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Summary
Buffy raised an eyebrow at the logo of the luxury bath and body store that she was too broke to even walk past.
“Look, I just got you a couple of bits,” Spike said, dumping the bag on the counter, “to replace the bloody dish soap you’re using. That shit’s bad for your skin, you know?” He unpacked the bag, revealing an entire stockpile of shower gels and soaps, shampoos and conditioners, and—oh my God, a rose clay face mask, Buffy thought, greed overtaking her features before she could suppress it. “And some toothpaste, razors…” Spike continued, as she forcefully rearranged her expression into one of haughty indifference. “Not that you need it,” he added, raising his hands in withered self-defense, before tucking his hands into his pockets. “Just looked like you could use stocking up is all.”
Buffy needs pampering. Spike obliges.
Series
- Part 17 of Hit You With My Best (One) Shot