Pink shoes for Buffy, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: S7
Summary: This has been moldering on my harddisk for ages; a little S/B tale from somewhere after Get it Done or so.
Author's website:
Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
He's nearly ten paces ahead of her before he realizes she's no longer walking beside him. He turns and walks back to her. They were cutting across town to get to the outlying Setting Sun cemetery. She's standing still, mesmerized, nearly pressing her not-so-little nose against the glass window of the shoe shop.
"Whaddya think, Spike?" she asks. "The pink pointy-toed ones with the kitten heels? Or maybe pointy toes are over, I don't seem to be keeping track anymore. Maybe the flat red Audrey Hepburn ones? With the cute little buckles? Or back to wedgies?"
Spike is at a loss. How the hell would he know about women's shoes?
"I always like you in really high heels," he ventures. He reckons that's a pretty safe bet, as he's seen her prance around on the streets and cemeteries in 4-inch heels for the past four years or so. She's so tiny.
With a sigh, Buffy tears herself away from the tantalizing spring display. "I can't afford them anyway," she says morosely.
It's another blow in a series of blows Spike hasn't seen coming at all. Money issues. When they were still doing their me-creature-of-the-darkness, you-slayer thing, he had few doubts about being able to be the kind of man she needed, if only she would admit to it. Well, until at last the message that he was an evil disgusting, soulless thing penetrated and he went and got one for her.
Evil, disgusting, soulful thing now, check. For the longest time, he got the distinct impression the he was evil and disgusting still, until she told him she believed in him. Check! She rescues him, check. He works with her in the fight against evil, as told to rival in car, check. She won't let him leave, check.
From a certain point of view, a fellow might call this progress. He's even living with her, in a sense. Okay, it's the basement, but still – last year this would have been the stuff of dreams.
He drives his fist into the chest of the seven-foot tall green monstrosity that's trying to sneak up on them and yanks out its heart. The thing is dead, but what about his hand, dripping with green gore? Buffy silently hands him a few tissues.
"Thanks," he says, surprised at her foresight.
"Kleenex is cheaper than dry-cleaning, she says matter-of-factly.
Ouch, second blow on the money issue. Tonight, anyway. He'd gotten a whiff of the attraction of being a guy with a regular salary when they'd been riding to Harris's rescue in the principal's car. The car saved not only Harris's life, but prevented another Turok Han from emerging.
He doesn't have a car anymore, or a motorcycle or anything at all. And anyway, everything he once had was stolen or otherwise illegally gotten. The DeSoto is a wreck; the motorcycle disappeared in his days of lesser sanity. All his clothes are from the Salvation Army, where he picked the very cheapest items under Harris's patient eye, the 50 cent to 1 dollar items. So all his clothes have rents or stains on them, what does he care.
Well, he didn't, until he saw the principal's well-cut suit and cashmere sweater. A man like that could give a girl things. Could have a girl concentrate on her slaying and not on making money. And of course it would have to be legal money, blameless money, not from stupid and illegal schemes (Can you say demon eggs any louder?). So every times he reaches another of his goals for her, to be the man she needs, there is another hitherto invisible pinnacle he must ascend. Get his rocks back. Make money. Be well dressed. Acquire a car.
They run into a whole pack of vamps, about to eat a courting couple. Out-of-towners, they guess, routinely conducting a conversation while efficiently dusting all seven of the skanky fledgling vamps.
He helps her up where she's been thrown by the last of them, and sees her flinch a bit. He'd better make sure he takes point in the rest of tonight's patrol, without her noticing preferably. She looks ruefully at the muddied heels of her boots, and he refrains from pointing out that this happens every single night. They are so good together in a fight, it's like magic. She's the partner of his dreams; he doesn't know what she thinks of him and doesn't ask.
They stop by at Willy's, scope out the new arrivals and catch up on gossip. He holds the door for her, and this is one of the tiny things he loves doing for her, and earns him now, after years of daggers from her eyes, a small smile as acknowledgement. This small credit gets scrapped the moment they order drinks, since he must suffer the indignity of always letting her pay, because let's face it, where would he get the right kind of money? She lets him take off her jacket tonight. Big moment, huh? If this was a courtship, and it continues at this glacial pace, she'd be dead before they ever got to second base.
Nothing doing at Willie's tonight, and they are on their way again after one drink. Buffy's had a soda, of course, she doesn't drink on the job. Can't hold her liquor, endearing little flaw to the perfect girl.
When they get home, he hangs back for a smoke on the porch. The fags are swiped, of course, for how else would he get them? He thinks Buffy knows, but turns a blind eye to this little peccadillo.
To his surprise she returns from the kitchen with a glass of juice and settles next to him.
"I prefer the peace and quiet out here," she says on his look, smiling at him, even.
"If you want me tot keep my gob shut, or shove of?" he offers, hoping that's not what she'll say.
She puts her hand on his. "No, no, don't go, I just thought I'd keep you company," she says.
""S a pleasure, pet," he says, and their eyes meet for a second. It reminds him, uncomfortably, of last year, when he'd thought for a while there was a friendship, a trust growing. Should have stayed on that track, he thinks, but then realizes that would have meant no soul.
They are silent together now. He is too wary to start any conversation that's not on the topic of slaying, and can't think of anything else either. Well, he can, but that topic is off limits, too, of course. After a while he remembers the nose pressing scene from earlier that evening.
"Decided yet about the shoes, love?"
"What?" For a moment, she stares at him wildly. "Oh. The shoes! Um, no, wasn't thinking about shoes. Actually. " He gets a look from her again. He gets a tingly feeling in the region where his heart used to beat. Can it be true? Is the slayer really sending him come-on vibes? Best not act on his intuition in that matter. He's gonna wait for the written invitation this time. Or – had she meant last week, in her speech, she wanted the old Big Bad back in other ways than just demon slaying? He stares at his hands and fiddles with the cuff of the duster, realizing that staring and fiddling is not very manly or demony or any of the things twenty three year old girls probably like. If they weren't slayers, that is.
Buffy takes up the slack in the conversation. "The pink ones, Spike. I think I'm still in love with pointy toes and stiletto heels. I'm thinking the love of the pointy doesn't go away that easily."
Spikes are pointy, his mind supplies unasked. He doesn't really think she means that, though. It's nice to talk about other topics, even if pink shoes aren't his vice of choice.
"What outfit would you wear it with?"
"Do I own anything but jeans and black or white tops these days? It would need a dress, of course. A flowery, frilly dress with pointy hems."
He can't see the dress before his mind's eye, as she obviously can.
"Sounds pretty," he says anyway.
She laughs. The low, throaty sound catches him where it shouldn't. He turns to look at her, wanting to see her laugh as well as hear it. There is that moment again, where their eyes meet and he gets tingly. This time he dares to let it last longer. Why would she? Why would she now?
"Want me to heat up some blood for you?" she asks.
He nearly chokes on his fag. This from the girl who used to turn away in disgust from his drinking blood?
They fall silent again. Her body isn't silent to him, though. He can hear the agitated pumping and fluttering of her heart, feels her swallow several times and lick her lips nervously. His hopes immediately accelerate and start shooting out of orbit, aiming for the sun, where they will probably be scorched and die, as usual.
"Spike," she begins, "I want you to know that I'm glad you fight by my side."
That's good to know. Not quite what he was hoping for, of course, but a good beginning.
"I think should forget about before, and be friends."
Spike's skating wildly over the slippery ice of this statement. Friends? As in I really like you, but I'm not ready for sex yet? Or as in the deadly let's just be friends sentence?
Buffy puts her hand on his knee. "Whaddya think? Friends?"
Spike nods, what else can he do, and forgets to breathe out before taking another drag, which totally upsets the ventilation system of his lungs. And it's weird, he thinks, when the hot smoke has stopped coming out of his nose, but being the first vampire ever to acquire a soul voluntarily was easier than just trying to be human.
END