Chapter Four
The rays of sun filtering through the dusty crypt windows indicated it was about noon, but Spike was too excited to sleep.
He lay on his couch, one arm behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, a forgotten blanket tangled somewhere around his knees. His brain was on a hamster wheel, whirring as he planned a million things...
...that he and Tara could do.
For over a week now, he'd shown up at her place every night, and every night he'd taken a girl who'd curled into herself and succeeded in drawing her back out into the world. And each night it took a bit less time, he thought with no shortage of pride. He'd taken her out and shown her sides of herself he was positive she'd never even considered.
The surprise of her attractiveness had flickered first on the edges of his thinking, and now appeared daily, fully formed in his mind. He let his thoughts happen, but tried not to linger on them or devise any plans for action, frozen in place by the success of his endeavor so far, and - oh yeah - the fact of her being gay.
Still, he couldn't resist thinking about the expressions he'd seen on her during the times she'd been happiest. A warm, pleasant flush spread over him as he considered her face, so glowing with discovery and joy, so unabashed, so open and willing to share it.
So unlike...well, you know.
Suddenly the Buffy Problem was right back upon him. He frowned as he thought about the weeks before Tara, when he'd been trying to think of another way to approach the Slayer, but nothing would come to him, and every time he considered the situation he just got madder, and it never led to anything constructive.
His only choices for relief had been lying around drinking, fighting demons, occasionally trashing his pad, but even they hadn't been doing for him what they used to. He didn't know what the glitch was -- normally he'd have been onto some new scheme by then. This just seemed...different, in a way he couldn't unravel.
The emotions began to come back, unbidden, and he grimaced at their onslaught. He felt slighted, pissed off, misunderstood, wronged. The idea of apologizing drifted through and was met with a mental tantrum - no sodding way! She'd treated him like shit, after all! Running hot and cold, beating him up, denying her own behavior and the glaring reality of their bond. And for that she was gettin' away scot free! What was a bloke supposed to do, just let his greatest love walk out?
Yeah, he could have taken another tack - probably should have - but it's not like the Slayer was made of glass, for Chrissake. She could give it out as well as she could take it.
He sucked in some air through his nose, blew it out slowly. He turned his thoughts purposely back to what was good right now, to what was working. The mental image of Tara's large, dewy eyes and soft, crooked smile relaxed him, seemed to turn his muscles to butter. That girl was a tranquilizer, she was.
He felt like he was able to be a better version of himself now, better than he'd been in a long time. He was hoping the change was something permanent, that this thing with Tara would break this block of his, that he'd be able to start on it fresh after she was feeling better and able to stand on her own. But he didn't think that he would leave her on her own any time soon. There was plenty of time to keep doing this. He felt strangely serene at the idea.
Plenty of time.
++++++++++++++++
Tara had never considered Spike much in the past, but if she had, she would have had to say he was like a bee in the room - quick, light, potentially deadly, grabbing all the attention the instant he appeared and making everyone feel threatened - though, these days, not too seriously. And as soon as he was dealt with and gone, there was general relief.
How unbelievable that such a person would be saving her existence.
Tara lolled in her bed, lazily looking at the morning spilling in her window through the blinds. When she'd first awoken ten minutes or so ago, her first feeling had been the usual one - of not wanting to get out of bed, of wanting to go back to the cocoon, of the impossibility of dealing with the day. But a few moments later, the feeling had abated, replaced by the calm certainty that whatever she had to do today was possible, that nothing was going to get so bad that she couldn't handle it.
Or more precisely, that Spike wouldn't be able to help her handle it.
She was constantly amazed, whenever she thought about it, at how much kindness was in Spike, at how much selflessness could pour out of him. At the results that occurred when all that busy bee energy got focused into something, especially when that something was her. His blue-eyed, sharp-cheeked attention seemed to fill her up like electricity, buzzing and tickling her to astonished life, animating her limbs into motion that she wouldn't be capable of otherwise.
It seemed possible to get drunk on that attention.
She wondered what it would be like to O.D.
She wondered what he was like before he was turned, at whether or not she was seeing some of that old personality. If this behavior was anything like what he'd done when he was human, he must have been quite a ladykiller.
Before he, you know...went pro with the idea.
Eventually she sighed, sat up and yawned, stretched back her shoulders. She removed the little foam ear plugs she used for sleeping and went to put them in a small wooden box she kept on her nightstand.
She stopped and looked at the box for the first time in a long while.
It was small, with a fitted lid that had a masculine pattern inlaid into its top - a line made up of interlocked, different colored triangles. She was pretty sure that her father hadn't purchased it with her in mind, that he'd actually bought it to give to her brother, and had only turned it into a gift for her when her birthday rolled up sooner than he'd expected and he found himself short of a present.
It didn't suit her. It never had.
She picked it up and turned it around, noticing absently the little nicks and scratches it had sustained through a short lifetime of use.
Forced use. Now a habit.
Her face went sour at the memories coming back, all the baggage that came with it. Her mother had made her thank him profusely for it. She shook her head silently at the idea of thanking a monster, with her mother forcing her, even though her mother surely *knew*. How did her mother look herself in the mirror back then? No wonder she'd wanted out. She thought of her mother's complicity in the crime, in the tearing down of her childhood self, the whole conspiracy of crap.
Spike, though, was different than other men - the most unlikely source of a good male example she could ever have conceived. She didn't know why she felt at ease with him. Wait, maybe she did: he listened to what she said. Really, without pretending. He took action because of it, on her behalf. And she knew he would not *stop* acting until any problem she had was solved. She knew there was nothing she could say to him in earnestness that he wouldn't take seriously for her, no matter how small or embarrassing.
She felt almost unbearably grateful for it.
++++++++++++++++
Spike knocked on Tara's door at half past six, just barely past sunset. He'd had to do a little ducking and running to make it this early, creatively keeping to the lengthening shadows on his way over, but staying in his crypt any longer had just not been an option.
When he'd read the flyer about tonight's poetry slam, he'd instantly wanted to show it to her, very much. Sure, the poets wouldn't be doing the kind of verse he'd loved as a young man, but he appreciated the newer stuff too, the aggressiveness of it, and anyway, it'd be kind of a...first stage kind of thing. If it turned out she liked poetry at all, then perhaps he'd find the stones to show her some of his real favorites, the stuff nearer and dearer to his heart.
As it was, he didn't yet have the stones to think about why he wanted to show her that stuff at all.
When Tara opened the door, she was wearing a t-shirt and big flannel pants, no makeup. Spike's stomach sank a little. Was she feeling down again? No, her smile was genuine.
He kept his tone light. "Somebody's not dressed yet."
She smiled apologetically. "Actually, I know you had plans for something, but I was going to see if maybe I could talk you into staying in. I just... don't feel like doing anything where I have to dress up, or be seen by people."
Spike took the news with a nod, reserving judgement. Tara plunged nervously into his silence.
"Couldn't...couldn't we do something like the junkyard again, or something here, in my room?" She held onto the door jamb, and stepped on one white-socked foot with the other. "Couldn't you just *tell* me about the reason?"
Spike nodded thoughtfully. "Um...no. I understand where you're coming from, pet, but..." He tried to decide whether he was still keeping her interests in mind here, or his own. He looked at her doe's eyes. Fuck it, they felt the same. "I just think it's better that you get out."
Tara slumped in mock protest, walking away from the door. "I, just, I...haven't got anything to wear."
Spike followed her in, trying to keep from rolling his eyes. He'd been used to Dru's whims, and knew that women found this stuff important, but really -- wasn't one baggy sweater the same as the next? At least Dru had some style.
"You've got plenty to wear. Not taking you to a fashion show."
"And I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. I should probably go to bed early."
"Won't be out late."
She turned to him, her face suddenly betraying the slightest bit of desperation. "Really, Spike, I don't see what difference it would make if we stayed in just this once..."
"Pet." He stepped closer to her, putting his hands on her arms, focusing her on his face. "Tell Spike what it is."
Tara blinked at him, a little miserable. She closed her eyes and sighed. "It's just one of those nights lately where...I just feel ugly."
Spike's eyes got wider, and his mouth drifted open. He blinked twice. "Oh, bugger THAT." He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her across the room. "Right. The plan's changed."
Her expression lifted. "We're staying in?"
He opened the bathroom door and pushed her inside. "No. Now we're *definitely* going. Times ten. Here, get yourself girled up."
At her protesting expression, he swung the bathroom door shut with a thunk.
Bloody hell, the ideas that got into that bird's head. He turned his back to the door and folded his arms.
He could definitely show her what a dish she was.
++++++++++++++++
Spike was surprised. Really surprised. Bloody gobsmacked. And Spike didn't surprise easily.
He'd known Tara was cute. Never been much for what she called "style", but still, she had a lot going for her. He'd always thought that with a little fashion advice she could be more than she reckoned.
But of this, he'd had no *idea*.
He'd overseen her grooming for the evening - to make sure she did things proper, didn't just settle for 'whatever'. Instead of using the one sedate shade of lipstick she owned, he had her paint her entire mouth with her dark lipliner. When she'd applied a modest bit of eyeliner, he'd taken if from her and traced her eyes' outlines in smoky, smudgy dark kohl. Hell, he'd lived through the Eighties, poofy pirate shirts and all - he knew a thing or two about eyeliner.
He'd had her wear her hair down, curl it a bit, tousle it a bit more.
In her closet, he'd found a soft, wine-colored peasant's blouse with a low, loose neckline, and elastic gathers around the waist. He'd also found a pair of fake leather pants that Tara tried to snatch out of his hand, that she swore she'd only bought on a dare and were now too small for her.
Too small, his ass.
Or rather, her ass.
The pants fit like they'd been poured on, and were now showing off a smooth, feminine belly and fondly hugging every curve of said ass in a way that Spike was now quickly realizing he'd love to be doing, given the opportunity.
Focus, he told himself.
The blouse plunged to show off a pair of tits that Spike had figured were nice, but were now proving to be nothing short of glorious. As she walked next to him through the night air, he was powerfully distracted. He could feel her and smell her and see the bounce of her breasts out of the corner of his eye, and the heels on the boots he'd picked out were lending her their bad-ass strut.
Bloody hell, she was breathtaking.
It didn't even matter that she was trying to shrink inside her clothes, and looking around at her new environment with the air of a five-year-old child on the first day of school - he could fix that with the right encouragement. He still found himself dead chuffed to be out with such a goddess.
All right, so the goddess wasn't "his". And the fact that they were headed toward a mixed men's-and-women's gay club would pretty much nix the idea in any of his onlookers' minds that he and Wicca were together, provided it ever entered their minds at all.
Steady as she goes, mate, he told himself. Bring nothing but heartache, things that go on in your head.
Spike's acquaintance with the doorman let them skip the long line of club-goers and head straight in. Inside, it was the usual warehouse-like structure full of throbbing music, bewildering lights and a mass of pulsing humanity. The two entered onto a small raised area just above the dance floor. Spike watched Tara as she looked down somewhat tiredly over the scene below.
"Not even tryin' to take the piss outta this little trip, are you?" he asked in amusement. She glanced at him questioningly. "Would've expected more objection. What happen, I wear you down?"
"No." She shook her head absently. "I trust you."
Oh.
That thrill. Soft. And more thrilling than before. Worth a good, deep sigh.
Impetuously Spike grabbed her hand and pulled her to him in a couples' dance pose. Tara let out a surprised sound. Spike looked like the canary that ate the cat.
"I sincerely hope they are no other vamps here," he murmured devilishly, mouth close to hers. "Because you look good enough to eat."
Tara blinked, then rolled her eyes and smiled.
"Dance with me?"
Tara nodded. Still smiling, Spike noticed.
Spike felt himself fairly comfortable on a dance floor - in the punk era, he'd discovered music as a visceral experience and now, if he let it, his body would just go. But Tara danced like she only performed moves that had been examined and deemed suitable, pre-approved, with nothing spontaneous entering her limbs.
'Nuff o' that.
"Here," he called over the music. "Show you somethin'." He moved behind her and gently pushed her shoulders and hips to guide her in a different move. She started out awkward, but soon got the idea, and laughed a little self-consciously.
"Now this." He guided her into a new move. As he did, he occasionally let his hands linger on her arms, or waist, or let his fingers brush her as they moved from place to place. She glanced back at him a little uncertainly, but didn't object.
He was doing it partly, hopefully, to make her feel sensual - get her thinking of her body as more than just a device to transport her brain around...
...and partly because it didn't seem his fingers could resist.
He leaned close to her ear. "Have you any idea how many pairs of eyes turned to you when you walked out here?"
Tara looked abruptly over her shoulder at him, unsure.
"Blokes *and* ladies," he went on. "'Parently one group wants to be you, other just wants to do you."
She whirled to smack him on the arm, mouth open. Spike laughed. "Sorry, don't make the news, just report it." She turned back to face front, huffing in amused disbelief.
Spike grinned. Amusement was his open door to continue. "Don't imagine you'll be mine for much longer..." As the words left his mouth he spotted a petite brunette approaching. She had curly hair and a mischievous face. The song was ending. Perfect opportunity...
"Mind if I cut in?"
Her words were for Spike but her eyes never left Tara. Tara looked at the girl uncertainly, then at Spike. Spike stepped back with a gracious gesture.
As he made his way to the side of the dance floor, he saw the two start into the next song. The brunette was now the one dead chuffed. Tara's body language was opening up.
He decided to walk toward the open back door, pulling out his smokes. Plan was working perfectly...
...dammit.
++++++++++++++++
Spike had lost track of how many women Tara'd danced with. He stayed on the sidelines, just pleased to watch her body move like it was meant to, watching her throw back her head in laughter and sweat and the moment.
He swirled the ice in his Jack and Coke thoughtfully. His idea to make her feel non-ugly was a raging success.
So why was he feeling so surly?
"I'm sorry, but you *don't* look like a wallflower."
He looked up into the face of a dark, muscle-bound man. An obvious gym rat, with the hint of a New York accent. Spike smiled wearily. 'Nother heart to break.
"I know *exactly* what to do to lose that frown," the man continued, his eyes roaming.
"Sorry, mate. Not in the mood tonight."
"I'm offering to *put* you in the mood," the man teased. He moved closer, but something about the steel in Spike's eyes made him stop.
He made a gracious recovery. "Okay, no means no." He smiled. "If you change your mind..."
"You'll be the first to know," Spike lied. The man's place in line was actually something like...twenty-seventh.
He looked back out at the dance floor - nothing compared to Tara's line, though, was it?
She'd lost so much of her previous inhibition, but was still awkward in a way that made Spike smile - a big, leggy girl who still moved like the colt she'd been when she was barely into her teens.
Spike's smile evaporated. Oh no. Very bad sign. When you start finding another person's awkwardness endearing, it's more than simple attraction then, innit? You are well on your way to being good and truly fucked.
He was distracted from that thought by a situation apparently developing. Tara was trying to say goodbye to a girl on the floor, a tough looking one wearing a wife-beater and a short, blond, man's haircut. The girl was not cooperating. Tara's eyes were becoming worried. Apparently no didn't mean no throughout the club.
Spike didn't remember the trip through the thick throng of dancers - he woke up when he had the blonde woman's back against the wall, his forearm tight against her throat. "'Ere, you new to the language?" he sneered. "Need a translation? She's done with the likes of you."
The woman's eyes were saucers. Spike felt a gentle hand on his arm. "Spike..." He turned to see Tara, eyeing him strangely. "Down, boy." Kind of a joke, and kind of not.
The borrowed blood in Spike's system ran to his face, creating a blush amusingly like that of a live person. He backed off just a step, giving the woman enough wiggle room to scoot frantically out from under his arm and disappear into the crowd.
Spike now wanted to kick the crap out of himself, and oh what a show that'd make. "Old habits," he explained lamely. She nodded. He searched her face - she had relaxed some, but not enough to make him really happy. "Wanna leave the meat market behind a moment and dance with me? Think the wall can hold itself up for now."
There it was - she smiled. "You've been really patient..." She gave him a slow, satisfied blink. "And smart. Thank you for this."
Spike felt awash with warmth. The moment felt dangerous and irresistible.
He wrenched himself back, led her toward the floor. "Well, don't go thinkin' you're the only one's had offers tonight..."
She smirked. "I *noticed*. Didn't take any of them?"
He shrugged and shook his head. "Choosy."
She smiled in that crooked way of hers, and he watched mesmerized as she revved up to match the music's now fevered pitch. She was entirely warmed up, and he actually felt himself a little behind.
Not to mention aroused, as he watched that luscious body move. Odd struth, aroused as all hell.
He forgot himself and moved in closer, put a hand on her shoulder and matched her gyrations with his own body. She looked up and grinned at his participation, then brought herself in to cooperate even closer with what he was doing.
The lights flashed and the music pounded and he felt drugged. He put his other hand on the bare skin of her waist, curled his fingers and possessively pulled her a fraction closer. He looked down with a dry mouth at the sweaty skin of the breasts heaving so close to his face. He could smell the spray she'd put into the fuck-me hair he'd help style. He sensed her pulse pounding in her sweaty neck, felt the ends of her long locks whip him occasionally as she thrashed her head from side to side.
Her eyes were closed, and he gaped at her helplessly. Oh, Jesus, he was still too achingly far from her...surely she wouldn't let him get closer. She was for all the world just a gay woman dancing with a platonic male friend - no risk, all fun. That was the reason for her openness, had to be. Stop it, you bloody git, it's not like that...
Pity the thing between his legs didn't know what was a game and what wasn't. It was taking the proceedings quite seriously.
He startled as her eyes opened and locked with his, keeping him riveted as their bodies mirrored each other, straining closer, almost brushing. Her grin was pleased, a challenge. Spike felt himself take "rock hard" to a new level. Just a game, just a game, no not a game, it couldn't be, what was she doing? Mischievous look, then turning around, her fragrant hair in his face, her shoulder blades against his chest, leaning back, dancing, and then subtly changing position...
...the shock of her ass suddenly grinding deliciously into him...
"BLOODY HELL!"
Tara whirled as Spike jumped back nearly a yard, turning from her quickly to apologize to all the people he'd slammed into.
"Spike!" She sounded shocked out of her reverie. "What happened?"
Spike stood in the midst of the dance floor chaos, his back to her, his chest heaving. He mentally ran through excuses. Somehow, 'trying not to throw you to the ground and rut you like an animal' didn't seem like the thing to say, however true. He barked out a laugh when he considered telling her he'd pulled a muscle, in his pants.
"Just, quite a lot of exercise, all at once," he panted over his shoulder. "Gonna go take a ciggie break. Back in a tick."
He left her standing there, watching him go.
++++++++++++++++
Tara found the ladies' room and entered, smiling at a couple of women she'd spent time dancing with as they exited. She found an empty stall, shut the door, and just sat.
What *was* that with Spike back there?
She had a very good idea what had made him rush out, and her cheeks were burning with the implications...not to mention the idea that she'd had that much of an effect.
What had gotten into her? She'd *so* been turning it on with him - just because they were friends and she'd been having a good night - especially good given her recent misery - didn't give her the right to tease him. It wasn't fair, and it scared her that she'd gone there - teasing a man's libido could get a girl in trouble, especially when dealing with a wild card like Spike.
But that rang false. Even Spike's little girlfriend scare-off tonight was all about protecting her. She really didn't feel any danger for herself.
But the jittery feeling remained throughout her body, the close-call feeling of having scraped shoulders with danger. Her mind reeled a moment more before it hit her...
...that *Spike's* possible reactions weren't what frightened her.
++++++++++++++++
The rays of sun filtering through the dusty crypt windows indicated it was about noon, but Spike was too excited to sleep.
He lay on his couch, one arm behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, a forgotten blanket tangled somewhere around his knees. His brain was on a hamster wheel, whirring as he planned a million things...
...that he and Tara could do.
For over a week now, he'd shown up at her place every night, and every night he'd taken a girl who'd curled into herself and succeeded in drawing her back out into the world. And each night it took a bit less time, he thought with no shortage of pride. He'd taken her out and shown her sides of herself he was positive she'd never even considered.
The surprise of her attractiveness had flickered first on the edges of his thinking, and now appeared daily, fully formed in his mind. He let his thoughts happen, but tried not to linger on them or devise any plans for action, frozen in place by the success of his endeavor so far, and - oh yeah - the fact of her being gay.
Still, he couldn't resist thinking about the expressions he'd seen on her during the times she'd been happiest. A warm, pleasant flush spread over him as he considered her face, so glowing with discovery and joy, so unabashed, so open and willing to share it.
So unlike...well, you know.
Suddenly the Buffy Problem was right back upon him. He frowned as he thought about the weeks before Tara, when he'd been trying to think of another way to approach the Slayer, but nothing would come to him, and every time he considered the situation he just got madder, and it never led to anything constructive.
His only choices for relief had been lying around drinking, fighting demons, occasionally trashing his pad, but even they hadn't been doing for him what they used to. He didn't know what the glitch was -- normally he'd have been onto some new scheme by then. This just seemed...different, in a way he couldn't unravel.
The emotions began to come back, unbidden, and he grimaced at their onslaught. He felt slighted, pissed off, misunderstood, wronged. The idea of apologizing drifted through and was met with a mental tantrum - no sodding way! She'd treated him like shit, after all! Running hot and cold, beating him up, denying her own behavior and the glaring reality of their bond. And for that she was gettin' away scot free! What was a bloke supposed to do, just let his greatest love walk out?
Yeah, he could have taken another tack - probably should have - but it's not like the Slayer was made of glass, for Chrissake. She could give it out as well as she could take it.
He sucked in some air through his nose, blew it out slowly. He turned his thoughts purposely back to what was good right now, to what was working. The mental image of Tara's large, dewy eyes and soft, crooked smile relaxed him, seemed to turn his muscles to butter. That girl was a tranquilizer, she was.
He felt like he was able to be a better version of himself now, better than he'd been in a long time. He was hoping the change was something permanent, that this thing with Tara would break this block of his, that he'd be able to start on it fresh after she was feeling better and able to stand on her own. But he didn't think that he would leave her on her own any time soon. There was plenty of time to keep doing this. He felt strangely serene at the idea.
Plenty of time.
++++++++++++++++
Tara had never considered Spike much in the past, but if she had, she would have had to say he was like a bee in the room - quick, light, potentially deadly, grabbing all the attention the instant he appeared and making everyone feel threatened - though, these days, not too seriously. And as soon as he was dealt with and gone, there was general relief.
How unbelievable that such a person would be saving her existence.
Tara lolled in her bed, lazily looking at the morning spilling in her window through the blinds. When she'd first awoken ten minutes or so ago, her first feeling had been the usual one - of not wanting to get out of bed, of wanting to go back to the cocoon, of the impossibility of dealing with the day. But a few moments later, the feeling had abated, replaced by the calm certainty that whatever she had to do today was possible, that nothing was going to get so bad that she couldn't handle it.
Or more precisely, that Spike wouldn't be able to help her handle it.
She was constantly amazed, whenever she thought about it, at how much kindness was in Spike, at how much selflessness could pour out of him. At the results that occurred when all that busy bee energy got focused into something, especially when that something was her. His blue-eyed, sharp-cheeked attention seemed to fill her up like electricity, buzzing and tickling her to astonished life, animating her limbs into motion that she wouldn't be capable of otherwise.
It seemed possible to get drunk on that attention.
She wondered what it would be like to O.D.
She wondered what he was like before he was turned, at whether or not she was seeing some of that old personality. If this behavior was anything like what he'd done when he was human, he must have been quite a ladykiller.
Before he, you know...went pro with the idea.
Eventually she sighed, sat up and yawned, stretched back her shoulders. She removed the little foam ear plugs she used for sleeping and went to put them in a small wooden box she kept on her nightstand.
She stopped and looked at the box for the first time in a long while.
It was small, with a fitted lid that had a masculine pattern inlaid into its top - a line made up of interlocked, different colored triangles. She was pretty sure that her father hadn't purchased it with her in mind, that he'd actually bought it to give to her brother, and had only turned it into a gift for her when her birthday rolled up sooner than he'd expected and he found himself short of a present.
It didn't suit her. It never had.
She picked it up and turned it around, noticing absently the little nicks and scratches it had sustained through a short lifetime of use.
Forced use. Now a habit.
Her face went sour at the memories coming back, all the baggage that came with it. Her mother had made her thank him profusely for it. She shook her head silently at the idea of thanking a monster, with her mother forcing her, even though her mother surely *knew*. How did her mother look herself in the mirror back then? No wonder she'd wanted out. She thought of her mother's complicity in the crime, in the tearing down of her childhood self, the whole conspiracy of crap.
Spike, though, was different than other men - the most unlikely source of a good male example she could ever have conceived. She didn't know why she felt at ease with him. Wait, maybe she did: he listened to what she said. Really, without pretending. He took action because of it, on her behalf. And she knew he would not *stop* acting until any problem she had was solved. She knew there was nothing she could say to him in earnestness that he wouldn't take seriously for her, no matter how small or embarrassing.
She felt almost unbearably grateful for it.
++++++++++++++++
Spike knocked on Tara's door at half past six, just barely past sunset. He'd had to do a little ducking and running to make it this early, creatively keeping to the lengthening shadows on his way over, but staying in his crypt any longer had just not been an option.
When he'd read the flyer about tonight's poetry slam, he'd instantly wanted to show it to her, very much. Sure, the poets wouldn't be doing the kind of verse he'd loved as a young man, but he appreciated the newer stuff too, the aggressiveness of it, and anyway, it'd be kind of a...first stage kind of thing. If it turned out she liked poetry at all, then perhaps he'd find the stones to show her some of his real favorites, the stuff nearer and dearer to his heart.
As it was, he didn't yet have the stones to think about why he wanted to show her that stuff at all.
When Tara opened the door, she was wearing a t-shirt and big flannel pants, no makeup. Spike's stomach sank a little. Was she feeling down again? No, her smile was genuine.
He kept his tone light. "Somebody's not dressed yet."
She smiled apologetically. "Actually, I know you had plans for something, but I was going to see if maybe I could talk you into staying in. I just... don't feel like doing anything where I have to dress up, or be seen by people."
Spike took the news with a nod, reserving judgement. Tara plunged nervously into his silence.
"Couldn't...couldn't we do something like the junkyard again, or something here, in my room?" She held onto the door jamb, and stepped on one white-socked foot with the other. "Couldn't you just *tell* me about the reason?"
Spike nodded thoughtfully. "Um...no. I understand where you're coming from, pet, but..." He tried to decide whether he was still keeping her interests in mind here, or his own. He looked at her doe's eyes. Fuck it, they felt the same. "I just think it's better that you get out."
Tara slumped in mock protest, walking away from the door. "I, just, I...haven't got anything to wear."
Spike followed her in, trying to keep from rolling his eyes. He'd been used to Dru's whims, and knew that women found this stuff important, but really -- wasn't one baggy sweater the same as the next? At least Dru had some style.
"You've got plenty to wear. Not taking you to a fashion show."
"And I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. I should probably go to bed early."
"Won't be out late."
She turned to him, her face suddenly betraying the slightest bit of desperation. "Really, Spike, I don't see what difference it would make if we stayed in just this once..."
"Pet." He stepped closer to her, putting his hands on her arms, focusing her on his face. "Tell Spike what it is."
Tara blinked at him, a little miserable. She closed her eyes and sighed. "It's just one of those nights lately where...I just feel ugly."
Spike's eyes got wider, and his mouth drifted open. He blinked twice. "Oh, bugger THAT." He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her across the room. "Right. The plan's changed."
Her expression lifted. "We're staying in?"
He opened the bathroom door and pushed her inside. "No. Now we're *definitely* going. Times ten. Here, get yourself girled up."
At her protesting expression, he swung the bathroom door shut with a thunk.
Bloody hell, the ideas that got into that bird's head. He turned his back to the door and folded his arms.
He could definitely show her what a dish she was.
++++++++++++++++
Spike was surprised. Really surprised. Bloody gobsmacked. And Spike didn't surprise easily.
He'd known Tara was cute. Never been much for what she called "style", but still, she had a lot going for her. He'd always thought that with a little fashion advice she could be more than she reckoned.
But of this, he'd had no *idea*.
He'd overseen her grooming for the evening - to make sure she did things proper, didn't just settle for 'whatever'. Instead of using the one sedate shade of lipstick she owned, he had her paint her entire mouth with her dark lipliner. When she'd applied a modest bit of eyeliner, he'd taken if from her and traced her eyes' outlines in smoky, smudgy dark kohl. Hell, he'd lived through the Eighties, poofy pirate shirts and all - he knew a thing or two about eyeliner.
He'd had her wear her hair down, curl it a bit, tousle it a bit more.
In her closet, he'd found a soft, wine-colored peasant's blouse with a low, loose neckline, and elastic gathers around the waist. He'd also found a pair of fake leather pants that Tara tried to snatch out of his hand, that she swore she'd only bought on a dare and were now too small for her.
Too small, his ass.
Or rather, her ass.
The pants fit like they'd been poured on, and were now showing off a smooth, feminine belly and fondly hugging every curve of said ass in a way that Spike was now quickly realizing he'd love to be doing, given the opportunity.
Focus, he told himself.
The blouse plunged to show off a pair of tits that Spike had figured were nice, but were now proving to be nothing short of glorious. As she walked next to him through the night air, he was powerfully distracted. He could feel her and smell her and see the bounce of her breasts out of the corner of his eye, and the heels on the boots he'd picked out were lending her their bad-ass strut.
Bloody hell, she was breathtaking.
It didn't even matter that she was trying to shrink inside her clothes, and looking around at her new environment with the air of a five-year-old child on the first day of school - he could fix that with the right encouragement. He still found himself dead chuffed to be out with such a goddess.
All right, so the goddess wasn't "his". And the fact that they were headed toward a mixed men's-and-women's gay club would pretty much nix the idea in any of his onlookers' minds that he and Wicca were together, provided it ever entered their minds at all.
Steady as she goes, mate, he told himself. Bring nothing but heartache, things that go on in your head.
Spike's acquaintance with the doorman let them skip the long line of club-goers and head straight in. Inside, it was the usual warehouse-like structure full of throbbing music, bewildering lights and a mass of pulsing humanity. The two entered onto a small raised area just above the dance floor. Spike watched Tara as she looked down somewhat tiredly over the scene below.
"Not even tryin' to take the piss outta this little trip, are you?" he asked in amusement. She glanced at him questioningly. "Would've expected more objection. What happen, I wear you down?"
"No." She shook her head absently. "I trust you."
Oh.
That thrill. Soft. And more thrilling than before. Worth a good, deep sigh.
Impetuously Spike grabbed her hand and pulled her to him in a couples' dance pose. Tara let out a surprised sound. Spike looked like the canary that ate the cat.
"I sincerely hope they are no other vamps here," he murmured devilishly, mouth close to hers. "Because you look good enough to eat."
Tara blinked, then rolled her eyes and smiled.
"Dance with me?"
Tara nodded. Still smiling, Spike noticed.
Spike felt himself fairly comfortable on a dance floor - in the punk era, he'd discovered music as a visceral experience and now, if he let it, his body would just go. But Tara danced like she only performed moves that had been examined and deemed suitable, pre-approved, with nothing spontaneous entering her limbs.
'Nuff o' that.
"Here," he called over the music. "Show you somethin'." He moved behind her and gently pushed her shoulders and hips to guide her in a different move. She started out awkward, but soon got the idea, and laughed a little self-consciously.
"Now this." He guided her into a new move. As he did, he occasionally let his hands linger on her arms, or waist, or let his fingers brush her as they moved from place to place. She glanced back at him a little uncertainly, but didn't object.
He was doing it partly, hopefully, to make her feel sensual - get her thinking of her body as more than just a device to transport her brain around...
...and partly because it didn't seem his fingers could resist.
He leaned close to her ear. "Have you any idea how many pairs of eyes turned to you when you walked out here?"
Tara looked abruptly over her shoulder at him, unsure.
"Blokes *and* ladies," he went on. "'Parently one group wants to be you, other just wants to do you."
She whirled to smack him on the arm, mouth open. Spike laughed. "Sorry, don't make the news, just report it." She turned back to face front, huffing in amused disbelief.
Spike grinned. Amusement was his open door to continue. "Don't imagine you'll be mine for much longer..." As the words left his mouth he spotted a petite brunette approaching. She had curly hair and a mischievous face. The song was ending. Perfect opportunity...
"Mind if I cut in?"
Her words were for Spike but her eyes never left Tara. Tara looked at the girl uncertainly, then at Spike. Spike stepped back with a gracious gesture.
As he made his way to the side of the dance floor, he saw the two start into the next song. The brunette was now the one dead chuffed. Tara's body language was opening up.
He decided to walk toward the open back door, pulling out his smokes. Plan was working perfectly...
...dammit.
++++++++++++++++
Spike had lost track of how many women Tara'd danced with. He stayed on the sidelines, just pleased to watch her body move like it was meant to, watching her throw back her head in laughter and sweat and the moment.
He swirled the ice in his Jack and Coke thoughtfully. His idea to make her feel non-ugly was a raging success.
So why was he feeling so surly?
"I'm sorry, but you *don't* look like a wallflower."
He looked up into the face of a dark, muscle-bound man. An obvious gym rat, with the hint of a New York accent. Spike smiled wearily. 'Nother heart to break.
"I know *exactly* what to do to lose that frown," the man continued, his eyes roaming.
"Sorry, mate. Not in the mood tonight."
"I'm offering to *put* you in the mood," the man teased. He moved closer, but something about the steel in Spike's eyes made him stop.
He made a gracious recovery. "Okay, no means no." He smiled. "If you change your mind..."
"You'll be the first to know," Spike lied. The man's place in line was actually something like...twenty-seventh.
He looked back out at the dance floor - nothing compared to Tara's line, though, was it?
She'd lost so much of her previous inhibition, but was still awkward in a way that made Spike smile - a big, leggy girl who still moved like the colt she'd been when she was barely into her teens.
Spike's smile evaporated. Oh no. Very bad sign. When you start finding another person's awkwardness endearing, it's more than simple attraction then, innit? You are well on your way to being good and truly fucked.
He was distracted from that thought by a situation apparently developing. Tara was trying to say goodbye to a girl on the floor, a tough looking one wearing a wife-beater and a short, blond, man's haircut. The girl was not cooperating. Tara's eyes were becoming worried. Apparently no didn't mean no throughout the club.
Spike didn't remember the trip through the thick throng of dancers - he woke up when he had the blonde woman's back against the wall, his forearm tight against her throat. "'Ere, you new to the language?" he sneered. "Need a translation? She's done with the likes of you."
The woman's eyes were saucers. Spike felt a gentle hand on his arm. "Spike..." He turned to see Tara, eyeing him strangely. "Down, boy." Kind of a joke, and kind of not.
The borrowed blood in Spike's system ran to his face, creating a blush amusingly like that of a live person. He backed off just a step, giving the woman enough wiggle room to scoot frantically out from under his arm and disappear into the crowd.
Spike now wanted to kick the crap out of himself, and oh what a show that'd make. "Old habits," he explained lamely. She nodded. He searched her face - she had relaxed some, but not enough to make him really happy. "Wanna leave the meat market behind a moment and dance with me? Think the wall can hold itself up for now."
There it was - she smiled. "You've been really patient..." She gave him a slow, satisfied blink. "And smart. Thank you for this."
Spike felt awash with warmth. The moment felt dangerous and irresistible.
He wrenched himself back, led her toward the floor. "Well, don't go thinkin' you're the only one's had offers tonight..."
She smirked. "I *noticed*. Didn't take any of them?"
He shrugged and shook his head. "Choosy."
She smiled in that crooked way of hers, and he watched mesmerized as she revved up to match the music's now fevered pitch. She was entirely warmed up, and he actually felt himself a little behind.
Not to mention aroused, as he watched that luscious body move. Odd struth, aroused as all hell.
He forgot himself and moved in closer, put a hand on her shoulder and matched her gyrations with his own body. She looked up and grinned at his participation, then brought herself in to cooperate even closer with what he was doing.
The lights flashed and the music pounded and he felt drugged. He put his other hand on the bare skin of her waist, curled his fingers and possessively pulled her a fraction closer. He looked down with a dry mouth at the sweaty skin of the breasts heaving so close to his face. He could smell the spray she'd put into the fuck-me hair he'd help style. He sensed her pulse pounding in her sweaty neck, felt the ends of her long locks whip him occasionally as she thrashed her head from side to side.
Her eyes were closed, and he gaped at her helplessly. Oh, Jesus, he was still too achingly far from her...surely she wouldn't let him get closer. She was for all the world just a gay woman dancing with a platonic male friend - no risk, all fun. That was the reason for her openness, had to be. Stop it, you bloody git, it's not like that...
Pity the thing between his legs didn't know what was a game and what wasn't. It was taking the proceedings quite seriously.
He startled as her eyes opened and locked with his, keeping him riveted as their bodies mirrored each other, straining closer, almost brushing. Her grin was pleased, a challenge. Spike felt himself take "rock hard" to a new level. Just a game, just a game, no not a game, it couldn't be, what was she doing? Mischievous look, then turning around, her fragrant hair in his face, her shoulder blades against his chest, leaning back, dancing, and then subtly changing position...
...the shock of her ass suddenly grinding deliciously into him...
"BLOODY HELL!"
Tara whirled as Spike jumped back nearly a yard, turning from her quickly to apologize to all the people he'd slammed into.
"Spike!" She sounded shocked out of her reverie. "What happened?"
Spike stood in the midst of the dance floor chaos, his back to her, his chest heaving. He mentally ran through excuses. Somehow, 'trying not to throw you to the ground and rut you like an animal' didn't seem like the thing to say, however true. He barked out a laugh when he considered telling her he'd pulled a muscle, in his pants.
"Just, quite a lot of exercise, all at once," he panted over his shoulder. "Gonna go take a ciggie break. Back in a tick."
He left her standing there, watching him go.
++++++++++++++++
Tara found the ladies' room and entered, smiling at a couple of women she'd spent time dancing with as they exited. She found an empty stall, shut the door, and just sat.
What *was* that with Spike back there?
She had a very good idea what had made him rush out, and her cheeks were burning with the implications...not to mention the idea that she'd had that much of an effect.
What had gotten into her? She'd *so* been turning it on with him - just because they were friends and she'd been having a good night - especially good given her recent misery - didn't give her the right to tease him. It wasn't fair, and it scared her that she'd gone there - teasing a man's libido could get a girl in trouble, especially when dealing with a wild card like Spike.
But that rang false. Even Spike's little girlfriend scare-off tonight was all about protecting her. She really didn't feel any danger for herself.
But the jittery feeling remained throughout her body, the close-call feeling of having scraped shoulders with danger. Her mind reeled a moment more before it hit her...
...that *Spike's* possible reactions weren't what frightened her.
++++++++++++++++