A/N: Okay. First attempt at 'Spuffy'. All-human, Alternate Universe. Slight OOC but I tried to keep it as close to character as possible considering these are non-Slayer/non-Vampire versions of out lovely fictional friends. Little angst, little fluff, not much cussing or sexy times... Although, I wouldn't be opposed to revisiting that in later one-shots should the readers (that's you) so desire it.
Love and kisses, please enjoy!
ps. If you're a music junkie and you would like to hear some of the tunes that influenced the story, look me up on Spottify at yvearia. My "Almighty Sound" and "Wax and Wire" playlists are where it's at for this piece.
She stood on the concrete floor of the open walkway between apartments, shivering. Keys were what you usually needed to open things like doors, right? Only, her keys were somewhere in the trashed-out floorboard of her roommate's car. The car that was currently taking her sister, roommate, and best friend to meet up with a few more friends/significant others. They'd graciously dropped her off on their way to the bar.
She had a headache, and it was cold, and there was that shiver again. Damn it. She reached to the bottom of her purse again in search of her cell phone, but if she found the keys by some happy accident, all the better. Why'd she have such a damn big purse again, she wondered as she sat down on the cool concrete. Oh yeah, that was why. She fumbled past the zippered pouch that held her supplies, still grasping for keys or phone – she really didn't care which at this point.
"No," she moaned, leaning her head back against the cold metal of the apartment door. Another shiver.
Her eyes snapped open as she heard heavy-booted feet tread up the stairs at the other end of the corridor. But the steps stopped short of the apartment door across from her. Must be the guy from 926, she thought, pushing herself to her feet. Keys were jingling in a lock as she stepped heavily to the other end of the walk.
"Hey!" she called, still a few paces away from the now closing apartment door. She didn't hear it shut though. When she poked her head around the corner, she saw the neighbor standing in the dark entryway of his home, waiting, she assumed, for an explanation. "S-sorry," she stuttered out an apology. "Thanks for stopping."
"Think nothin' of it, Pet," he drawled out in a thick British accent. She cocked her head to the side, momentarily annoyed at the assumed moniker.
"Yeah. Could I borrow your phone?" She ploughed into the apartment as if running from some unseen assailant.
"Whoa, now. What's got your boots on fire?" he asked, not unkindly, as he pushed the door shut – but not closed.
"No keys, no phone," she gestured to her purse as if it were somehow responsible.
"Catch." He tossed her the phone he'd fished from his front pants pocket and turned to the back of the living room where the balcony doors were.
"Actually, first…"
"What is it now, Goldilocks?" Annoyance was creeping into his tone.
"Something to drink?" She didn't have time to be polite, not really.
"Oh, my apologies for not offering you a nightcap," he quipped sharply. "What's you're poison?" He was being sarcastic, but she either glossed over his tone or just chose to ignore it.
"Do you have juice?" She was starting to get fidget-y.
"There's Coke for Jack and Cokes. Only mixer I've got, 'fraid. Soda's in the fridge, whisky's on top of it."
"That works."
He stepped from the living room onto the balcony without turning any of the lights on as he went. He could see her fumbling around in the kitchen for the switch, and lit a cigarette as she found it, flooding the little room with light. She grabbed a soda from the fridge and downed it like he had once seen the most practiced of frat boys chug a beer. Her posture seemed to relax almost imperceptibly. She began fumbling with his phone for a moment, then turned and headed out to the balcony, her steps noticeably more sure now.
"It's locked."
Her little hand thrust the phone out towards him. He smirked. He'd decided to leave it locked when he tossed it to her. Thought it might drag out her little visit. As it turns, she'd drawn it out all on her lonesome. He quickly tapped in the four-digit pin, and gently passed the phone back to her, making sure to brush his fingers against hers ever so clumsily.
"Thanks," she whispered. She didn't know why she was whispering. She shook the thought out of her head and slipped back into the apartment to make her phone call.
When his second cigarette was burned down to the filter, he stepped back inside, quietly shutting the sliding glass behind him. The girl was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, her head drooped in one hand while the other clutched his phone.
"No one home?" he asked, startling her out of her self-pity-party. She shivered before she answered him.
"It's a conspiracy."
"What's that?" He pulled a blanket from the chair in the corner and offered it to her. Wasn't that cold out, he thought. And she was pretty well covered up for a SoCal fall. Baggy black sweater – bit much – a pair of cut offs, and – okay – a pair of low leather pumps. Very nice, he approved in his head. She looked at his outstretched arm curiously. "You cold? You're shaking."
"Oh. It's not… I'll be fine in a minute." She tossed his phone back at him, with more than a little skill. "I'll get out of your hair." She stood and moved toward the door.
"Now, wait just a minute," he said, taking on an authoritative tone – which, admittedly, sounded strange coming from a peroxide bleached twenty-something wearing faded black jeans and a vintage 'Never Mind The Bollocks' Sex Pistols tee shirt. "No key, still?"
"I'll be fine," she repeated.
"Not alone." He shook his head decisively. He couldn't let the tiny girl wait out there alone for who knew how long.
"Thanks for the offer but I'm so not staying the night."
"What says I'm offerin' that, Goldilocks?" He gathered the blanket up again and moved to usher the girl out his apartment door. They walked together to the girls' apartment door and he shook out the blanket. "Sure you don't need it?" She nodded, then glanced down the corridor as if expecting someone to walk up and catch them doing something elicit. He laid the blanket on the concrete next to her door and took a seat. Eventually, after a good few minutes of nothing happening, she sat down next to him.
"Thanks for waiting with me," she whispered at last. "Uh, my name's Buffy."
"'Thanks for waitin' with me, Spike'," he offered his own name, nudging her small toe with his booted foot.
"Seriously?" she asked, incredulous.
"Wha'?"
"What kind of a name is 'Spike'?"
"What kind of a name is 'Buffy'?"
It was another two weeks before he saw her again. Truth to tell, he was glad to be rid of the snotty bint. He had woken up in the early hours of the morning, sittin' alone on the concrete outside her bloody door. The blanket was folded in 'is lap, and there was a note pinned to the front of his shirt like he was a sodding kindergartener. 'Thanks' it said. Sodding thanks.
Spike opened his front door on his way out to work to find a note taped to the doorframe. Another bloody note, he thought. This one was from the complex, though. He rolled it up and slid it into his jeans pocket, simultaneously pulling the door shut and fishing for his keys. He glanced toward the stairs as he heard low voices and light footsteps. The sky was turning that royal blue color you only got to see for a lucky few minutes at the end of the twilight. "Bloody poet," he huffed out like it was a curse.
As he stepped away from his door towards the stairs, he caught the sight of two heads bobbing up toward the corridor – one red and the other blonde. Sure enough, it was his friend, Goldilocks, from the other night. He'd never seen Red before, though. Must be the roommate. Spike took a deep breath and began barreling down the steps, brushing past the two girls like he'd hardly registered them at all.
"Hey," she called down after him. "Where ya goin' so fast?" He barely turned to see her leaning out over the iron railing, waiting for a reply. Like he owed her that.
"Away." He cringed inwardly at his own words as he turned the corner heading for his car.
She shook a little at his brusqueness.
"Grumpy," Willow, commented as they made their way to the apartment door. "He looked so sweet sleeping there waiting with you the other night." She offered a lopsided grin as she waited on Buffy to get the door open.
"Yeah, just like a sweet little house cat, till he wakes up. Then you realize he's really –"
"Grumpy Cat?" Willow interjected with a smirk. Buffy had been about to say something about Big Cats – cougars, panthers, predators – but she decided with a smile that Willow had made the better comparison.
As the girls were settling down for the evening among textbooks and laptops, Spike was heading over to the Café. The Moth was a hipster joint – yeah, okay – but they pulled it off well, didn't they? The restaurant was open 7 a.m. till midnight. Good food; good coffee; good beer; decent music. It was a pretty well kept secret. Had a laid back and friendly vibe.
Spike was the evening manager.
Managing. That meant serving, tending bar, playin' barista – but call him that to his face! Even cookin' occasionally. But, most nights he hid, cleaning glasses, playin' bar backer. He could fade into the background if he wanted, or… not.
Tonight it was the barista bit. He cursed under his breath when he walked through the front door and saw his bartender tryin' to make a latte. "Oi! Where's Harmony?" he yelled, already knowing the answer.
"Not here."
"Bloody… stupid… Ugh! Get back to the bar. I've got it." The kid scampered back to his post, relieved, but surprised all the same by the boss's outburst. Spike was usually a pretty laid back guy. Even under pressure.
He looked askance at the coffee concoction in front of him before discarding it to start from scratch. "Sorry for the wait, Love. What was it, then?"
The girl standing at the counter blinked a couple of times in confusion. She was young; pretty; high school age, prolly. She had a thick mane of mahogany hair that she was fidgeting with, and startlingly large blue-grey eyes. Yeah, she was pretty – and preoccupied staring at the man trying to fix her drink.
"Dawn… Huh?" she said wistfully. "Oh… White mocha latte…"
"White mocha latte for Dawn." Spike gave her a cool smile and set to work.
"I, uh… know you," the girl stuttered as he sprinkled cinnamon over the steaming drink. He slid the mug across the worn wooden bar top as he scanned his memory, searching for her face.
"No, Bit. I don't think so." He smiled as kindly as he could manage in his annoyed mood, not wanting to offend the girl.
"No. Yeah… um…" She was flustered.
Out with it, he thought.
"You live in building nine? At Summer Vale Apartments, right?"
"So, you know me, but I don' know you… You live there too?" he asked as a server brought him another drink order for a four top.
"My sister does."
"Be sure to say 'hi' next time you visit your sis, yeah?" He smiled again before turning his back to her, pretense of work giving him an excuse to brush her off gently.
"Yeah, okay… Bye…" she said, hesitantly turning to walk back to an empty booth in the back of the café.
The night was slow and the music was particularly bad tonight – all whiney and folky. Well… not bad, really. Bloody girl. Put him in a mood and he hadn't even seen her more'n a minute. How could she do that? He finished wiping off the counter and threw the bar mop in the bin. Time to walk the café, check in on tables. Last call and all that. Need anything? No? Good. Oh, sod it!
Most of the tables were empty, 'cept for those hardcore academics, noses stuck in books. There was one rat-arsed kid fumbling for his credit card to pay his check. Slow night, Spike thought again. He turned toward the back corner and saw that soft, brown head of hair slumped forward on the table of the back booth.
She had her cell in her hand, but she was obviously asleep. He'd leave her to her rest till he had to lock up, he thought. Probly a sweet kid.
Customers sorted, till counted, safe locked. One more thing left to do.
Wes was heading to the door when he noticed the one still occupied booth. "Spike," the bartender whisper-shouted across the dining room. "There's one left."
"Yeah, I got it," Spike answered as he untied his half apron and tossed it onto the counter. Wesley waved as he slipped out the door.
The girl hadn't stirred in the last hour since he'd realized she was sleeping. He glanced at his watch. Twelve thirty-two. Someone should be missing her, late as it was. He headed toward her booth and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She moaned quietly.
"Time to go, Bit. I've gotta close shop for the night."
"Stop screaming," she whispered, blowing out a breath that smelled heavily of whisky. There was a purse on the floor near her feet and he caught the metal flash of what he was sure was a flask tucked up inside. His expression changed near immediately from pity to full on annoyance.
"Why would I do that?" he shouted.
Startled and clearly in pain, Dawn sat up. She stared at him, blearily. "Because… Headache?"
"From the latte?" he chuckled. She looked at him guiltily from those blue-grey pools. He softened his voice, then, trying to calm down a little. "No drinking for you. Not in my establishment. 'Gainst the rules."
"You have a bar," she argued from sheer force of habit – time spent arguing with her sister.
"For big girls and boys," he said, annunciating each word slowly and deliberately. "Not high school kiddies."
She winced at that, grabbing up her purse from the floor. "I'll go," she said, stumbling to her feet.
"How'd you get here," he asked as she pushed her way past him out of the booth.
"Bus."
"Oh, no." He said quickly, grabbing her by the wrist before she had made it three steps. Bloody stupid girls, he thought. Keep wantin' to go out on their own at night. She squeaked when she realized he had a hold of her.
"You're not going to…?"
Spiked cocked his head, confused for a moment. "Hurt you?" He exclaimed incredulously. "Bloody hell, girl. You were gonna take the bus home, alone, intoxicated, past midnight! Practically wearin' a sign says 'take advantage'," he muttered under his breath. She was still staring at him, big eyes worried now. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Niblet. Takin' you home."
"To your place?" she asked, some of the anxiety seemed to morph into excitement at the prospect of going home with the handsome, older guy.
"To your big sister."
"Oh, crap."
"Dawnie?" Willow said to herself as she looked through the peephole of the apartment door. It was almost one a.m. and Buffy had just given up her books in favor of a shower.
"Hey, Will, can I use your shamp… Someone at the door?"
Willow turned to face her friend, an awkward look on her face, as another knock came from the door.
"Who…?"
"Now, Buffy… I'm sure she just…"
"Dawn!" Buffy interrupted her stuttering friend as she made a beeline for the door. She ripped it open with a force surprising for her petite, five-foot frame. She was already prepared to be upset with the person on the other side. Then she saw… Make that two people.
"Hi, Buffy." Dawn waved sheepishly.
"Hi, Buffy," he mimicked her little sister with an amused twinkle in his eye.
"You," Buffy pointed at the younger girl. "Inside."
Dawn blindly complied, stumbling into the apartment and into Red's arms. "Hi, Will."
"Hey, Dawnie," the redhead whispered cheerfully.
"You," the blonde thrust her finger up into Spike's chest. "Talk. Outside. Now."
He huffed with a little humor as she herded him back into the corridor, closing the door behind her. She was a storm in a teacup. He shook his head softly at himself before she turned back to face him.
"Explain." It was a command, but he couldn't keep himself from smiling… just a little. He liked seein' her get riled.
"I'm not the Big Bad here, Goldilocks," he declared, lifting his hands up in a defensive gesture.
"You're mixing your metaphors."
"Oh, big word for the little bubbly, blonde girl." His grin flashed as he watched her bristle with anger. Putting this girl on edge was fun.
"I happen to be. An. English. Major."
"That so, Betty?" he laughed again.
She shook her head in frustration. "What. Happened?" she asked again, trying to get back on track.
"I manage a coffee bar. Lil' sis comes in, has a coffee, adds a bit a cheer to it – from 'er own bag, mind you. I made sure she got home safe. S'all that went on, I swear."
He watched the girl's shoulders slump, her eyes dropping to his feet, then a shiver. She was draped in another impossibly large sweater and leggings. Couldn't be the cold; he'd left his coat in the car, anyway. Nothin' to offer her.
"Um…" she started, stuttering awkwardly. "Sorry. And… thank you." When she looked back up at him, he could see some of the frustration and anger returning to her flashing green eyes. "I'm gonna kill her."
"She live here with you, Pet?" he asked, curious now.
"No," she turned from the door and motioned for him to follow her. They stopped at the stairs, taking a seat on the top step before she continued. "She lives with our Dad," she sighed heavily.
"Thought she'd have someone missin' her."
"Nope." She said it with acid seeping into her tone. "He's in Spain… or somewhere. Supposedly." Buffy turned to look at him. Those eyes were so deep, so blue. Had she noticed that the last time they'd spoken? "He's never home," she finished. "Hey, how did you know she was mine?" she changed the subject, asking as though Spike had returned a lost pet and not a troublesome sibling.
"Didn't know. 'Till we got to your door. Niblet said she recognized me from the complex, though. Said her sis lived here, so I offered to take her home." He glanced sideways at the tiny girl sitting next to him. She was smaller than her sis, but bigger in other ways – seemed she had a bigger spirit somehow. "What about your mum?" he asked cautiously. She'd decidedly not mentioned a mother when she'd talked about their dad.
"Uh," that heavy sigh again, and another shiver. "She passed away… a couple of months ago." She felt Spike slip his fingers gently through hers. "Dad took in Dawnie – she's only fifteen, ya know." He nodded silently, letting her keep on. "Put me up here. Buffy Summers, living at Summer Vale Apartments," she smiled sarcastically.
"Your dad…?"
"Owner," Buffy nodded, a slight blush of embarrassment painting her cheeks. She continued with her story before he could speak again. "Mom and Dad divorced when I was, well, Dawn's age. We lived with her. And now she's gone and Dawn moved in with our dad, and… Why am I telling you this? I'm sorry. You've probably got some sort of dark, British punk-like thing to get back to… being punk-y?"
"Not due to polish my fingernails till morning, Pet. You go on."
She smiled at his easy brush off of her lame attempt at an insult, then let out another breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Dad's never home, then suddenly I'm not even around anymore. And my roommate, Will?"
"Red?" he asked. Buffy nodded.
"Dawn was really close with Willow and her girlfriend, Tara. Then…" Buffy had to stop again. She felt the strange, annoying, infuriating, sweet man sitting next to her squeeze her hand encouragingly. "There was a drunk driver."
"Poor kid," Spike exhaled a deep breath before reaching into his pocket for his packet of smokes.
"Me, Tara, Willow, or Dawn?"
"All the above, Darlin'." He watched her curl her lip at the way he flicked his lighter open and lit his cigarette.
"So, then why would she do this? Get Drunk? I mean, really? Our parents were smart people. I mean, I used to tell her she wasn't really my sister just to make her cry when we were little, but now I'm really starting to wonder. I mean, how stupid –"
"Whoa, whoa!" Spike interrupted her rant. "Slow down. Have you never done somethin' stupid before?" He cocked an eyebrow at the look of defeat that crossed her face. Then she brightened slightly, a smug smile gracing her lips.
"Yeah but, I get to make the mistakes, she gets to learn from them. Big sister. That's the rule."
It was the first time since that night two weeks ago that they had looked one another in the eyes without anger or malice belaying the gesture. They looked at each other unblinkingly for a very long… few seconds.
Then he heard her apartment door creak open, and a soft, "Buffy?" echo down the corridor. She turned her head and the spell was broken.
"By the stairs, Will."
He stood and helped her to her feet as her roommate made her way their direction.
"Hey. Dawnie's asleep," she whispered as if her voice could wake the girl from out here. "I gave her some water, and some aspirin, a-and a trashcan," she smiled sheepishly.
"I hope she has a crick-from-hell in the morning from sleeping on the couch," buffy grumbled.
"Oh, no she won't. I let her have my bed," Willow announced proudly.
"Well, you're not sleeping on the couch. I guess we can share."
"Kinky," Spike smirked. He was caught off guard by how fast her little fist struck out at his shoulder.
"Not happening," she growled at him. "No offense, Will."
"None taken." The girl smiled shyly.
"Well, you know…"
"What?" Buffy asked, urging Spike to complete his thought.
"One of you birds could always come share my bed."
"Gross!" Buffy turned on her heels and grabbed her friend by the wrist, dragging her back down the hall.
"That's an open invitation!" Spike called after the girls.
"You're a disgusting pig!" The answer flew back just before Spike heard the door snick closed on the opposite end.
He smiled to himself, retreating to his own home for what was left of the night.
Laundry was done. Dishes… done. He opened the cupboard with a groan. Time to go to the food shop. It really wasn't how he wanted to spend his day off. The tidying up was no big. He just turned up the speakers and it was done in no time flat. But the shoppin'? A man had to eat, yeah? He resolved to go late tonight after most everybody was tucked up at home. He didn't really feel like being social. Not today.
Spike cast about the counter for a paper or envelope – something to make a list on. Ah. The late notice. He turned the paper over to the blank side and began jotting items down. Wheatabix. Biscuits. Tea. He glanced into the fridge. Orange juice. Buffy liked orange juice… maybe… Why was he thinking about her beverage choices? Shaking his head, he crossed orange juice off of the list. Popcorn. Crisps. Frozen lasagna…
The song that was playing faded out and he heard a knocking on his door.
"I can hear the music. I know you're in there."
Without thinking about it, a grin spread across his face. He could imagine her small hands clinched in fists, one pounding on the cold metal door. He tossed the paper onto the counter and made his way through the living room to the door.
He could see her through the peephole. She didn't look angry, exactly. Maybe anxious. "What?" he shouted through the door. Now she was irritated. He felt his grin grow wider.
"Let me in." He watched her cock her head to the side, then slap the door just below the peephole.
"Ow!" It didn't really hurt, but he hadn't expected to feel the force of her hand through the door either. He flipped the deadbolt and turned the knob. A flash of blonde hair, white jeans, and green tee shirt blew past him through the door.
"I need a favor."
He turned after closing the door, ready to say something clever, or dirty, or cleverly dirty. But his eyes arrested the work of his mouth. His first coherent thought was how beautiful her green eyes looked against the dark green cotton of her shirt. That blonde-hair-blue-eyed thing was way overrated. Ironic as he was currently peroxide-blonde with blue eyes. His next thought – did this girl own any clothes that didn't bloody swallow her? She was a little, tiny thing. The pants… well, okay. They hugged her curves in all the right places – what curves he could see. The shirt was oversized, and while it didn't detract from her looks, her body was lost in it.
"Why are you staring at me?"
"Huh?" He swallowed, mentally shaking the thoughts out of his head.
"Can you turn the music down? I need a favor."
"Yeah, you said." He walked over to the tuner, turning down the volume.
"I need a date," she said quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Her eyes were traveling around the room, decidedly never landing on him. "Why do you keep it so dark in here?"
"Pardon?"
"Its dark. Like a crypt… or a cave. Something creepy. You know, the creepy vibe, not so great for picking up chicks." She was rambling. Flustered.
"Hey, I happen to like… No… Not the décor, love. The bit about the date. 'Cause, I don't think I'll be hearin' enough 'bout that anytime soon."
"It's this stupid thing I have to go to. An ex of mine is gonna be there…" she mumbled almost inaudibly, but his keen hearing picked it up anyway.
"So… use me, eh?"
"Only a little…"
So much for the food shop, Spike thought without disappointment.
"So, Will was accepted into the graduate program at CalTech. Early admissions." Spike whistled from his seat behind the wheel. Buffy was briefing him on the way to the restaurant. The old car rattled loudly as he shifted gears like it was involuntary – like breathing. "Yeah. Some kind of behavioral-neuro-something degree." She shook her head illustrating her confusion about the field of study. "Anyway… Will and I took the same psych class a few semesters ago and I kind of… I dated the TA."
"Huh," Spike mused as he lit a cigarette while they sat at a stoplight.
"I took off a semester when Mom was sick and I kind of haven't gotten back into the swing of things yet. I'm only auditing this semester and…" she trailed off.
"Afraid of him judging you," Spike sighed, knowingly.
"He really is a nice guy –"
"Sure he is."
She ignored his interruption, continuing.
"I'd just rather he not think I'm an academic failure and alone," she finished with a sigh as Spike pulled the De Sotto up to the curb in front of the restaurant. She could feel the valets giving them dirty looks as they approached to open doors and exchange keys for a claim ticket.
She had tried with his outfit, she really had. Apparently he didn't own any collared shirts. Buffy had torn through his closet, grumbling the entire time. But he had a kind of black cotton coat that came to mid-thigh, and a pair of black jeans that weren't too horribly faded. That paired with a sort of grey-blue tee shirt and his black leather Chuck Taylor's, and she had been pretty well satisfied.
"No nail polish," she had said. "And no smoking."
"It's my car, and I can smoke in it if I wan' to," he had answered.
One of the valets rushed around to help her from her door, but Spike blocked him. He reached his hand in and helped her step daintily to the curb. She arched one perfect, golden brow at him, but said nothing. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to tingle. He wrapped one arm around her tiny waist as they walked up the steps and into the building. Just to test his luck.
"Don't get hands-y," Buffy bit out under her breath.
"Oh, no. You get the full treatment tonight, Pet." He squeezed her hip where his hand rested over her jeans. The hostess gave them a smile that spoke volumes about how perfect she thought they looked together. When she turned to lead them to the private dining room where the party would be, Buffy shot him a look to kill.
She had briefed Willow and Dawn about the faux date, but there were others who she probably should have warned also. She looked around the rapidly filling room. Good. No Riley yet. But… no. Here came Xander. He really needs to talk to a professional about that Big Brother complex, she thought. And she didn't mean George Orwell.
"Hey, Buffalicious," Xander greeted, hardly casting a glance her way at all, eyes focused on the man pulling her closer into his side. "Who's the guy?" he asked, all too enthusiastically.
Buffy shoved her elbow into Spike's side, trying to gain a little distance from him. "Xander, this is my date, Sp-Spike," she stuttered, realizing how ridiculous it would sound to most people. Hi, I'm Buffy and this is my date, Spike. Maybe it would have been better to fake sick. Willow woulda understood.
"Spike, huh?"
"Spike, this is Xander Harris. He's a friend of mine and Willow's."
"Best friends since high school," Xander boasted, puffing his chest out slightly.
"That's a long time to know a girl and not snag her, Harris," Spike smiled, punctuating his thinly veiled insult with a kiss to Buffy's cheek. "Guess I'm the lucky bloke." He realized he enjoyed watching the whelp squirm. Mightn't have been Buffy's ex, but he disliked the kid all the same. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in the arch of his foot. "Ow!"
"Oh, honey! I'm so sorry. Really, I am. Come on. Lets go congratulate Will. I think I see Dawnie too." Buffy pulled the sullen man-child after her and away from Xander. "Behave!" she ordered in her most authoritative whisper.
"No boy that behaved all the time ever had fun any of the time," he shot back, a smirk replacing his earlier look of discomfort. "Just remember, you asked me here, Goldilocks."
"I'm beginning to regret –"
"I could make this evening go very smoothly for you, or very… not smooth," he interrupted. That got her attention. She stopped walking round the tables and stared at him for a minute without speaking. Before she got a chance to say anything however, they were interrupted by the Niblet and Red.
From across the room, Xander watched what he had been hoping would be another awkward introduction, but it looked like Will and Dawnie already knew about this Spike guy. An attractive dark blonde woman made her way over to his side, lacing her harm through his sweetly.
"Is that Buffy's new beau?" Anya asked her boyfriend. She always felt better and worse when Buffy was with someone – better because it meant Buffy wasn't available to Xander, and worse because it meant that Xander became extremely jealous.
"Yeah. I don't… know." He kissed her cheek without taking his eyes off of the small group across the room. "I don't get what Buffy sees in him."
"Of course you don't, you're a heterosexual man," Anya piped up matter-of-fact-ly. "He's extremely handsome. Masculine. Stylish. Confident."
"Ahn."
"He has very symmetrical body structure, so I would imagine he's very good in bed. An excellent breeder," she continued bluntly.
"Anya!"
"What?"
"I've got my eye on you, Bit," Spike was warning Dawn as he watched her eyeing a tray of drinks that lay unattended on a table a few feet away.
"I don't know what you mean," she said, smartly, her assumed air of maturity not fooling anyone.
"Buffy?"
Spike heard the even, male voice from behind him, and then felt Buffy pull at his sleeve as she turned to face the owner of the voice. He turned around to see a fresh face full of dimples, smiling down at his girl.
Whoa! Wait jus' a minute! Not your girl, he thought to himself as he absently slipped his fingers through hers. He thought he felt her squeeze a little 'thank you'.
"Hi, Riley."
Spike marveled, listening to her. Her sweet voice was soft and even, but she was vibrating against his side like she was about to shoot off into the ceiling. She gripped his hand tighter.
"I didn't know if you would be here. I was… I'm real sorry about…"
"I got your flowers. They were beautiful, thank you."
"She was a great lady." The git looked down at his feet and toed the carpet nervously. And Buffy was worried about him judging her?
Spike brought his hand up to rub the girl's back soothingly, as he stuck his other out toward the farm-boy.
"Riley," the kid said, extending his hand to shake Spike's.
"William," Spike said coolly, in response. He heard Buffy's quick intake of breath at the name he offered. He'd haft'a explain that now. Well… later.
"Nice to meet you…" Farm-boy trailed off, looking questioningly at Buffy. "Are you…?"
"Yeah." Ponce, Spike thought, answering for a still speechless Buffy. "Few months now. I'nat right, Pet?" It had been at least a month – six weeks – since Buffy had first come barging through his doorway.
"Hmmm," she smiled noncommittally.
"How'd you two meet?" Riley addressed his question to Spike, realizing that Buffy wasn't feeling very verbose just now.
"We're neighbors." Buffy cut in before Spike had a chance to embellish, or even worse, fabricate their actual meeting.
"Oh. Well," the git straightened up to his full height, still addressing Spike. "Isn't that convenient?"
Buffy could practically feel Spike's outrage bristling under the skin, waiting to leap to the surface. She felt him square himself next to her – shoulders back, weight forward, fists clenched. She threaded her harm through the space between his side and elbow before he had a chance to make a scene.
"I think Willow's Ancient Civ professor is about to make a toast. Then it's probably time to eat. Come on, honey." She tugged him away from the taller man, with little success at best. "Honey? Honey!"
"Yeah, toast. Champagne. Food," he nodded to Buffy, seemingly snapped out of his machismo power play. But a glint lit his eyes, and he turned quickly back to Riley. "Then home. Bed. More… food." With a grin, he finally turned and followed Buffy to a couple of empty seats at a table with Dawn and that Harris git. Who was beginning to look like an absolute winner next to Riley – not in small part because Harris and his girl had never dated.
That's enough of that, Pratt, he chided mentally.
She was quiet all the drive home. He'd behaved himself relatively well – once he'd convinced hi'self she wasn't really his girlfriend, and so it wasn't worth the headache. He'd behaved. Bantered with her roomie and her l'il sis, even that Harris whelp – though his girlfriend was a downright riot; no filter on that one. Still, he couldn't see why Buffy'd closed off again. And as savvy as he liked to play it round women, he couldn't think what to say to break the silence again.
He parked the car a block over from the complex – it was late and all the nearer spots'd been taken – and they walked the few minutes in yet more silence. Through the foot-gate, down the path to building nine, up the steps. He fished into his coat pocket for 'is keys, expecting to hear her footsteps retreating down the hall to her own door. But… He didn't.
"Nice night, Love," he said, turning around to tell her goodnight. Always be a gentleman, his mum had taught him an awful long time ago. Sometimes he even remembered.
"Not really," she replied sullenly, toeing his welcome mat with one perfectly pointed, low heeled, leather pump.
"Well," he huffed, not a little offended. "Sorry to dissap –"
"Let's try to improve on it," she interrupted him, stepping past, through the darkened doorway of his apartment.
Without lingering too long on his front stoop, Spike took a moment to collect hi'self, then turned to follow her. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dark room in contrast with the security lights in the corridor. She was sitting on the carpet, leaning up against his sofa. Her shoes had been kicked off to the side, as if she were right at home in the middle of his living room floor. He took a spare second to smile to himself, before reaching for the pull chain on the lamp in the corner.
Click. Nothing…
Click. Once again… still dark.
"Oh, bloody…" he muttered under his breath.
"You… blow a bulb?" Buffy asked, a hint of a smile in her voice. He had to grin at that. At least he didn't have to try to hide it in the dark.
"Why, I never once in my life…!" He took off across the darkened room, nearly tripping over those bloody pumps, shouting curses on his way to the kitchen light switch. Would be dimmer than the overhead – more appropriate like.
Flick…
… Flick. Flick.
"Bollocks."
A giggle drifted across the room to him. "Your lights are out."
"Not bloody funny… Hey! It's the building. Building lights must be out." Now he was fumbling around in a cupboard for candles.
"Nope. Security lights. Been on since we got here." The little smart alec motioned to the light filtering in through his vertical blinds.
"You sure? Don't wanna run home and check your own place for electricity, Love?" he practically dared her as he strew several now lit candles around the room.
"Let me help you with that." She stood and grabbed a handful of candles from the open cabinet door.
Soon, there were five or six pools of dancing light emanating from the corners of the room. Place looked like a shrine to something – holy or not, he couldn't say. And didn't care. She had her back to him, struggling with the matches she'd snatched up from the coffee table, trying to light the last wick. Without thinking of his recent history with the girl – the shakiness of their start – he walked up behind her till he was pressed into her back. Her fingers then stopped fiddling with the sulfur stick in her hand as he reached round her with his zippo. He lit the wick and flicked the lighter shut, standing in place for a marked few seconds. Then he turned round and walked – as coolly as he could muster while tripping over those damned shoes again – to the couch, where he divested himself of his coat.
She watched him sit down on the edge of the sofa cushion, half wondering if that had just really happened. But he was looking at her. And he wasn't turning away. As if he had some kind of creepy come-hither-hypnosis-thing going on, she crossed the room and slid back to the floor, leaning her back up against the sofa like before.
He reached his hand down and began running his fingers through soft golden plats of hair. He could feel the flush of her cheeks in his fingertips.
"Spike?"
"Yeah, Goldilocks," he answered quietly, voice barely above a whisper. Suddenly – and without any sodding warning – she had moved to straddle his lap. One knee to either side of his hips, little hands pushing him back against the back of the couch. Then she was guiding his hands to rest on her hips. "Forward bird," he breathed out heavily as he let his fingertips sink into the skin above the waist of her designer jeans.
"Shh."
"I like a girl who knows what she wants." He kept talking.
"I said. Be. Quiet."
"Make me."
And she didn't disappoint. She moved her head forward just enough to tease – just so he would have to lean up to reach her mouth with his. Then she crashed into him like something akin to a train wreck. He was frightened he might've cut his lip on her teeth. A chorus of 'Ow!' and 'Oh!' erupted as she pulled back slightly.
Then, "I'm sorry." She sounded shaken and unsure, and he thought she might stand up, collect those monstrously obtrusive shoes, and balk out the door.
But she didn't. She stayed in her position, astride his legs, tensed against him, and holding her breath.
"I'm sorry." She whispered again, as if unsure that he'd heard her fist apology.
"Nothin' for it, Pet," he answered soothingly, brining one of his hands up from her hip to stroke away a fall of hair from her face. "Just… go slowly. I'm in no hurry. Are you?" His eyebrow quirked up, accentuating his question.
"I just… Ya know, it's been a while?" Buffy dropped her head to his shoulder with a small smile quirking at her lips. "I was never really great at this."
"I don't believe that." Spike gripped a handful of her golden hair and gently tilted her head back so he could focus on those pools in her face. "Not the way those two numptys were pawing at you all night, tryin' to battle for who meant more to you – the best friend or the ex. Something's got to be spurrin' them on towards you…"
"Two what?" she asked after a moment of silence. Her earlier look of embarrassment had been replaced by a completely blank valley-girl stare.
"Lessons in 'Brit-speak' later. Lesson in first kisses," he trailed off, sighing deeply as he looked on the face of the beautiful, challenging, maddening, frustrating, lovely girl who was literally sat in his lap. "Now."
"Now," she agreed, nodding as much as she could with his fingers still tangled firmly in the hair at the nape of her neck.
Using the leverage he had gained from fisting her golden locks, he brought her mouth to his. "Slowly," he said as he illustrated the action, breathing the words against her lips. She tried to connect with him again but he had the reigns and kept a strict distance between them. "Focus on breathing, Love," he instructed. "Your breath out. My breath in…"
It was like hypnosis again, or some kind of vampire-mojo-thrall from some campy B movie or TV show. She started to relax, let her eyelids droop. Focus. Breath. Him. Me. She smelled the Tabaco on his breath. Sweeter than a regular cigarette. A little salty too. Clove? she wondered. Smells like Christmastime.
And suddenly she realized, she wasn't smelling the Tabaco anymore – she was tasting it. He continued setting the pace, just pulling her bottom lip between the two of his, and for that, she decided, she'd be grateful. She couldn't think clearly enough right now to be in control of anything.
This girl… He could feel her. In his chest, in his throat. She was all around him, all inside him. Bloody-fuckin-hell, he thought. He couldn't keep the pace this slow any longer. But he didn't want to scare her away. She was a skittish kid, and now he'd tasted her, he couldn't not feel her against him like this.
Tentatively, he pressed harder against her mouth with his tongue until he felt it open for him. She tasted like warm fruit, maybe a little alcohol on the back end. He made sure to keep the one hand firmly in her hair, in case she needed a little encouragement – to let off a little or go deeper, he wasn't sure yet. But his other hand was free to roam now.
Those hips were nice, though he could trace the edge of her hipbone with his thumb. But there were expanses of her small frame he had been wondering about all night. Since she came barreling through his door this afternoon in her overgrown tee shirt, he realized. She was matching him now with the curiosity of her tongue, tracing the sharp edge of his teeth. Taking that as encouragement, Spike removed his other hand from her hip, and brought it round between them to rest on her belly. It was soft and flat but ever so slightly rounded – a realization that made him warm, thinking of the things he could to her there. He hitched the hem of her shirt up, exposing her soft, warm skin.
He skimmed her lightly with his fingertips and she jolted a little, pulling back from the kiss. He figured his fingers must be cold, as he flattened his hand out on her belly, now. No better way to warm them than on her skin. Just as he realized she wasn't returning to the kiss, his hand skimmed something plastic… like a cord, and… tape?
"Don't!" Buffy almost shouted.
"Wha… what's wrong?"
Buffy shook her head and pulled his hand from under her shirt, smoothing the fabric back over her abdomen.
"Did I do something wrong?" Spike looked into her eyes in the dim candlelight. They were cooling, no longer heated with the excitement of the kiss and the moments leading up to it. "Did I? Hurt…?"
"No, ugh. No." She began backing off of his lap. "Just… I should go." She was on the floor now, searching about for her shoes. Spike leaned down and produced them from their spot near the edge of the coffee table. He held them out to her, a concerned, almost hurt look in his eyes.
"You going?"
She nodded, taking the shoes and walking to the door without even bothering to put them on.
"You gonna tell me why?"
"Nope."
He reached for her as she grabbed at the doorknob. "Least. Lemme walk you to your door."
"I have my keys this time. I'll be fine, thanks." She twisted her wrist out of his grasp and he let her go without much of a fuss. Staring at the door as it closed loudly on his dark and empty apartment, he heard a small cry.
The cat padded in from his hiding place in the bedroom, under the bed. Such a pussy, that cat. Not a Tom at all.
"Yeah, she's gone. It's safe." Spike plopped back down onto the seat trying to calm his still racing pulse. The cat walked over and awkwardly jumped onto his lap. It began sniffing his hand. The hand that he'd slid under her shirt so keenly, like a schoolboy in the backseat of Dad's car.
What was that he'd felt? Why'd she run? He leaned his head back and groaned in exasperation. And the food shopping had never gotten done.
"I got it," Buffy called on her way through the living room to the front door. She and Dawnie were curled up on her bed, watching old episodes of Port Charles on YouTube. It was their bi-monthly bad soap opera weekend. She snatched her wallet from the bar as another knock sounded on the door. What bad soap opera about vampires would be complete without pizza?
"Hey, just lemme find my cash real quick," she said without looking as she opened the door in a rush.
"Oh-kay," Spike drawled out in an inquisitive tone.
"No." She tried to close the door in his face as quickly as she'd opened it, but a strong arm shot out, keeping her from her mission.
"I need a favor."
"No. And… no," Buffy whined, doing a superb imitation of Dawn at her most annoying, middle school stage.
"Did you a favor," he pointed out, pushing the door open a little more and moving past her into the entryway.
"I didn't say you could come in."
"Love…"
"Ok. I will talk to you about anything, anything, excepting last Sunday. Because last Sunday didn't happen. Last Sunday doesn't even exist. Seven days in a week, you say? No, because there were only six last week."
"Nooo… nope. Six days this week, b'cause the week begins on Sunday and if Sunday doesn't exist then –"
"I spoke too soon," Buffy interrupted. "Anything but last Sunday and semantics."
"Nice one, Libby." Spike smirked at her, daring her to ask the question.
"Wha… what do you want?"
He was almost disappointed that she didn't rise to the occasion, but figured this only afforded him more opportunities. "I'm gonna be stayin' away for a while."
"How long?" Slight interest from her there.
"A while. But where it is that I'm stayin' won't let me get away with kepin' this little fella," he said, moving back toward the still open door. He reached outside and brought his hand back in carrying a black canvas bag. The top was unzipped and Buffy thought she heard a small squeak. She leaned closer to investigate and a furry head popped its way out of the bag.
"Ohmigosh! A kitty," Dawn gushed, standing in the doorway of her sister's bedroom.
"Hey, Niblet," Spike greeted her, holding the bag of cat out for her to take.
"How long have you been standing there?" Buffy asked.
"Long enough to know we're kitten-sitting for Spike," Dawn answered rubbing the cat behind it's ears and listening to it purr in contentment.
"No!" Buffy whined in utter frustration now.
"Here's the litter box, an' litter, an' food…" He reached back out into the hall and shifted all aforementioned items into the entryway. "And you don't give the Summers girls too much trouble, you don't."
"Buffy, feel how soft," Dawn cooed, stroking the brown and grey fur.
"Don't wanna," she replied with a frown. She looked back over to the now empty doorway, meaning to ask again how long… "Where'd Spike go?"
"He left, Buff. Pay attention," her sister answered, scooping the surrendered feline lovingly into her arms.
Buffy tore out of the apartment and down the hall, trying to catch up with her fleeing neighbor. She could see his peroxide bleached locks bobbing down the staircase just as she was accosted by the pizza delivery kid.
"Hey, Ms. Summers."
"Hey, Oz."
Dawn had passed out around midnight, and the cat was alternating between hiding in the bathroom sink, and pacing back and forth in front of the front door, screaming. Buffy looked over at her sister in disgust. Kid could sleep through anything. She shoved the comforter off of her legs in frustration and shuffled to the living room. Dawn'd told her she was wearing her 'mom pajamas' – thick socks, sweatpants, and an old band tee shirt. She stole a look at herself in the hall mirror as she shoved her feet into her old brown boots. "I don't look like a mom," she muttered before grabbing her keys and heading out the door.
Having a key to the leasing office was a plus to being the owner's daughter. She'd worked summers and other school breaks answering phones and showing apartments when she was in high school and in her freshman year of college. They'd never made her give her key back.
Spike, she typed. No, won't find a leasing contract under the name Spike, she thought to herself as she sat in front of the leasing agent's computer.
William… William, what? I don't even know his last name. God, "Stranger Danger", Buffy. Learn to pick your friends better.
Finally, she remembered how to search contracts by apartment number. William Pratt, huh? She read through his references looking for an address but only came up with phone numbers. She wasn't calling anyone this late at night. But there was one more chance…
"Will," Buffy whisper-shouted into her roommate's darkened bedroom. "I'm going out for a little while. Dawnie's asleep but if she wakes up… Will?"
"Yeah… Dawn's goin' out. Wake you up in a little while… Have a good night, Buff. Drive safe." Willow slumped back into her pillows and fell back to sleep almost immediately.
"Willow, I don't drive," she chuckled to herself, closing the bedroom door on her friend's soft snoring.
S'not so bad, Spike thought to himself, punching the travel pillow and flipping over on the cot he'd set up behind the back bar. The restaurant didn't open until late tomorrow so he could get away with sleeping here at least the night. If he needed to, he could take up residence in the De Sotto for a few nights. He'd go back to the apartments in a few days to check on the cat and the girlies. With any luck, they'd've hit it off and he wouldn't have to keep feelin' bad about abandonin' the li'l monster to the Summers household.
He turned over again, casting his hand about for his mobile. Music was what he needed. He scrolled through his Spotify lists, looking for something in particular. That should put him to sleep.
He pantomimed drums as the song spun up, coming in perfectly in time with the vocals:
Yeah! And if your heart stops beating, I'll be here wondering, Did you get what you deserve? The ending of your life; And if you get to heaven, I'll be here waiting, babe; Did you get what you deserve? The end, and if your life won't wait, Then your heart can't take this; Have you heard the news that you're dead?
"What the bloody…?" Spike sat up abruptly, collapsing the cot, momentarily tangled in the ruin of metal and canvas. He heard the knock again and grabbed the pry bar from where he'd lain it on the floor next to his bed. Holding the bar behind his back he stood and moved closer to the door where the tapping was coming from.
The lights in the car park made it difficult for him to see out from the darkness of the dining room. He stopped about two foot short of the glass door and shouted at whoever was on the other side, "We're closed, mate! International house a' flapjacks 's down the road!"
He didn't hear an angry response, but he pretty well knew whoever was out there hadn't gone anywhere. "Ya heard me, yeah? Jog on!"
"Let me in, Spike."
He knew that bossy voice. Couldn't be… could it?
"It's cold," she whined.
Yep. That was her, alright. "Hang on a mi'nut!" he shouted back through the window as he pulled the master keys out of his jeans pocket.
The door opened and she breezed in like a little, blonde tornado.
"You were evicted!" she said, as he was preoccupied re-locking the door.
"Was not!" he argued back in his best ten-year-old fashion.
"What are you listening to?"
"MCR! And I wasn't evicted… I left before they could file proceedings."
"Technicality," Buffy huffed.
"What are you wearing, anyway?" he shot back, as if it were a crime to wear pajamas. Not that it was okay under normal circumstances but these were hardly normal…
"Clothes…" she answered, somewhat disarmed but his abrupt change of subject.
"You look ridiculous," he said, hoping to continue shifting her attention away from him.
"Yeah, well… y-you… look homeless."
No such luck with that tactic.
"What happened? Your lights shut off for non-payment and you were served an eviction notice for failure to maintain utilities to the premises?"
"How's the cat?" he asked, finally motioning her toward the back of the dining room where the music still played. He walked over to the industrial coffee machine and started warming it up.
"Loud. And skittish. I didn't know you had a cat." She took a seat on the opposite side of the bar from him. Come to think, it's where her sis'd sat when she pulled her stunt with the flask last month.
"Lot's you don't know 'bout me, Birdy." He tried not to let it sound as suggestive as it surely had in his head, but he failed miserably.
"About that. I have, like, loads upon hours upon lots of questions for you, and every time I think to ask one, you say something and there's, like, this whole other tangent of questions I have to deal with." It was cute the way she said it, and he couldn't suppress a smile. Didn't even try this time. Never thought he'd hold back a smile from this girl again.
"Such as?"
"What's numpty mean? Why do you go by Spike instead of William Pratt?" He raised his eyebrows at her use of his surname, but she kept on. "How come I didn't know you had a cat? Why are you defaulting on your bills? What kind of music do you like besides old school punk and MCR? Why do you have a crowbar with you? The international house of flapjacks? Are you serious? And, if I could offer you a place to stay… would you think about it?"
He turned round, jaw nearly draggin' the floor, and handed her a mug of black coffee.
"That is a lot of questions, Bets. What'd'you want me to answer first?"
"What's a numpty?" she reiterated from behind the rim of her coffee cup. He leaned forward, elbows on the countertop, and smiled, sheepishly.
"A numpty… is a sweet… idiot."
"Do you want a place to stay?"
"I couldn't… not with you an' Red. Be… way too crowded." He shook his head, thinking just how little space he could manage to take up in a full size bed.
"Not talkin' our place. A place," she amended.
"Lot better than the floor here or the De Sotto," he mused aloud. "A'right. If it's on the level."
"Oh, like this is?" Buffy snarked.
"Next question…"
"Why do you go by Spike instead of William?"
"Nope. Next."
"No fair!" she whined yet again. Beginning to sound like her little sis.
"Not yet. Next."
"Crowbar?"
"It's how I like to flip my flapjacks." He smiled deviously, watching her squirm a little in her seat.
"Okay, I'm not even going to ask for elaboration."
"Let's hurry this up. I wanna see my new digs!" She only stared at him in astonishment as he plowed ahead with her questions. "The cat is quite skittish. Stays under things when people come to the flat, which is… not often. I like… a lot of music. You shouldn't try to define my style. 'S eclectic. The finances question… that goes along with the name bit. I'll answer it, but later."
"One last go."
He nodded his agreement and she continued.
"Whats with all of the different names? Betty, Betsy, Bets, Birdy… and… Libby? What is with that?"
He started chuckling to himself. She probably didn't even realize. "Do you know where your name comes from?"
"Probably some old 'Baby Names A to Z' baby book." She shrugged dismissively.
"Buffy," he said, lowering his voice, his eyes sweeping over her sitting on the bar stool in that ridiculous outfit. "Is short for Elizabeth. You're named after a queen, Princess. And all of those other names…"
"Short for Elizabeth too…"
"That's right, Pet." He felt the tension from last weekend returning as he walked around the bar to stand in front of her. He needed to be careful there.
"I never knew my name was short for anything. When I was young… I always wanted a longer name so I could have a nickname… Can't really shorten Buffy too much."
He didn't say anything, instead standing quietly in front of her, looking down into those green eyes he was hoping to get to know better. She nudged his leg out of the way with an old boot and cleared her throat as she hopped down from the stool.
"Grab your crap, Lost Boy. You can drive me to your new crash pad… and then drive me home… and then drive yourself back… maybe I'll just get a cab home… But you need to pick up your cat…"
Something about her… he loved the way she rambled. He could listen for days.
"Posh."
Buffy raised an eyebrow as Spike walked around inspecting the house, careful not to touch too much for fear of… what? Breaking something.
"More Brit-speak?" she asked, following him through the house.
"Means stylishly luxurious." He stopped at the entrance to the back hallway to gaze up at a floor to ceiling portrait of an elegant young blond woman against a white background. He whistled. "That's not you." Point of fact.
"That's Tandy."
"New Mrs. Summers?" he asked knowingly.
"Ya think?"
"Least it's not Candy. Or Caramel."
Buffy nodded as they continued past the monstrous photograph and down the hallway.
"I can pay you. Not wha' it's worth stayin' here, but… bit a scratch a week." He turned back to see her shaking her head.
"No. You're going to do me another favor for it." She'd already been standing near to him, but now he stalked closer. One step, two, till he had backed her up into a closed off bedroom door.
"That so, Precious?" She nodded slowly. "And, uh… what's that then, Swee'heart?" He had his hands braced against the door on either side of her now. Just a few inches closer and he would be able to…
"Dawn," she said clearly, calmly.
"Where?" Spike jumped back quick as you please rather than be caught by the Bit feelin' up her sister. He turned back as he heard a giggle escape Buffy's beautiful, pink lips.
"She's not here. But she will be tomorrow." She was still smiling at his apparent confusion as to why she'd bring up the little sis now. "She's not staying with me during the week. Thinks she's too old for a babysitter. She insists she can stay here alone even while Dad's in Europe, but…"
"But, she's got a track record," Spike completed her thought, catching on.
"Yeah. Big Sister can't keep an eye on her, but you… You, she thinks, are cool."
"So, I'm the undercover nanny?"
"Or you could pay me."
"You know I work nights?"
"I'm hopping, see, that she'll be so excited about keeping the secret that I'm giving you room and board at our Dad's place, that she won't feel the need to go wandering after dark for a while."
"Well," he said appraisingly as he pushed open a different bedroom door. "It ain't the Ritz, but… not too shabby, all in all." The room was all purples and sparkly blues, pictures of Buffy and Dawn and other youngsters pinned up here and there. He took a leap and landed in the middle of the most overstuffed bed he'd ever lain eyes on. "Did you ever sneak boys into your bedroom at night when you were young, Bets?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly and motioned for her to join him.
"I might have," she said as she turned to walk back down the hallway. "But that's Dawnie's bed." That had him jumping up faster than her last scare tactic had gotten to him. He hurried to smooth the covers and follow her out of the room.
"So where's young Buffy's old room, then?"
"In a different house, with a new family, being lived in by a different girl." She didn't hide the sadness from her voice. She and Dawn had moved to this town with their mom when her parents got divorced. Her dad had only followed after their mother had passed away. She didn't wanna go into it right now. He must have sensed that – or he was just particularly dense, but she doubted that – because he skipped right over that topic in favor of more insinuation.
"So… If you haven't got a room here, where's Old Spike sposed to sleep?"
"You can sleep on the floor for all I care, as long as you stay away from Dawnie's room."
"Hey… now. What makes you think that kinda warnin's called for?" He wasn't faking his offense and it made Buffy feel a little sorry she'd gone there. Even if she was just giving him a hard time.
"I didn't mean… Spike. I'm sorry."
They had made it back into the kitchen of the large house – dark cupboards, white countertops, and gleaming steel appliances. Spike paced around the large kitchen island, trying to pull off quiet and brooding, and doing a crap job of it. A smile had started the moment the word 'sorry' began forming on those perfect lips.
"What I wouldn't give to cook in a kitchen like this…" he said, deciding to change the subject.
"You cook?"
"My culinary skills are unparalleled."
"Tell you what… you can…" She stopped mid-sentence, frowning and reaching under her tee shirt to grab at what looked like a pager. She pushed a few buttons and tucked it back beneath her shirt. "You can destroy this kitchen with your culinary skills." She forced a smile as he turned his pacing around the island into stalking her around the island.
"Wha's that?" He asked, smiling deviously.
"What's what?" Play dumb, Buffy, she thought to herself.
"That… thing. What you got stickin' down your trousers." He managed to maneuver her into a corner between the cupboards and the industrial sized fridge.
"I, uh… Dawnie's alone at the apartment. I gotta get back." When in doubt, avoidance is always an option.
"Red's there." He had her pinned in with his arms thrust out to either side, like before, in the hall. "Wouldn't a left her 'lone otherwise."
"Yeah. You know me so well." A good defense is the best offense.
"I'm tryin' to," he replied softly, not a hint of humor or sarcasm evident in his voice.
"Well, don't." She managed to put more force into the command than she felt.
Without warning, Spikes palm slapped hard against the fridge door next to her. He stepped back a pace and Buffy moved away, toward the entry hall. His voice stopped her before she could reach the door.
"Where you gonna run to this time, Summers? Huh?" He knew she didn't drive, and it would be at least a quarter hour before she could get a cab out here to take her home. "You blow hot one minute, then cold the next. What's that supposed'a mean to a bloke?" She still had her back to him, but she wasn't trying to walk out the door anymore.
They each stood their ground, quiet surrounding them like a fog. Then he watched her shoulders drop, almost with relief. Still she didn't turn round, but he took it as encouragement to step closer. Approaching her like a skittish colt, he settled his hands on her shoulders and stood close, mimicking the night in his apartment, helping to light the candles.
She reached her right hand up and grabbed his off of her shoulder. Turning back to the living room, she guided him to the couch.
"Buffy…"
"You really wanna know?" He nodded silently, following her further into the room. "Freaks some people out," she warned.
"Not goin' anywhere," he answered as he sat indian-style on the leather ottoman, mirroring her posture from her seat on the sofa. He watched her sigh and, slowly, lift her tee shirt away from her belly. Clipped to the waist of her sweats was the pager looking device, with clear tubing leading to a circular patch of tape next to her belly button. "Wha's it?"
"This is… Well, Dawn calls him Wilford. I call him my insulin pump." She looked up at the blonde man sitting across from her. A blank look had settled over his features. "Sometimes I call him an asshole. Also a piece of crap electronic nightmare. An amazing medical and technological advancement. Depends on the day." Still he didn't say anything, staring, unblinking at her stomach. "Ever seen 'Steel Magnolias'?" God, she hated explaining this part – See normal people have what's called a functional Endocrine System. En-doh-krin.
"Not daft, am I?" Spike finally spoke, moving his gaze up from that flat little tummy, to those beautiful green eyes he could drown in. "Know what the beetus is. Good on the Niblet for the clever nickname, by the way."
"She thought so," Buffy grinned, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "So… No running? No screaming?"
"Not goin' anywhere, Pet," he repeated his statement from earlier. And, for some reason she didn't understand, she believed him.
Before he could ask anything else, she had shifted from her seat on the sofa, to a seat in his lap, facing him, her legs draped to either side of his torso. She rested her fingers against his cheekbones, searching his eyes for some sign that she was wrong to believe he would stay. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized he was examining her in much the same way.
Gently, carefully, he slipped his hand beneath her top, tracing the circular patch of tape with his fingertips. "Not gonna scare you away again, is this?" He couldn't help the gruffness of his voice, not with the way she was looking at him.
"Nope."
"Someplace else we should take this party, Gorgeous?"
She dipped her nose down to brush against the tip of his and Spike moved his hands around to circle her waist, being careful to avoid pulling the tubing. "Follow me," she purred.
"No. Not lettin' you out of my grasp."
Buffy giggled, squirming out of his hold anyway and motioning for him to follow her.
In a room a few doors down from the Niblet's, Buffy indicated that he should have a seat on the bed. She stood at the edge of the mattress, her feet on the floor between his, her thighs between his knees. She leaned forward and began working the buttons of his jeans open. He trailed his hands up and down her arms, watching her concentrating on undressing him. When his jeans lay open, low on his hips, she moved on to his shirt, pulling the soft fabric up his torso, waiting for him to raise his arms so that she could do away with it altogether.
When she turned – just half a turn – to throw the tee shirt into the corner, he took the opportunity to grab at her hips and flip her onto the bed, eliciting a throaty, sexy giggle from her.
"My turn to be on top, Pet. My reward. My rules."
"Reward?"
"That's right. Lots of patience and self-control it took to get you here. Think I earned it." The grin that spread across his face told her he was only joking a little bit. She realized that, aside from her reservations about sharing her illness with him, she really had been playing hard to get. At least a little. Okay, a lot.
She decided to let go, if only for a minute, and sighed at the feel of his lips against her collarbone. While his mouth explored the expanse of her neck, his hands made progress with the hair tie tangled in her golden locks. Buffy hummed low in the back of her throat as his hands moved through her hair in a soothing rhythm.
"Buffy."
"Hmm," she nearly sang, her eyes closed and a look of warm happiness covering her face.
He stopped is ministrations, moving his fingers to brush a lock of fallen hair out of the way of her delicately closed eyes. "Buffy… Love," he said, softly trying to pull her back to the surface. She opened her eyes and he could see her pupils were dilated. So big that her green irises almost looked back. Contentment. That was the look in her eyes. "Gonna need your help here, Love. Not sure what to do… with…"
"You're joking…" she whispered in shock.
"No, no! Not…! I know what to do! With the… What do we do with… Wilford?"
A relieved look passed over her face and she smiled, reaching down to the machine and tubing at her waist. She twisted her wrist and he heard a click. A small button over the circular patch of tape disconnected the tube from her tummy and she wrapped the excess around the pump, setting it down on the table next to the bed.
"Wilford will be fine," she smiled, reaching up to pull him down to her mouth once more.
He didn't feel as tho' he'd been sleepin' long by the time his eyes started to itch open. And itch was a good word for it. His eyes felt heavy and sticky and dry all at the same time. God but Spike didn't remember fallin' asleep. He must've done quick though, cause he remembered the… and that one thing with her hips, and… yeah, knocked him straight out. Must've done. He cracked his eyes open and tried turning over in the too soft bed – downy like a bleedin' hotel bed – but he was tangled in something. Sheets and… Arms. Legs. A smile spread over his face when he realized she'd not gotten up and run yet.
Careful as he could, he twisted out of sheets and arms and made his way cross the room to the en suite. The tile was cold and he desperately wanted to climb back into the bundle of blankets with the girl, but… there needed to be some cleanin' up done. A few moments later he emerged to see his golden girl stretching under the blankets like a cat.
His girl.
"What are you grinning at?" Buffy asked, her voice hoarse with sleep.
"The fact that you're still 'ere, Love." He tried to temper the look on his face as he returned to the bed and climbed in next to her. "For now, least."
"At least?"
"Where's Wilford?" he asked, leaning down to the floor and searching through his jeans pockets for a fag. He found one and sat back against the pillows with his zippo, only to have both snatched away by a little, angry hand.
"No. Smoking. In the. House."
"So, where's he?" he asked, rolling his eyes, but otherwise choosing to ignore the reprimand. After all, was her sodding house.
She raised her eyebrow in a smart expression, but reached beneath the covers beside her and pulled the little piece of machinery out to show him.
"Hello, Mr. Brimley," Spike teased with a little wave. He thought he saw a flash of anger cross her face, then disappear.
"I showed you mine…" she purred. "Show me yours."
Spike lifted the sheet, glancing beneath it, then pointedly looking back at Buffy. "Sure you've seen it already, Love. Wouldn't mind showin' you again though." He let himself grin again, like the cat that ate the cannery and got away with it – and was about to do it again.
"I told you my secret," she answered back, a little angrily now. "Now answer my questions."
"Don't recall makin' any deals as to when, Pet."
"And I didn't realize we had to make any deals to get the truth out of each other." She tried to untangle herself in a hurry and failed utterly. Her frustration mounted as he grabbed her arms, pinning her back to the bed.
"Oh, no. Can't have it both ways," he cautioned. "Can't tell me I owe you answers, then claim not to need to make any kind a deals to get 'em. Dun't work like that."
"Let. Go."
"But, I'll tell ya anyway." He whispered, trying to keep the anger out of his eyes. He wasn't angry at her – well, maybe for makin' him tell her. But he was angry. He was always angry. "My bills… My sodding bills. Money goes to a private hospital in Berkeley. And my name…"
He had her full attention now and he didn't even notice. She wasn't upset any longer, watching the absolute retched look settle over his face. He really didn't want to talk about this. As she was thinking that she would tell him he didn't have to, it occurred to her… she really hadn't wanted to share 'Wilford' with him, either. She let him go on.
"Well, William Pratt was a real privileged, self-sodding-insulated, …twat. That was a name that I didn't – I don't – identify with… anymore." This was bloody well harder than he'd reckoned. Fuck.
He realized, the girl had stopped struggling against him some time ago, and pulled back gently. She didn't say anything for a while. Slowly, almost cautiously, he brought his gaze back to meet hers.
"Where did you come up with 'Spike'?" she finally asked, brushing some of the wet from his cheeks. Hadn't realized he'd been cryin' till then.
"When my sister was seventeen," he began, eliciting a small gasp of surprise from Buffy. Better plough ahead, else he'd never finish. "She left home for UCLA – full academic ride and whatnot. Things were good – not great, but good. I followed her to Calli – my job to protect her an' all that. Got a job. University was never my road." Leaning back on an elbow now, he felt himself relaxing, stroking his fingertips through her liquid gold curls. This was better. He should talk about it. S'what the doctors told him. "Then when she was nineteen, things started bein'… not so good. Pretty soon she wasn't able to… school wasn't…"
"You want some tea?" Buffy asked, uncomfortable watching him struggle to talk now. "My mom's friend from her job as a curator, Giles, he's British and he tells me I couldn't make tea to avert the apocalypse, but…" She was rambling and she knew it, trailing off as Spike shook his head with a sad smile on his face.
"They call it schizoaffective disorder. It will last her the rest of her life. She doesn't know what's real anymore, and… I-I'm the only one she trusts." He could hear voice inside her head, The moon started whispering to me, all sorts of dreadful things, my sweet Spike. "Spike. She started callin' me that the first time I left her in that place. She's been there five years now."
"What's her name?" Buffy asked after what seamed like an insurmountable expanse of silence had happened.
"Drusilla. Dru…"
Buffy didn't know when they had fallen asleep again, but it was way past time they wake up. She needed to get home, and… Dawn! She sat up so quickly her head started swimming almost immediately. The motion shook the bed and woke the man sleeping next to her and he sat up grabbing for her.
"You alright, Pet?"
"What time is it?"
Spike cast about on the floor in his pile of discarded clothing, searching for his mobile. "Looks like… 'leven thirty," he answered, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand. "What's wrong? Come here, you're shakin'." She shrugged him off as he tried to pull her to him and his warmth. Always seemed to be shiverin', that one.
"I'm fine. I have to get home. Can you drive me?" she asked, stumbling to her feet. She took a step, then another, then toppled.
"Not fine." Spike jumped up from the bed and quickly crouched next to the heap of a girl on the floor, just as an ear-splitting alarm started screaming out of the pump she held in her hand. Before he realized where the noise was coming from, it struck him that they were both still naked, and in no state for police to come barging in on them.
"That's my… alarm," she gulped, trying to stand, then quickly sitting back down. Spike had the little machine out of her hand and was scrolling through the display on the front. Low BG Detected. "I'll get juice," she said.
"You'll stay there," he retorted, sternly, leaving the room quickly.
He'd never been so happy for a well laid out kitchen before. And glass front cupboards. That was convenient looking for the glasses. He was making his way back across to the fridge in search of juice when he heard a gasp from behind him.
"Ohmigod. Naked intruder. There's… I-I have mace!"
Spike turned around to see Dawn standing in the open front doorway, one hand over her eyes, the other shoved out in front of her, trigger on the button of a keychain can of pepper spray. Half a second later, Red walked in behind her.
"Oh. Oh! …Oh," she exclaimed, covering Dawn's eyes and hand with her own.
Twenty minutes later, Buffy sat on the leather sofa, dressed in her mom pajamas, eating a cookie after having already drank a glass of O.J. Spike was in the kitchen with Willow, organizing something for everyone to eat that could actually be called a meal.
"So?"
"So…?" Buffy asked her sister, still a little irritable from the low blood sugar situation earlier.
"How was it?"
"Not firing on all cylinders here, Dawnie." Truly, Buffy was just hoping her little sister would be too embarrassed to say it out loud.
"How was the sex?"
Not embarrassed at all.
"I got a cookie."
Spike smiled over his shoulder at the sisters sat next to each other on the couch. The Niblet had already planned out the next full week of movie watching in the afternoons before his shifts started. One was a barely contained ball of energy and the other was deadly, deliberate desire. He could get used to hangin' around with them.
"So-so long as you know," the roomie was sayin'. "That Buffy is my best friend, so that means that I'm legally obligated to…"
"Don't wanna hurt her, Red. Just wanna fix her lunch."
"Good, because, I am Willow. I am Death. If you dare defy me, I will call down my fury, exact fresh vengeance, and make your worst fears come true! Okay?"
Buffy Looked at her friend standing in the kitchen, defending her honor. Then a furry thing with claws landed in her lap. "Ow!" Spike turned his head, quickly to see why cries of pain were emanating from the living room.
"Oi! Andrew!" The cat cowered in Buffy's lap, instantly curling into a ball and sending up a loud, innocent pur. "Tha's better."
"Andrew?" all three females exclaimed in surprise.
"I've been calling him 'kitty girl'," Willow added, feeling a little guilty about the gender faux pas.
"Yeah, he's an annoyin' little puffter. Can't get rid of him, though. Just keeps bloody comin' back."
Fin