Spike,
I wanted to say I'm sorry. You probably won't believe me, but I didn't want to take the ring from you. I couldn't let you keep it, but… I just wanted you to know.
I have a… proposal for you. Call it another truce. Something I think might work for both of us. I'll be at the Bronze tomorrow night until midnight. If you think you can stop talking long enough to listen for a minute, come find me.
Spike had read the note half a dozen times, more than a little convinced that being drunk was causing him to hallucinate, see and smell things that weren't really there, but when he woke up the next day in the early afternoon, the letter was just the same. She hadn't signed it, but there was no doubt that it was from her. Even if he couldn't smell her all over the paper, the tone of the message was utterly her; confident as she stated a fact, then turning right around to show confusion and doubt in her own motives. Those last two lines especially were quintessential Buffy, mocking him, demanding something of him even though she didn't actually spell it out, wouldn't actually ask.
But what did she want? To say he was intrigued was an understatement. She could've killed him a few days ago, but she hadn't really been trying to, hadn't been giving it her all. The fear in her voice when he had cautioned her that he would burn if she took the ring had thrown him, and now she was apologizing on top of it. What was her game?! What kind of proposal could she possibly have that would benefit them both?
Climbing off of his sleeping sarcophagus, Spike tugged on his jeans and stuffed his feet into his docs before tracing exploratory fingers over the left side of his face. He'd gotten singed pretty badly before he'd gotten to the safety of the caves up on the bluff, and the skin along his cheek and hairline was cracked and painful. Spike grimaced, reminded of the time a few years ago when the Slayer had put him in a wheelchair with his hand, his arm, and half of his face blistered and burned away.
It was probably a trap. Almost certainly a trap. But he couldn't imagine how, what with her meeting him in the Bronze. The club would be packed with people; teenagers, adults, security. It was an inconvenient place for a showdown. So what? Was she going to warn him away, give him an ultimatum? Get out of town or else? He scoffed. Fat chance, that. He didn't take orders from anybody, let alone the likes of her.
In a fit of anger, Spike lashed out, pitching the bottle of whiskey she had left against the wall. The glass shattered, sending shards skittering across the stone floor as the alcohol ran down the wall and puddled near the door. Growling in frustration, he rolled his eyes, consciously collecting his thoughts. Bloody waste of good whiskey, that. Best to get himself together before he did something he would really regret, like stomp a pack of cigarettes into the dirt. Speaking of…
Spike pulled a fag from his pocket and lit up, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs to calm himself. So. Not a trap then. So what? Even if the Slayer actually meant what she said, that she really was sorry, why had she admitted it? Pity, commiseration, was a weakness, something he could use against her. What the hell was she doing, exposing that to him, her greatest enemy? There was something dodgy about this whole thing, that much was certain. No doubt his curiosity would get him killed, but Spike was no coward either. He would be at the Bronze tonight, and he would get to the bottom of this mess if he had to choke it out of her.
In a darkened alcove at the back of the Bronze, Buffy sat on a high stool along the wall, nervously drumming her fingers on the sticky table top. She had arrived at around ten thirty and had immediately ordered a drink, trying to calm the nerves that were raging in her belly, but the alcohol hadn't helped. Now she nursed a watery coke, the ice long melted by the heat of her hand through the red plastic cup.
Glancing at the clock, Buffy frowned. Eleven fifty-five. Unconsciously, her hand snuck down to the edge of her right boot where it rested on the bar of her stool. Earlier that night, she had braided the Gem of Amara into a string bracelet and tied it around her ankle, safely hidden from sight by the hem of her jeans. Realizing what she was doing, she covered the movement by tugging up the edge of her boot.
"Hands where I can see 'em Slayer," a voice purred in her ear. "Was led to believe this was a business meeting, an' stakin's more of a pleasure for you innit?"
Buffy jumped, spinning around on her stool. The clamor of the band banging away on stage and the loud murmur and rapid movement of the crowd had masked his approach, and she suddenly felt like she'd lost a distinct advantage. Glaring at Spike as he moved around the table, she crossed her arms over her chest.
"Cutting it close aren't you?"
"Two minutes till midnight Slayer," he said, hopping onto the stool across from her. "Far as I'm concerned, I made your deadline."
Spike faced her with a wary gaze, and for the briefest moment his face was illuminated by the white flash of the club's strobe lights. Buffy gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. The side of his face was badly burned, the skin red and angry along the edge, a consequence of his little run in the sun. He narrowed his eyes at her reaction, forcing her to drop her hand and sit up a little straighter.
"That bad Slayer?" he asked. "Ruin my pretty face?"
"No." The reply was automatic if sincere, and almost immediately regretted, a blush flooding her cheeks as Spike smirked, scarred eyebrow raised. "It's just… I didn't mean for you to get hurt. Sorta my fault."
"Damn right it is," he scoffed, leaning back in his seat and propping a boot up on the bar beneath the table.
"I feel bad enough without you rubbing it in, thanks," Buffy mumbled sullenly.
Spike eyed her out the side of his head, his stare lingering on her neck. "How bad?" he asked softly, tongue curling behind his teeth.
"Not nearly that bad!" she snapped.
Spike rolled his eyes. "Gave me a good second degree here Slayer," he said, running a finger over his eyebrow along the edge of the burn. "Least you could do is give me one little drink."
"I left you a whole bottle of them if memory serves."
Spike shifted on his stool, eyes roaming the crowd of dancers in front of them. "Yeah, well. That one met with a rather unfortunate end."
"Fine," Buffy sighed, exasperated. Spike's head whipped around, his eyes boring into her. "One little drink."
Hopping down from the stool, Buffy left him at the table, pushing her way through the crowd that filled the dance floor. She had caught a flash of something in the vampire's eyes before she had turned away, something more than the bloodlust. Something that had looked like a disturbing combination of shock, hope, and fear. She could feel those same eyes on her back as she reached the bar, a shiver tripping down her spine.
How did I lose control of this? She wondered as she ordered a coke with a whiskey back, a ten dollar bill in her fist. Stepping into the Bronze she had been nervous, true, but she had still felt like she was the one holding the reins. That feeling had left the building the moment Spike had arrived. What was she thinking anyways? Even if he agreed to her plan (and why would he?), was it really something that she wanted to be responsible for? Her friends and her Watcher would crucify her if they found out.
"Seven bucks."
For the second time that night, Buffy jumped. "What?"
"Seven bucks!" the guy behind the bar demanded, pushing two glasses towards her; one of coke, one of whiskey.
Frowning at his tone, Buffy stuffed the ten back in her pocket, instead counting out seven ones onto the counter. Jerk. Grabbing her drinks, she tossed the bartender a sugary smile and headed back to her table. She half expected Spike to be gone, but the bleached glow of his hair assured her he was still there. Clunking the glass of whiskey down in front of him, she took a gulp of her soda before realizing that he was smirking at her.
"What?!" she snapped, her plastic cup crackling in her grip.
"What'd the berk say?" he asked over the edge of his glass, taking a sip of the amber liquid.
She cocked an eyebrow in question.
"That smile was sweet enough to give you a cavity pet," he chuckled. "What'd he say? Offend your fashion sense"
"What's to offend?" she asked, looking down at her sparkly pink top. Spike shrugged, waiting for her answer. "He was rude," Buffy said primly, smoothing the denim over her knees.
"Want me to flash him?" Spike asked suddenly, raising his upper lip to give her a glimpse of teeth grown long and sharp.
Caught off guard, Buffy looked at him with surprise on her face, further confused when the vampire looked quickly down at the table, as though he were ashamed of his offer. Just as fast, he gathered his confidence back up again, finishing off the last of his drink in one go. Buffy watched, strangely entranced by the click of his teeth as he rested them on the rim of his glass, the view of his pale throat as he tipped his head back, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. The clunk of the glass on the table brought her back to attention, her staring apparently unnoticed. Thank God for small favors.
"Um, no thanks," she said, turning her own cup in her hands. "I already stiffed him, so..."
Spike chuckled at her choice of words, but quickly reigned in his mirth when Buffy tossed him a look.
"So," he said, his tone carefully bored and uninterested. "Wha'da ya got for me Slayer?"
