-Thursday, October 3rd. 3:15pm-
Dawn sighed into the phone, sounding annoyed with the conversation already as she said, "You had one bad interview, Buffy. It isn't the end of the world."
"Two," Buffy corrected her sister, tone flat, shoving her way into the apartment and letting the heavy door slam shut behind her. She tossed her keys on the counter and kicked off her heels, heading for the bedroom. "Two bad interviews."
Two bad interviews in the span of the two weeks she'd actually been interviewing, which didn't even account for the full week and a half before that when she'd been searching for jobs nearby to apply for. For positions she even partially qualified to apply for. It had been the longest month in the history of months, and she was nowhere closer to finding a new job now than she'd been the day she marched herself into Spike's office and handed him her letter of resignation.
The actual quitting part hadn't been as bad as she'd expected, though the explaining why she'd done the quitting to Cordelia and Xander proved to be a little difficult.
She'd told them the truth, seeing as there hadn't been much point or purpose in hiding it anymore. Neither one of them had seemed all that surprised, which Buffy had chosen not to think too much about.
It didn't matter now, anyway.
On the other line, her little sister sighed again. "And what about these interviews exactly was so bad?"
Buffy frowned at the phone as she pulled it away from her ear and put it on speaker, setting it on her bedside table as she thought it over. It was a good question, an easy question, but she was having a hard time putting her finger on the correct answer.
"I don't know," she muttered finally, starting to pull her blouse free from the waistline of her skirt. "I just..I got so nervous, Dawn. I never used to get nervous during interviews. I was speechless. No," she amended, her voice muffled as she yanked the silky blouse over her head and tossed it on the bed, "not speechless, because I was definitely making some kind of noise with my mouth. I was….wordless. I was stumbling over everything and forgetting answers to questions I've answered a million times. And if I was this nervous during these interviews, how nervous am I going to be when I'm sitting across from people who don't owe Spike favors?" Buffy finished wiggling out of her skirt and dropped it, letting it fall to a pool around her feet. Stepping out of it, she paused, choked a half-laugh and bent down to snatch it off the ground, adding, "If I even can get an interview with someone who doesn't owe Spike a favor."
"You will," Dawn assured her, the creaking of her dorm room's ancient mattress springs sounding over the line. "There have to be people that owe Henry favors, too."
Buffy rolled her eyes, casting her cell phone a sidelong glance as she turned and tossed her skirt to the bed beside her top.
"Your loving sisterly mockage aside, this is serious," she muttered, turning and stepping to her dresser. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a pair of red leather pants she'd sort of been hoping would never see the light of day again. "I don't know what I'm gonna do if I can't find another publishing job nearby."
Or rather she did know, she just wasn't ready to start giving that option any kind of real thought yet. Not with things the way they currently were. Not yet. Not now.
"Have you talked to Spike about it?" Dawn asked, sounding like she still thought her older sister was being a little dramatic.
"No." Buffy located the torn t-shirt she'd been looking for and pulled it out, pushing the top drawer shut. "He's been busy." At the flat, stony silence on the other end of the line, she added, "With trying to get everything wrapped up at Pratt, and dealing with Lilah and Cecily, and Cecily's lawyers, and his family, and the...copious amounts of paperwork." A pause. "Busy."
The dorm bed's mattress creaked again.
More silence.
Then the younger Summers asked, "How long has he been busy for?"
Fully dressed now, Buffy spun around and sat down on the bed, falling backward until her head hit the pillow.
She sighed, "I haven't seen him since Sunday."
It was true. She'd talked to him every day but she hadn't seen him, physically seen him, since Sunday night when they'd gone over to Henry's to have dinner with him and Drusilla. It was the longest they'd gone without physically being together since...well, being together. A measly four days. It might as well have been weeks.
And as much as she understood why she hadn't been able to see him, or as much as she wanted to understand, it was starting to bug. And weigh. And all the things it tends to do when you can't be around the person you constantly crave being around.
She'd wanted a little space, sure, but this was ridiculous.
On the other end of the line, Dawn gave a long, low whistle.
Buffy sighed again. "Yeah."
"Will you see him this weekend?"
"Tomorrow," Buffy answered, her forearm up and thrown over her closed eyes. "Maybe. He has some big, awful meeting with the lawyers today and I have my first 'real' shift at work tonight, so...maybe tomorrow."
Her little sister sounded suddenly sad. "Are you okay?"
"What?" Buffy asked, lifting her arm and opening her eyes in an instant. "Yeah, of course. Totally. It's just been a long week, you know, with the new job and the training and the Faith." She grimaced and pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Sort of...constant Faith."
"And no Spike," Dawn murmured, understanding.
"Exactly," Buffy agreed, sitting all the way up, glancing toward her bedside table. "But I'll see him this weekend, so who's complaining? Not me. Besides, isn't this normal?" She reached out and touched a finger to the edge of the pretty new picture frame on her bedside table, angling it toward her. "Sort of your average, every day dating. Most dating people don't work together like we did or see each other all day, every day. Or even every other day." She was working at convincing herself as much as anything else as she added, "Some even go weeks."
Her little sister chuckled. "Doesn't mean you have to like it."
Buffy smiled down at the phone, wondering when exactly her little sister had gotten so smart.
"Yeah, well, I don't. But it's good for us, I think. Doing the 'normal' thing." She swiped her thumb over the glass in the new frame, sitting beside and just slightly behind the photo of her sister and mom. A candid shot Drusilla had taken a few weeks ago. Buffy and Spike looking at each other; eyes bright, heads tilted, laughing. She smiled. "It makes it all feel real."
She knew how insane it probably sounded.
"More real than him divorcing his wife and leaving his company for you?"
And apparently so did Dawn.
The older girl wrinkled her nose up, lips twitching upward. "Weirdly, yeah?"
Dawn seemed to think about that for a moment.
Then, "That makes no sense."
Buffy had to agree.
She couldn't put her finger on why the normal, everyday stuff seemed to make their relationship feel so much more tangible than everything else had. It wasn't like she thought the big stuff didn't matter. Of course it mattered. The big stuff was big, and important. Necessary. Very...grand gesture-y.
But lately it had been the little things.
The way he looked at her after they hadn't seen each other for a couple days. The subtle but unmistakable use of the word "we" when talking to his family about their upcoming plans. The phone calls he made to her on his way home from work; having to ask each other about their days because they actually had different days to talk about and different things to share. The looks on both their faces in that single, candid snapshot.
The way he'd kissed her outside of her apartment building last weekend. Broad daylight, out in the open. For anyone to see.
The not hiding, that was the biggest little thing of all.
Not hiding felt good.
Not hiding was worth the subtle ache she felt in her chest when she started to miss him, because the missing him was temporary.
The not hiding was forever.
-Thursday, October 3rd. 7:45pm-
Buffy liked the bar for the most part.
She'd liked it ever since she first gone to visit Faith there. She liked the smokey atmosphere and the boisterous patrons, the torn red leather on the pub chairs, the colored glass in the low hanging light fixtures. And even though it had only been a week since she'd started, she liked working there, too. She'd already gotten to know a few of the regulars, the tips were surprisingly great, and both Faith and Lindsey were easy people to work with. For.
Technically, Faith was her boss.
But all in all, she could have done a lot worse in the way of part-time jobs.
Something she was having to remind herself a little more than normal as she wiped down a particularly sticky table.
She was bent over the grainy wood, one hand braced on the edge she'd already cleaned to keep her balanced while the other scraped the wet rag back and forth over the sticky brown residue—what had once been a whiskey and coke—when she heard it. Heavy booted footsteps on the ground just behind her, and then a voice.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."
Buffy dropped the rag and whirled around.
There, with his back against a support beam and his arms crossed, looking long and lean in his black button down and black jeans, was Spike. Eyes bright and bleached hair spiked, he held his chin thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger—each one decked in silver rings—and grinned at her.
"Hey, pet."
She launched herself at him.
He caught her but just barely, laughing against her lips as she crushed them against his. He kissed her back once, then once again as she pulled away, sliding her hands down from the back of his neck to the open lapels of his button down. She curled her fingers into the fabric there and leaned against him.
Grinning, she asked, "What are you doing here?"
Spike cocked his head to the side. "Surprised to see me?"
"Hence the question," Buffy replied, too pleased and excited and plain relieved to see him that she didn't even bother to roll her eyes.
"Happy to see me?" He persisted, placing his hands on her hips and raising both brows expectantly.
"Hence the kiss." She let go of one lapel to reach up and wipe the corner of his mouth with her thumb, removing the lipstick stain she'd left there. Then she frowned. "But really, what are you doing here? I thought I wouldn't see you 'til tomorrow."
Because he'd told her that. That he probably wouldn't be able to see her until Friday because his meeting with the lawyers was supposed to go so late tonight. Buffy frowned deeper and tried to read his expression, wondering what it might mean that it clearly hadn't gone as late as he'd expected.
But Spike just shrugged like it wasn't any big deal and told her, "Wanted to surprise you."
Buffy gave him a small disbelieving look and dropped both hands away from his shirt.
"That's all?" she pressed. Her eyes were still fixed on his, reading his face.
He must have known she was worried because he shifted and leaned toward her, lowering his voice to a gravelly purr.
"What," he teased, breezing past the concern on her face and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "A fella can't stop by unannounced and visit the love of his life at her new place of business?"
Buffy did roll her eyes now.
And that so wasn't all.
Irked that he was obviously keeping something from her, she shook her head and turned her back on him.
"A fella can do whatever he wants," she said, focusing once again on her sticky table. She picked up the rag and started scrubbing again.
From behind her, Spike chuckled once like he knew what she was doing, probably rolling his eyes as well.
"C'mon now, Buffy, I just wanted to see you. Is that so wrong?" he asked. Then, his voice closer, a little huskier now, "And I may happen to have a bartender fantasy that you are playin' right into."
Buffy ignored the flutter his words stirred in her stomach.
"Of course you do," she muttered instead, but her voice was all breathy.
Spike's hand found the low curve of her hip. "Raided Faith's closet I see."
She paused for just a second to enjoy the heat of his palm through the leather.
Then she smacked his hand away and turned back around.
"Believe it or not, no." Dropping the wet rag into her soapy water bucket, she gave him a saccharine smile. "These are mine."
Spike's nostrils flared. "Are they now?"
Another eye roll.
"Don't get any ideas," Buffy scolded, giving him a hard look even though she was sort of loving the lusty way he was staring at her now.
"Oh, but I have lots of them," he murmured, inching closer to her. Half boxing her in, he knew as well as she did that they were out of view of the main bar area, toward the back of the room and in close proximity to the stage.
"I'm sure," she breezed, smirking as she skirted around him. "And all likely centering around the idea of sex on a bar-height counter."
Spike's voice grew sultry as he followed her. "Now that you mention it."
She set her bucket down on top of the next empty table even though she'd already cleaned it. Pulling the rag out again she began wiping it down. Pretended not to be painfully aware of the bleached blonde hovering behind her or the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck.
He was enjoying this miniature version of cat and mouse they were playing as much as she was.
A long moment later and he'd moved in front of her, his hand covering hers and stilling the movement of the rag completely. She glanced up at him to find all traces of humor and wry, sparking sexuality gone, replaced by something so soft and so sweet that it nearly took her breath away.
She felt and watched as his eyes raked over her body one last time before finally settling on her face, and he leaned toward her.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, he told her, "All false brazenness aside, you look beautiful." He exhaled through his nose. "God, it's good to see you."
Everything in Buffy softened under his gaze. "You, too."
A long beat passed.
Then Spike suddenly stepped toward her, using his body to shield hers from the view of the bar. Not touching her, not quite, but close enough that Buffy could feel the thrum of his heartbeat and the heat of his bare forearms on either side of her as she looked up into his face.
Oh, hey again butterflies.
"What time are you off tonight?" he whispered.
She blushed and smiled."Eleven."
Spike checked his watch and growled. "Bloody hell."
Buffy laughed.
"It's only three more hours," she told him, smiling wider.
He looked up at her and dead panned, "The Grand Canyon's only a crevice."
It was getting harder and harder to pretend that his insistence on spending time with her was bugging.
She tried anyway.
"Drama queen," she muttered, swiping her rag over the table one last time before dropping it in the bucket and setting it aside again; enjoying the grumpy expression and furrowed brow on her boyfriend's handsome face maybe a little too much in the process.
Spike frowned, pouting.
It shouldn't have worked as well as it did.
"Hey now, I've missed you. And I know you've missed me." Sensing her hesitance, he bit down on the swell of his lip and arched a brow. "You sure you can't duck out early?"
She stared back at him for a moment, biting her own lip. She wanted to. She really, really wanted to. And the sexy smolder in his voice and the gleam in his eye so wasn't helping with the really, really wanting to.
But she couldn't. Even though it had been days...days...and even though the thought of slipping into a cab and heading straight back to her apartment sounded like the most brilliant idea in the history of all the ideas, she knew she couldn't.
"On my first night?" She shook her head and placed her palm on his chest, scooting him to the side so she could step around. "Yeah, that'll go over real well with my shift manager."
Spike frowned genuinely and moved to follow her, narrowing his eyes. "Who's...also your roommate?"
"So?" Buffy asked over her shoulder, stopping to greet one of the bar's regulars that she'd met earlier in the week as she went. "Responsibilities are responsibilities."
She heard him bark a bright laugh from behind her and knew instantly she'd chosen the wrong words. Her eyes fluttered shut for a half second at that, her grip on the bucket tightening as she bit her tongue. Smiling brightly at another table of more rowdy looking customers, she composed herself again and made her way over to the bar.
"I just have to be able to make rent this month," she finally managed, dropping the bucket along the backside of the bar and turning around. "Don't look at me like that."
He was staring at her like he'd heard it all before and was as unimpressed and unmoved by it now as he'd been the first time around. One hand on the bar top, the other squared on his hip, he pursed his lips and hollowed his cheeks, leveling the full weight of that devastating blue gaze on her.
Which was far from fair.
Buffy crossed her arms and looked away, scanning the growing crowd through the haze as Lindsey tuned his guitar in the far corner. She sighed and told him, "I know you're not thrilled about it, but this is my job, Spike."
"A job you didn't have to take," he told her, pretense gone.
Her eyes shot back to his again, wide now. "And we are so not having this conversation again."
Not that they would have been able to have any kind of conversation just then, because Faith had noticed them standing at the far end of the bar and had already started meandering over.
"Well look who it is," the brunette came to a stop beside Buffy, slapping a hand down flat on the bar top with a grin, "old Silver Fox himself."
"Faith," Spike hummed, offering her a tight but cordial smile. Annoyed. "How are you?"
Faith just grinned wider at his obvious irritation.
"Oh, ya know, can't complain. Or I can, but I won't." She settled back, leaning her hip into the bar and folding her arms over her cropped band t-shirt. She raised an arched brow. "So did you come by just to see our girl or were you planning to actually order something?"
The muscle in Spike's jaw ticked once and Buffy frowned, brow furrowing.
"Bit of both," he said tightly, twisting the thick silver ring on his middle finger twice before adding, "But I can push off if my bein' here is a problem."
Buffy frowned more deeply.
"No way," Faith breezed, still smiling even in the face of the icy reception she was getting. "Stick around as long as you like, make goo-goo eyes at B all night, whatever. Fine by me." She dropped her arms and moved to step around Buffy, pausing just in front of Spike with a sly smile to add, "Just order something while you're at it."
And then she was gone, shouting loudly to a large table of customers and earning a rowdy cheer in return, leaving the blonde pair alone beside the bar.
Spike's eyes were still fixated on the bubbling brunette, narrowed as he watched her travel across the pub. Buffy stared at him for another half second, feeling completely lost, until it suddenly snapped to attention and she put two and two together.
"You can't take it out on Faith just because you don't like me working here," she chided, annoyed.
He turned back to face her in an instant, defensive.
"I'm not," he said quickly, dismissive, then paused. Pouted. "Why not?"
Ignoring the fact that he looked just as painfully handsome imitating a toddler as he did doing just about anything else, Buffy exhaled through her nose and reminded him, "Because Faith was doing a nice thing by getting me a job here when she knew I needed one."
So there. She'd made her point, and could tell by the furrowed brow on Spike's face that it was a good one.
"I know," he grumbled, casting a sidelong glance back toward the rowdy table Faith was getting drink orders from.
"And it's pretty good money," Buffy added, piling on. "And pretty good people. And lots of flexibility," her eyes widened, "which I need. For job interviews."
"I know that, too," Spike sighed as he turned back around, hesitant but meaning it. His eyes were soft and sweet on hers as he added reluctantly, "I just worry is all."
Buffy nodded. "I know."
"I only worry because I love you," he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder once more. Still looking like he was less than thrilled by the growing crowd behind them and the obvious drunken antics of some of the more…colorful customers.
She just smiled at him. "I know that, too."
"Good," he said, turning to face her and settling into his seat. Then, "And if any of these miserable sods lays so much as a sodding eyeball on you, I swear to God—"
"You'll tear them apart with your bare hands?" Buffy finished for him with a tilt of her head.
Spike made a face at her, a flash of bright amusement in his eyes.
"Limb from bloody limb," he agreed.
"Noted," she said, still smiling. Then, glancing toward the other end of the long bar and the now single bartender behind it, at the growing line of people bellying up to give their orders, she added, "but if you're gonna stick around you probably should order something."
She watched as a drunken patron knocked over another customer's fresh beer, spilling it all over the counter and all over Sam, the other bartender.
Buffy frowned and turned back to Spike. "I think I'm needed behind the bar."
Spike's eyes weren't on the mess at the bar, and they weren't on her face, either. They were down, focused on the glowing screen of his cell phone as it vibrated in his hand. The number was one Buffy didn't recognize right away.
"Probably should take this," he muttered, voice flat. He looked up at her and leaned forward, kissing her right there in full view of the smoky bar, his lips full on hers without a second of hesitation. Like it was nothing. "Be right back."
Buffy stood for a minute and watched as he walked away, pressing the phone up to his ear as he slipped out the open front door and out onto the sidewalk. Her lips tingled where they'd touched his, and she felt her cheeks grow warm despite the niggling anxiousness she was beginning to get in her tummy.
Something wasn't right. He was trying to hide it with glittering eyes and suggestive comments, but something wasn't right.
Frowning in the direction he'd just gone, Buffy wondered again what had happened at his meeting earlier that day. Why it had ended so much earlier than they'd expected.
What that meant.
"So that's him, huh?"
Buffy jumped and spun around, blinking wide eyes at Lindsey as he slung the strap of his guitar over his shoulder. "That's him who?"
Lindsey gave her a lopsided grin. "The guy you were wishing you were with the whole night you were out with me." He jutted his chin in the direction Spike had just gone and added, "That's him."
Buffy stared at the man in front of her for a moment, biting her lip. Feeling equal parts embarrassed and sorry as she realized how painfully clear it must have been to him all those months ago that she was thinking of someone else the whole time.
"Lindsey," she began, taking a deep breath to apologize. "Listen, I—"
But he held a hand up to stop her, wry smile still on his lips as he shook his head.
"It's really okay," he chuckled, at the very least sounding like he meant it. "Only asked 'cause I'm curious. Is that him?"
Buffy inhaled through her nose and sighed, nodded once, glancing back over her shoulder. She could see the bleached blonde they were discussing standing just outside the open doorway, one hand in his jeans pocket and his head bowed, still on the phone.
"Spike," she said slowly, turning back around. Her cheeks were all warm. "Yeah, that's him."
Lindsey looked over in the direction of the door, narrowing his eyes a little and nodding as he murmured, "Okay then." His eyes shot back to hers, eyebrows raised. "He a good guy?"
Buffy smiled, still blushing. "The best."
"Good," he said, again sounding like he meant it. "Glad to see that things seem to be working out for the two of you."
She smiled again, a little wider, fighting the urge to ask out loud they do seem to be, don't they?
"Thanks," she said instead, feeling awkward again, reaching back and slipping her hands into the back pockets of her pants. She gestured toward the guitar and asked, "What's on the set list for tonight?"
"Oh, you know. The usual." He looked down and tuned his guitar, shrugging his shoulders. "Thought I'd play a little Dust in the Wind, just for you."
He looked up and grinned again, winking at her, chuckling when she shoved him lightly in the shoulder. Then he bowed his head in that subtle, Texas way of his and turned, heading through the crowd and making his way over to the "stage".
He'd just sat down on the stool, strummed a couple chords, and was getting ready to start his set when Buffy heard the familiar growl from behind her.
"And who the bloody hell was that?"
She turned around to face him, hands still tucked in her pockets as she surveyed the sour expression on his pretty face.
"That was Lindsey," Buffy told him, maneuvering around his shoulder and stepping back behind the bar. She tightened the little black apron around her waist and glanced up at her boyfriend, amused by the pinched look on his face.
"Lindsey," he repeated, eyes fixed now on the musician on the stage. "Wait, wait." He turned around to face her, bracing his hands on the bar top and leaning forward, raising his voice to be heard over the live music. "Fella you went out on a date with just to make me jealous, Lindsey?"
Buffy made a face at him, cheeks flushing. Annoyed that both men had so obviously seen through her.
"I didn't go out with him just to make you jealous," she lied, looking away. Busying herself with the large knife and the limes on the cutting board in front of her, she started cutting them into wedges, tossing them into the plastic container on the bar.
"Of course you did," Spike countered, certain.
Smug.
"I…" she began again, the denial dying on her lips as soon as she looked up and saw the soft and very pleased expression on his face. She sighed and turned back to the limes. "It wasn't just to make you jealous."
"Mmhm," Spike murmured, sounding like he didn't believe her. He leaned forward. "Well whatever the reason, it worked. Made me crazy, sitting 'round on my hands all night, thinking about you bein' out with…" He turned toward the stage and trailed off before swiveling back to look at her. "Really?"
She tossed a lime wedge into the plastic container and flicked her gaze to his. "His hair wasn't that long a few months ago."
Spike reached across the bar and grabbed the same wedge she'd just tossed out of the container. "Did he still have the goatee?"
Buffy set the knife down and watched as he bit into it. Smirked. Waggled his eyebrows.
And she was totally and completely charmed.
She laughed and shook her head, scooping the rest of the limes up and tossing them into the container, snapping the plastic lid in place before sliding them back beneath the bar. She slid a cocktail napkin over for Spike to set the now juice-less lime wedge onto. He dropped it and dusted off his hands, turning his head once more toward the stage. Lindsey was mid-song now, some ultra-country, twangy thing that Buffy didn't really mind but that Spike was clearly not a fan of.
"What's he doin' here anyway?" he asked, brow furrowed.
As if it weren't totally obvious.
"He works here," Buffy dead panned, wiping up the errant lime juice and tucking the rag into her apron, bracing both hands on the bar top to lean toward him. "And so do I, which reminds me...only paying customers are allowed to sit at the bar."
Spike turned back toward her, scarred eyebrow raised.
She shrugged. "I don't make the rules."
He narrowed his eyes at her but reached to fish his wallet out of his back pocket.
"You're enjoying this far more than you should be," he told her, dropping a crisp fifty dollar bill down on the bar top and sliding it toward her.
The curve of his mouth told her he was enjoying it quite a bit himself.
"I live for the little things now." She took the bill from him, eyeing it warily. Fifty was a little much. "You looking for the top shelf stuff, or….?"
"No," Spike corrected, swiveling his stool around to face the line of men that were queued up beside him, waiting to place their orders with Buffy. He clapped a friendly hand on the nearest one's shoulder. "Buyin' these fellas a round of drinks so they'll go back to their seats and leave me alone with the pretty bartender."
Five beers, two whiskey sodas, and a rum and coke later, Spike was left with one dollar from his original fifty and Buffy was left with only one customer on her end of the bar.
"Now," she said, taking the leftover dollar and sliding it back to him. "What can I get for you?"
He gave her a little smirk and an eye flash but bit back on the obvious response.
He took the single dollar and replaced it with a five. "Surprise me."
Buffy took the money and placed it in the register, scooping out his change and shutting the drawer again.
"Okay," she teased, dropping the fifty cents into his waiting hand. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
They smiled at each other as Lindsey started up a new song; a slow, honeyed Irish folk song that she'd heard him play once or twice before.
Truthfully, she couldn't understand half the words, but the melody was nice.
She started to work on making Spike a drink, highly aware of his eyes on her hands as she did. He was quiet for a long moment as he watched her, as he listened to the crowd's muffled chatter, to the music over that. When she risked a glance up at him, he looked very tired.
There were lines around his eyes and shadows beneath them she hadn't noticed before.
"Spike," she said, as softly as the ambient noise around them would allow.
His gaze shot back to hers. "Hmm?"
He was on his best behavior again, the relaxed mask he'd had on since setting foot inside the bar falling back in place as he looked at her. She could see it for what it was now though, and it made her stomach knot a little.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, slipping the bottle in her hand back into its spot along the back of the bar.
He wasn't going to tell her the truth, but she had to at least ask.
"'Course it is," Spike replied dismissively, smiling up at her again. "I'm with you."
But the smile didn't quite reach the tired eyes, and she knew for certain now that something was wrong.
Unconvinced, but unwilling to press him any further at the moment, she slid the neat double whiskey she'd poured for him onto the bar top. "If you say so."
He reached out and covered her hand with his before she could pull away.
"Everything's always fine when I'm with you," he told her, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand.
And God, when he looked at her that way she almost did believe it.
"So," he said suddenly, letting go over her hand and shifting back on his stool with a sly grin, "mooning country bumpkin aside, how have things gone here this week?"
Nice subject change.
Buffy arched a brow but didn't say anything. And he thought she was the avoidy one?
"So far, so good." She shrugged, glancing out over the crowd. It had grown considerably over the last 30 minutes, but it seemed to be a less rowdy group. "It's only been a few hours of actual work. Training earlier this week was the hard part, and I'm still mostly just trying to figure out which bottle is which."
That made Spike laugh.
"Yeah?" he teased, eyes twinkling through the smoke as he reached for the bowl of peanuts on the bar. "Difficult, is it?"
"They're all brown," Buffy defended herself, planting one hand on her hip and gesturing with the other. "And they're all named after men."
"I'm well acquainted with most of 'em," he agreed, chuckling to himself as he finished off the handful of nuts. He sobered a little then, searching her face, the music behind them changing again to something more classic rock-ish. "But you're happy here? You like it?"
He was worried about her.
It was why he'd asked her not to take the job when Faith had offered it in the first place.
He still felt guilty for the fact that she'd had to leave Pratt, and he was manifesting that guilt in concern and over-protectiveness and worry that she wasn't happy, or that she'd maybe grow to resent him. She knew all of that because he'd told her all of that. A couple weeks back at Henry's house, sitting around the pool on a sunny Saturday afternoon, he'd had one too many beers and had told her his worst fear; that she'd never be able to forgive him. That the position he felt he'd manipulated her into and the mistakes he'd felt he'd forced her to make would follow her from job to job, and that she'd never be able to forgive him for it.
It was insane, or at least Buffy knew it was insane, though she hadn't blamed him for worrying or for feeling that way because she of all people knew the constant, looming fear of being resented by the person you loved. She'd understood the fear, no matter how unfounded it was.
But sooner or later he'd have to accept the fact that she didn't blame him and find a way to quit blaming himself.
"Yeah," she told now, trying for a reassuring smile. She shrugged. "I mean, it's not the dream or anything. But it's a job, and I need the money, so…" She trailed off at the pained expression on his face, clearing her throat and saying instead, "It's just a for now kinda thing. Not forever."
Spike inhaled deeply through his nose, nodded, then exhaled again. "Okay."
Relieved, Buffy agreed, "Okay."
She watched as he leaned forward, fingering the lip of his glass and spinning it in slow half circles on the bar top. His eyes were down on the liquid inside, watching it slosh around. Quiet. Thinking.
He still looked so worn down.
Buffy turned her attention away from him just long enough to grab another round of beers for the guys who'd been up at the bar before, smiling and thanking them for the generous tip they left her this time around, and when she turned back to her boyfriend he was watching her again. Eyes fixed to her face, a soft, almost troubled expression on his face.
She frowned. "What?"
"I understand why it is you took this job, you know," he said, not answering her question. Still looking at her like he was half in total awe and half incredibly frustrated. "Why you felt you needed to take this job. I get it, even though I know you don't think I do." His eyes dropped to the contents of his glass again. "Can honestly say I've never admired anyone so much in my life, stubborn bint that you are."
Her stomach did that thing, that singularly Spike-induced thing, where it tightened and flipped in the most pleasant way. The knots from earlier loosened and she felt that sweet, comfortably uncomfortable melting feeling she so often got when he looked at her that way. Like she was the only thing he could see. Like she was the most wonderful and annoying and maddening and perfect thing he'd ever laid eyes on.
A little like he wanted to kiss her and kill her all at once.
"Thank you," she said, meaning it. Then, "But you kind of hate this place?"
"I really do," Spike agreed on a sigh, his shoulders slouching as he did. He shot a hand out toward the entrance to the bar. "The front door opens right into the bloody alleyway, for Christ's sake."
It was true, it did. Not that the part of town they were in was a particularly bad part of town, because it wasn't. Not by a long shot.
But she saw his point.
"I think I can handle myself," she promised, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "Besides, Faith said she almost never has to actually use her pepper spray."
Spike was unamused.
"You're adorable when you try and ruffle my feathers," he muttered, lifting his glass to his lips and draining the remainder of the whiskey inside. He set it down with more force than necessary, the smack of glass on wood drowned out by the music and the crowing of the crowd.
"You want another?" she asked, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey.
He nodded. "Please."
She poured him one. He downed half of it in one gulp and set the glass back down. Stared into it for a minute. Then looked up at her and asked, "Any regrets yet?"
And Buffy meant it when she topped off his drink and told him soberly, "Not one."
-Tuesday, October 15th. 7:32pm-
Spike was digging his hand around in the bottom of the popcorn bowl, making too much noise and not paying any attention to the movie on the flat screen in front of them.
He turned and frowned into the bowl. "Did you eat the last of the M&Ms?"
"Probably," Buffy murmured, casting a sidelong glance at the bleached blonde seated beside her. By the expression on his face she could tell she'd done something wrong, she just wasn't sure exactly what. "Why?"
Spike leaned forward and set the bowl down on the coffee table.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said slowly, mock-irritated. "But I thought you didn't like M&Ms with popcorn?"
She looked at him for a minute, then shrugged.
"I don't." Buffy shifted forward and delved back into the popcorn bowl, hardly searching at all before coming away with one of the little chocolates. "I just like the M&Ms."
Spike's lashes fluttered when their eyes met again, his lips twitching just a little. He wanted to laugh, she could tell, but he was trying desperately not to. The only thing that really gave him away was the flexing of his jaw, the tiny wrinkles at the corners of both eyes.
She was happy to see him laughing, or even almost laughing, whether it was at her expense or not. He'd been so stressed out lately with the stuff going on at Pratt that she'd hardly seen him, and when she had seen him, he'd been exhausted. He wouldn't tell her everything that was going on, but she knew it was Cecily. He didn't have to tell her that for her to just know it. Drusilla had mentioned it once, too. That Cecily was doing everything she could to get the most of her last few weeks of control over Spike's life.
It enraged Buffy, but it was also almost over. It had to be almost over.
"This is what life's goin' to be like from now on then?" Spike asked Buffy now, the chuckle in his voice betraying him just the tiniest bit. "You picking all the chocolates out of the popcorn?"
"The trail mix, too," she added, popping the last M&M into her mouth. She swallowed, smiled, asked him, "Any regrets yet?"
And with the subtle implication of the word, the idea-a bright, blinking forever-fusing the air between them, he pressed her back down to the sofa and made love to her for the first time in over a week, knocking the popcorn bowl to the floor in the process.
-Wednesday, October 23rd. 5:59pm.-
Buffy was standing in his kitchen, mid-refrigerator raid, when Spike entered his condo.
"Hey," she said, maneuvering her way around a six pack of beer and back to the bowl of fresh grapes she'd stashed there the day before.
"Hey," he echoed, then paused. Frowned. "What are you doin' here?"
Buffy leaned out of the fridge to look at him, frowning back. She'd sort of been under the impression that the key he'd given her was meant to be used, not just a shiny new accessory for her key chain.
Can of diet soda in one hand and bowl of grapes in the other, she shut the door to his fridge and turned to face him. "Should I not be here?"
Spike's eyes traveled from her face down to the items in each hand, then back up. He smirked and shook his head. Stepping past the kitchen and on into the living room, he told her, "You should always be here, just wasn't expectin' to see you so soon is all." He stopped beside the closest leather chair to set his briefcase down and loosened his tie. "You finish early in Hartford?"
Buffy's fingers grew heavy and she set the bowl of grapes down on the counter with a thud.
Hartford, right.
The interview.
The big one Henry'd organized for her three weeks ago. The one she'd been preparing for since he'd organized it for her three weeks ago. The thing she'd come over here to tell Spike about, though now that he was here she wasn't so sure she really wanted to tell him about it.
Was it too late to change the subject?
"Uh, yeah," Buffy said slowly, looking down. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Kind of."
But Spike had already read her like one of his colorfully-spined books.
He stood up straight again. "What happened?"
"Happened?" she echoed, flicking her gaze up to find him eyeing her expectantly. "Nothing happened."
He arched a brow.
The countertop between them no longer seemed like a large enough buffer.
Sighing, Buffy set her soda can down on the cool marble. "How do you always do that?"
"It helps that you're not terribly difficult to read," he told her gently, lips twitching into a small smile. He rested his hip along the backside of the wingback chair and crossed his arms. "And you're home early lookin' a little like someone stole your pony so it wasn't exactly a leap. Wanna tell me what happened?"
She looked at him quietly for a moment before dropping her eyes to the countertop.
"Not really," she whispered.
She felt Spike freeze where he was resting in front of her, could practically feel the muscles tightening across his shoulders as his eyes focused in on the top of her head.
When she didn't volunteer any more information, he cleared his throat. Asked pointedly, "Did something go wrong with the interview, Buffy?"
"No." She tapped the top of the soda can with her nail. Once. Twice. Inhaled deeply through her nose. "I just kinda…didn't go."
When he didn't answer right away she risked a glance up and immediately wished she hadn't.
Azure eyes hard, his jaw tensed and flexing, he was looking at her in a way he hadn't since some of their very first meetings in his office.
Gaze fixed on her, he spoke in a low voice. "You didn't go."
She stared at him for a long minute before looking away again. "No."
This time, his reaction was instantaneous.
"What do you mean you didn't go?" he shouted, getting to his feet.
Buffy snapped her head up and took an involuntary step back, feeling her eyes go wide. She wasn't surprised that he was upset, she'd known he would be, but this reaction seemed a lot more than just disappointed. Zero to one hundred in two seconds flat.
She blinked at him, still stunned. "Don't yell at me."
"Well, Jesus Christ, Buffy," he growled, fighting hard to lower his voice. He was off the back of the chair now and already walking toward the counter. "This is the second bloody interview you've skipped out on in as many weeks."
"I know." She looked back down at her diet soda.
He paused to think about that for a minute, shaking his head. Muscles still tensed. He looked away and reached a hand up to run it through his hair then turned his back on her. His temper just barely controlled, his shoulders high and tight, he took a few deep breaths.
"You'll never get another job if you keep blowin' these interviews off," he told her, voice still low and thick.
Buffy looked up again, nodding even though he couldn't see her. "I know."
Because she did.
"Then what the bloody hell is wrong with you?" Spike yelled, whirling back around to face her.
Everything screeched to a sudden halt.
Suddenly furious, she was no longer worried about him being disappointed. Her eyes were blazing. The air grew very still around them as Buffy froze in place, staring at him. And he stared right back, just as angry, unrelenting. With barely three feet of physical space between them, there had never seemed to be so much actual distance.
She might as well have been half way across the country for how alone she suddenly felt.
"Hey," she said slowly, her expression growing hard. "Don't talk to me like that. You don't know—"
"Do you know how hard it was to get you this interview?" he cut her off, exasperated.
His eyes had grown almost comically wide while she'd been talking, like he couldn't believe she had the nerve to tell him he didn't know how she felt.
Buffy shook her head and shouldered past him. "I'm done talking about this."
She headed toward the chair she'd dumped her overnight bag on earlier, wanting nothing more than to get away from him. From the hollow way he was looking at her.
"Well that's too bloody bad, because this isn't just about you," Spike told her, turning to watch her as she went by. "Back Bay is a very highly thought of publisher. Henry had to pull a lot of strings just to get them to agree to—"
It was her turn to whirl on him this time.
"You don't think I know that?" she shouted, cutting him off.
Spike raised his eyebrows, his hands on his hips. "Judging by the way you're acting?"
And with that, the air was officially so tense she thought it might actually shatter into pieces all around them.
She stood very still for a little while and just looked at him, her eyes starting to burn. His words had hurt her, his meaning had hurt her, and he knew it. She could see it on his face now as he looked at her, still unrelenting in his anger even if she could see he was sorry for what he'd said. Or maybe just for the choice of words.
Either way.
Buffy scoffed, shaking her head once.
"And how am I acting?" she challenged, folding her arms tight across her chest.
Spike didn't answer her question. Not that he needed to. The phrase "like a child" might as well have been etched across his forehead for the way he was looking at her now. And as if realizing that himself, he shifted back onto his heels and dropped his gaze down to the floor, one hand stuffed in his pocket.
Frustrated and hurt, feeling a little sick to her stomach, Buffy grabbed her bag up off the chair and threw the strap over her shoulder, headed toward the front door.
Spike looked up again as she went. "Where are you going?"
He sounded surprised.
"Home," Buffy said, stopping to look at him over her shoulder. She pulled the strap of her bag tighter. "I didn't come over here because I had a burning desire to be yelled at, and especially not by you."
In the flash of his gaze she could tell her words had cut him, too, but she was having a hard time caring. Confused rage was blinding that way.
She turned to leave again but Spike was already there, catching her by the wrist before she could get even two steps toward the door.
"What the bloody hell does that mean, especially not by me?" he asked, eyes blazing hot and cold all at once. His grip on her wrist wasn't painful by any means, but it was tighter than necessary, and it didn't go unnoticed by either of them.
Buffy stopped where she was and tore her gaze from his. Glanced down, eyes focused on the long, strong fingers wrapped around her. Only then did she stop long enough to think about it. About their fight, about what she'd said to him, and how it had sounded.
What he must have thought she meant.
Still frustrated, still hurt, still unbelievably mad about the way he'd been speaking to her, she closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep, shaky breath. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?" Spike pressed, and she was surprised that his voice was no longer angry, but pleading.
Buffy swallowed, her eyes hot and stinging again as she continued to stare down at his hand around her wrist. Her cheeks were hot too, a strange mix of embarrassment and vanishing anger that she honestly wasn't sure who to direct at. Spike for not understanding, herself for not explaining better, both of them a little bit for making such impulsive decisions.
For having such quick tempers.
It was all worth it, she knew. Being with him would be worth everything in the end.
But she was still hurting, and it was still hard. Not having a real job, not having the money she needed, not seeing Spike for days on end and not being able to help or lift any of the burden he was carrying. Most of all, not being able to talk to him about it for fear of making him feel guiltier than he did already.
It was all so hard.
Not harder than she'd imagined it would be, but there was something so different, so solitary, about the hard of reality compared to the hard of potential. Everything about the reality they were living currently was bright and harsh and real, and even though Buffy liked her job and she had good friends and God knew she loved Spike, she'd never felt more alone in her life than she had the past few weeks.
She'd known that it wouldn't be easy, that they would be facing a hundred different challenges. She just hadn't realized they'd be doing it so separately.
And how to make him understand that, really understand it, without also making him feel guilty or like he was the one to blame...well, honestly, Buffy hadn't figured out how to do that yet. She'd come close to telling him a couple times before but hadn't. He'd had enough on his plate as it was; his own stressors, his own soon-to-be-ex wife. Not adding to that stress had seemed like priority numero uno.
Now, though, not screaming at each other over a stupid, simple miscommunication seemed more important.
"You don't understand what things are like for me right now," she told him, voice soft, hesitant to meet his eyes again. She was ashamed and exhausted and worried he'd be able to see all of that on her face if she did.
"Then make me understand, luv." Spike's grip slid down from her wrist to her hand, fingers threading through hers as he tugged her fully around to face him. He frowned and forced her to look up, azure eyes scanning her face. "You were ready, you've been prepping for this interview for two weeks. Why would you just not go?"
Buffy exhaled a long, slow sigh and gently pulled away from him.
"I didn't just not go," she said, stepping around him to walk back toward the living room. "That's my point. I went. I was there. I was in the stupid, beautiful building just standing there, staring at the buttons on the elevator and feeling completely and totally unequipped and I...I don't know." She dropped her bag and faced him, eyes on his and her arms crossed over her chest. She shrugged. "I just couldn't do it. Not again."
Spike frowned, his brows drawn and his eyes narrowed; equal parts irritated and concerned. "Do what?"
"This," Buffy snapped, throwing her arms down again. "This job, these interviews. Feeling like the only way I can make it in this industry anymore is by borrowing off other people's credit."
His brow smoothed over in an instant as he seemed to understand, his eyes softening, growing warmer.
"Off my credit, you mean."
The pity in his voice made her skin tighten.
"No, I mean…" she trailed off, shaking her head and closing her eyes. She thought about the words she wanted to say before saying them, then opened her eyes again. "I mean, that every time I go to one of these interviews that you or Henry have set up it always goes the same way. I walk in, I freeze, they ask me a couple courtesy questions and then it's over. I feel like I'm just there," she gestured toward him with her hand for emphasis, "like I'm just a favor being done. A courtesy to an old friend, or whatever. And it isn't that I don't appreciate you and Henry helping me," she added quickly, searching Spike's eyes with her own. Meaning it. "Because I do. I so, so, do."
"Then what is it?" he pushed her, no longer irritated. All of the ire from before had faded and he looked now like a man who was simply desperate to make the woman he loved happy, which was harder in some ways than the rage had been.
Buffy shrugged once more, having to tear her gaze from his in order for her to admit it. "I'm just getting tired of feeling like a charity case."
He didn't say anything right away but stood quietly staring at her for a long moment. Then he turned, crossed the room to the bookshelf. Trailed his fingertips along the spines of the brightly colored books there. Buffy didn't say anything, either. She didn't even move, just watched him from where she stood as he wrapped his hand around a book and plucked it from the shelf, letting it fall open in his palm.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "About earlier, I shouldn't…" He paused and looked over at her, his expression haunted. "I should never speak to you like that."
Buffy swallowed, a massive lump in her throat that definitely hadn't been there a minute before. "It's fine."
She started to inch toward him.
Spike laughed once, a low, harsh chuckle that stopped her movements abruptly. He looked down again.
There was a twisted, hollow smile on his lips.
"It's far from fine, luv." He closed his eyes, the little smile slipping. "After everything I've put you through."
The lump got bigger.
"It's fine," she told him again, moving again to cross the distance between them. Desperate now to touch him, to be close to him, again. "I'm fine, I promise."
God, why did it sound so much like it wasn't the whole truth?
"I know you're fine." Spike opened his eyes but kept them down on the pages in his hand. "I know that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. I've never once said or thought or worried that you couldn't. This has nothing to do with me not thinking you're capable." He snapped the book shut and shoved it back in its place on the shelf. "I don't arrange interviews for you out of charity, Buffy."
And when he turned his eyes back to her, she saw it. A distant ache, subtly layered and hidden for her benefit; that ever-present, weighing guilt that had seemed to surround him so often over the last month and a half.
And she realized exactly why he'd gotten so angry before.
All the anger she'd felt before completely disappeared, replaced with a single-minded need to soothe the ache and banish the distant look in his eyes.
"Spike," Buffy said slowly, shaking her head. She was still approaching him. "You can't keep doing this, okay? You have got to stop—"
"Blaming myself?" He asked, filling in the blank for her. "I know. I can't. I love you." He looked away again. "And I see you struggle and you see you frustrated and I see you... giving up, and it kills me because I know it's my fault."
"No," she said suddenly, her voice fierce now as she reached him and put her hands on his face. "No, it's not."
"Buffy…" he began, but stopped when she just shook her head; when he saw the stern look in her eyes.
"I have never thought that," she told him, her voice steady. Strong. "Not once. We both made decisions that landed us here, Spike. It was a choice that we made. And yeah, things...are kind of sucky right now, but that doesn't mean they won't get better."
Spike didn't say anything for a moment. He barely even blinked. His eyes were focused, bright and blue and laser sharp on hers as he searched them, looking for any sign that she might not be telling him the truth. Looking for any hint of resentment or disappointment or bitterness.
He didn't find any.
She knew he wouldn't.
Taking hold of her hands, he pulled them gently from his face and lowered them, entangling his fingers with hers.
He smiled a little. "You had a very different take on things not five minutes ago."
Buffy shrugged, glad for the levity.
"I'm frustrated and grumpy and have been working double shifts all week." She tilted her head to the side and gave him a wry smile. "Sue me."
Spike chuckled.
Buffy squeezed his hands.
"Being frustrated and grumpy doesn't mean I'm giving up, though," she told him, choosing her words very specifically. "We didn't come this far to give up."
He leaned forward and kissed her then, hooking an index finger beneath her chin to hold her lips against his. She kissed him back, reaching her own hand up and around to cup the back of his neck and pull him closer.
When he finally pulled away, he smiled, brushing the tip of her nose with his. "How'd you get so bloody smart?"
"I love you," was all she said in response.
"I love you," he said back, brushing his thumbs in little circles over the backs of her hands. His eyes dropped. "Sometimes I'd just like to be able to help, that's all."
She frowned at him, a tinge of irritation resurfacing.
"You do help," she insisted, amazed that he somehow couldn't see that already. "In every single way that matters, you help."
But he didn't think so, she could see it on his face. He released her hands and stepped away, and she watched as he turned back toward the bookshelf, shaking his head.
"It's not enough," he said, more to himself than to her.
It killed her to hear him say it out loud. After everything he'd done, everything he'd given up to be with her, how he could still think that...it struck her somewhere deep, somewhere chemical, down in her bones.
"It's more than enough," Buffy insisted again, feeling like the words were strangely inadequate even though they were unequivocally true.
There was a short pause.
Then Spike turned to face her again. "Move in with me."
"No," she said, stepping backward.
It was an immediate response, on impulse. Total knee jerk reaction.
Which Spike must have known, because he just laughed. "You aren't even going to pretend to think about it?"
"Sorry, I-I didn't mean no as in no, I just meant…" she trailed off. Shut her eyes, opened them again. "Move in with you?"
"Move in with me," he repeated with total certainty, stepping closer to her. "Please."
He said the word like he was stroking a hand down her back.
Buffy frowned, shaking her head. Not an answer, not a no, but just to get her bearings.
Glancing around the condo, she asked, "Where?" To Spike. "Here?"
"Here," he agreed, grinning at her, "or anywhere really. I have a flat over near Beacon Hill that's been gathering dust for ages. Or the townhouse in Cambridge?" Buffy's eyes went wide. What townhouse in Cambridge? "It'd be a little bit of a commute into the city but since neither of us'll be working at Pratt that might not matter as much. Or we could—"
"Wait, wait," Buffy told him, putting her hand against his chest. "Just…give me a second."
He paused and looked down at her, brows knitting together as he read her expression. He cocked a brow. "Oh, don't tell me...this is too fast for you?"
And she actually laughed.
"No." She shook her head, a little surprised herself by how true it was. "No, it's not. The moving in part isn't, anyway." She pulled her hand from his chest. "I didn't know you had so much hidden real estate."
"Just two," he said, then moved closer to her. "But the moving in bit…?"
She wet her lip and bit it. "I don't know. I mean…I guess it would be the next step in terms of the steps we're taking. And it would…make sense, generally speaking."
"I'm nothing if not practical," he murmured, his eyes on her face.
She thought about it for a minute. Thought about what moving in together would mean, how...permanent it would make everything feel. How much easier and how much harder it would make things. She'd save money, that was true. And she wouldn't have anymore weeks where she'd go days on end without seeing him. No more packing overnight bags or leaving things at his place or never having enough time to actually be together.
It would be wonderful, yeah, but it would also be a big change. A very big change. The dynamic of their relationship would shift dramatically. It would be hard.
But the hard was what made it worth it.
"I'll need to talk to Faith," she said finally.
"Of course," Spike agreed, moving closer still.
"And I'll probably have to sell some of my stuff," she added, glancing around the condo again. "It won't all fit."
He nodded and took another step. "We can always store it."
There was one final, very long pause as the pair stood in the living room and stared at each other.
Then Buffy nodded. "Okay."
"Okay," Spike echoed, a slow, dimpled smile spreading across his lips.
"Okay," she said again, the word tumbling out on a peel of laughter as Spike stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and hoisting her up so she had no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck. No choice but to kiss him back when he kissed her. No choice but to wind her legs around his waist and let him carry her up the metal stairs and into the bedroom.
Their bedroom.
-Monday, October 28th. 7:16am-
Spike was already gone by the time Buffy woke up.
Not surprising. He'd been going into the office earlier and earlier every week, trying to stay ahead of his deadlines and finishing all the HR paperwork he still needed to file, the documents he had to sign. There a lot of silly things, mostly. A lot of "I promise not to steal your people when I leave". Cecily's lawyers enjoyed putting him through their hoops almost as much as their client did, and with things so close now to finally being final, it was only getting worse.
It had only taken them the weekend to move Buffy's meager set of belongings and sizeable amount of clothing from Faith's apartment over to Spike's condo, since most of what was in her bedroom at Faith's had been there before she'd arrived in the first place. None of the furniture was hers, aside from the mattress, and rather than let her sell it Spike had insisted on storing it for her. When she'd asked where, he'd simply shrugged and said he knew someone who'd be happy to keep it for her while they got everything else situated.
She hadn't asked questions.
It had only taken Faith the weekend to scrounge up another roommate, although it wasn't like she'd had to look very far. And even though Lindsey wouldn't be nearly as fun to live with as Buffy had been, Faith assured her, there was something about the idea of living with a man that seemed to...interest the brunette. And as long as the other girl was happy, Buffy didn't feel the need or want to ask questions there, either.
For the most part, though, the transition had gone smoothly, and apart from still not being used to the fact that she now officially lived with a boy, Buffy couldn't see a reason to complain.
She lay in bed for a little while before finally forcing herself up, swinging her legs over the mattress and eyeing all the boxes still left to be unpacked. Not many, but enough to warrant her making a face as she realized the bulk of her day would be spent folding clothes, making space in the closet, and finding ways to make the condo feel a little more co-habitable.
It still had that distinct bachelor-pad vibe to it.
She plucked her robe off the floor and shrugged into it, yawning as she descended the spiral staircase and padded into the kitchen. Glanced around.
It was funny, how different the condo suddenly looked to her now that she knew she lived there, too. Her eyes traveled across the counter, spotting items that were hers scattered here and there. They weren't placed in any particular way, or even in any sensical way, so it was fairly obvious to Buffy that Spike had gone through some of her kitchen boxes that morning before he'd left and pulled out some of her things.
An effort to make her feel more at ease, she was sure.
She smiled as she imagined it, thinking of him muttering little British curse words to himself as he tried to pull the tape off without waking her, and crossed the small space to the corner where his fancy coffee pot sat. He'd left her with a full, fresh pot, and one of her favorite mugs sitting beside it.
There was also a note.
She grinned again, picking the note up and scanning it once. Twice. It was short and sweet, and very to the point; a small, folded piece of paper with two words written on it.
Welcome home.
Signed with a single, cursive S.