Chapter 13: Lime and Salt

“Dawn!” Buffy shouted from the bathroom, where she was busy applying her makeup. “Are you ready yet?”

Dawn stuck her head in the doorway and made a face. “I would be if you ever stopped hogging the bathroom.”

“You’re gonna be late for school – again.” Buffy stepped to the side so her sister could brush her teeth at the sink.

“Ready for your first day of work?” Dawn asked through her toothbrush.

“Yeah.” Buffy winced as she gingerly touched the bruise on her temple from the previous night’s fight.

Dawn mumbled something unintelligible at her, the toothpaste giving her a rabid foaming-at-the-mouth look. Buffy elbowed her aside and grabbed her foundation. “Stop talking, you’re drooling.”

Dawn rinsed and spat before she tried to speak again. “Where’s the temp agency sending you?”

“Some insurance company.” Buffy dabbed makeup on her wound as Dawn examined her handiwork with skepticism.

“You’re never gonna hide that.”

She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. “Great, just great. First day at work, and already I’m fueling the battered woman rumor.”

“Just wear a hat.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and shoved her sister playfully. “Get your things. Xander’s gonna be here to pick us up soon.”

*****

Buffy trudged home from her first day of work, thoroughly frustrated and cursing her life. She’d held out hope that getting a real job would help her feel connected to the world, give her something to do with her days instead of sitting around moping. Instead, she was reexamining her definition of hell. It now involved a cubicle, fluorescent lights, and a sales pitch. Forget the whole ripped-out-of-heaven depression, this job could make the cast of Up with People want to kill themselves.

As she passed the cemetery on the way home, she paused, considering, then headed for Spike’s crypt.

Spike glanced up from the TV when she came in, noting her office attire – a plain gray knee-length pencil skirt, blue blouse, and sensible pumps, much more conservative than he was used to seeing her dressed. “How’s my working girl?” He braced himself for a knock on the head for referring to her as “his” girl. But Buffy didn’t even seem to notice as she made a beeline for his alcohol.

“That good, eh?” He made a face she didn’t see and clicked off the television. Back to this again, I suppose, he grumbled to himself. She’d seemed so much better the past few days, he’d hoped they were past the binge drinking.

“Come to pinch my liquor again, have you?” He thought about putting his foot down, telling her no – that this had to stop before a bad habit turned into a dependency, but one look at her face and he always caved. He couldn’t deny her anything. Especially not when the alternative might be going out and getting herself killed. Better she be drunk and safe with him than out there courting death.

“I'm a telemarketer,” Buffy groaned in explanation.

Spike raised his eyebrows. “That is a reason to drink.”

She grabbed a few bottles and two shot glasses and brought them over to him. “I'm that annoying person who calls you and interrupts your dinner and mispronounces your name.”

Spike shook his head. “Makes me crazy, people bloody calling you all the time.” He looked pointedly at her as she kicked off her shoes and perched on the arm of his chair. “’S why I don't have a phone.”

“Also, you live in a crypt.” Buffy downed her shot and then gagged.

“Hey, I have a fridge and the telly,” he retorted, proud of his modern conveniences. “Could get a phone if I wanted.” He looked over at her and raised his eyebrows at the bug-eyed, puckered-lips expression she was making.

“Ugh, that’s nasty,” she informed him.

He assumed she meant the alcohol. “’S tequila, pet. Meant to be done with lime and salt.”

“I don’t suppose you have those lying around?” She glanced skeptically around the crypt.

“Can’t say as I do.”

Buffy just sighed and went back to her griping. “Do you have any idea how many people hung up on me today? I think I’ve been hung up on more times today than I have in the entire rest of my life before this job.”

Spike poured them each another shot of tequila and handed one to her. “Maybe this gig isn’t for you, pet.”

She swallowed the liquor and made another face as it burned her throat. “What else am I going to do?”

“Well, you’re strong… and fast,” said Spike, thinking out loud. “And your fighting skills are bloody brilliant… great with weapons, killer aim with a firearm…” He paused. “Have you thought about maybe a career in, I dunno, law enforcement or something?”

Buffy leaned over and punched him hard in the face.

“Ow!” he yelled, pressing his fingers to his nose. “What was that for?”

“Don’t go there.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“What’s the matter? Struck a nerve, did I?”

“Career week in high school.” Buffy rolled her eyes as she took a swig from the tequila bottle. “Hey, you were there.”

Spike took the bottle from her and filled his shot glass. Funny how quickly she got over the bad taste when she wanted to drown her sorrows. “Is this another one of those stories that ends with me massacring a whole bunch of people?”

“No, actually it’s one of those stories that ends with me kicking your ass.” Buffy snatched the bottle back. “But hey, all ancient history now, right, sweetie?” She gave him a saccharine smile.

“Yeah,” he groused, clearly grumpy at being reminded of his failure.

“Although... that was a particularly spectacular ass-kicking on my part.”

Spike sucked in his cheeks, catching on to her needling. He would allow her to gloat, but just this once, and only because she had a bad day. “Which one was this again?” he humored her, prompting her to tell the story.

“Well, you sent the Order of Taraka after me – by the way, Bug Guy? Super gross. And you kidnapped Angel to do that ritual to heal Dru. And then we stormed the church – remember? With Kendra. Two Slayers, no waiting? And then I kicked your ass to kingdom come,” she finished brightly.

“You dropped an organ on me.”

“Yep. Some of my best work.” Buffy took another gulp from the bottle in her hand.

Spike was quickly tiring of making her feel better. Of all their battles over the years, that particular incident had left him the most scarred – physically and emotionally. So many horrible things had followed in its wake, with him being confined to a wheelchair while the newly un-ensouled Angelus moved in on his Dru. Angelus had broken him all over again, destroying everything he’d built in the hundred years since he’d taken his first Slayer and made himself a force to be reckoned with. The bloody chair helped, of course – Angelus never would’ve gotten the best of him if he hadn’t been crippled. But Dru… that was what hurt the most. He could take the teasing and the beatings, but to see his princess go flitting back to “Daddy” without a moment’s hesitation – that was when he’d realized that Dru didn’t really love him. Had probably never really loved him. And yet, she owned him, possessed him so thoroughly – much as the petite blonde at his side possessed him now – that it didn’t matter. He’d still risk his life for her, team up with his most hated enemy for her, save the bloody world for her. All with the shattered remains of a broken heart that ached to be loved even a fraction of what he felt for her.

He slumped back in his chair and took the bottle away from Buffy, taking a long draught to drown his own sorrows. He had to admit, as a method, he couldn’t fault it.

“Can we please go back to talking about your crummy job?”