a side serving of ham and a small bowl of oatmeal. Other times a fluffy omelette or yummy French toast. And always a glass of orange juice set alongside a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

She never had to take the trash out, or sweep the floors or straighten up in any shape, form or fashion. Spike did it all. He even tried to talk her into skipping patrols and letting him handle it, claiming he was bored and that slaying in tandem with her was just too easy. By his reasoning, he deserved a challenge and she deserved a few nights off.

Sometimes it niggled at her a little. The way he apparently had no problem not being in her company. While she kind of missed not being around him.

Buffy supposed that, all things considered, she should have been grateful. But the truth was, it drove her crazy.

So crazy, that the night she found her most expensive pair of boots sitting cleaned and polished and good as new right next to her bed (she'd sadly tossed them in the trash after a dying Goonash a'lug had melted all over them), something snapped.

Storming up to her roomie's bedroom door, she kicked it open like the good old days—even though it wasn't locked—sending it crashing into the wall in a thoroughly satisfying way.

Then she froze. It didn't even register that he wasn't there. She was too busy gaping at the heretofore unseen disaster zone known as Spike's room. Between books, newspapers, discarded clothes, empty bottles and who-knew-what-else, there wasn't an uncovered surface in the entire space—including the floor. The only exception being the bed, which showcased a wadded-up tangle of bedding that looked more like an abstract sculpture than a comfortable place to sleep. In short, describing the room as "messy" would be like calling the Grand Canyon a little crack in the ground.

It took a few moments before the full significance hit her and Buffy finally understood the real awful (but sort of wonderful) truth.

Spike wasn't an adrenaline junkie (or…he was, but it wasn't why he insisted on patrolling for her). And he wasn't bored. He wasn't even a neat freak.

He simply loved her.

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 The End...For Now?

 

 

 

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