Chapter 8

            "It was the worst night of my life," Spike grumbled as he helped Buffy unroll the rug in his living room.

            She clucked her tongue in sympathy. "The first date back is always the hardest."

            He looked at her. "You've only been on one date since Riley. How do you know it won't get worse?"

            She stood straight, stretching out her back, and stared at him. "How much worse could it get? He waited till the end of dinner to tell me that he's a mortician and that, should I ever die, he'd be sure that he's the one to do my make up? That way, he said, I'd go down looking pretty."

            Spike winced. "Ouch." He shook his head. "You're still talking dream date compared to the horror that was an evening with Cordelia."

            "Do tell," she muttered, visually appraising the way the rug worked with the décor of the living room.

            "First of all, the chit has no sense of humor, whatsoever. I mean, we went to this Ethiopian restaurant, right? I make a joke about how I didn't think they had food in Ethiopia, so it'd be a quick meal." He caught Buffy smiling. "No smiling from her. No response. It was like… air passing through her ears."

            "It's gotta go this way," Buffy interrupted, gesturing at the rug.

            He helped her move it as he continued. "So anyway, I finally manage to get the bint talking, and it turns out that she went to UNLV, and that gets me thinking about Harm, and I'm all bloody out of my head about it for the rest of the evening…"

            "Harmony went to the University of Las Vegas?"

            "No, she went to University of Nevada in Reno, but they're both in the same state, for cryin' out loud!"

            "Okay, okay," Buffy soothed while she straightened the rug. "So what happened?"

            "I had to leave the restaurant," he sighed, plopping down on his new couch.

            She gave one last appraising look to the rug before settling on the couch next to him. "Spike," she said softly, "it's going to take some time before dating again seems natural to us. Hell, who knows how long it'll be before we're even comfortable to sleep with anyone…?"

            His eyebrows raised and he looked at her. "Oh, I didn't say I didn't sleep with her."

            "Oh." She was silent a moment as she processed this. "So… You slept with her?"

            "Well, I admit, she's a bit cottony between the ears, but a bloke's got needs…"

            She let that sink in some more, trying to tamp down any shred of jealousy that threatened to poke through. "Oh," was all she said.

            He nodded, silently satisfied that he'd gotten to her a bit. "Yeah. So," he said, gesturing to the rug, "it's not too much black in the room, is it?"

            She looked askance at him. "Spike, your whole fucking apartment is black. Your clothes are black. The only thing not black is your hair."

            He curled his tongue against his upper teeth. "Aw, c'mon, luv… Gotta have some varied taste."

            She threw a couch pillow in his face, thus beginning a rather violent pillow fight.

            That night, Spike was at the local pool hall, Balls in the Pocket, with his best friend, Oz.  His name was actually Daniel Osbourne, but to everyone that mattered, it was just "Oz." Normally the quiet type, Oz was currently ribbing his friend about his friendship with Buffy. He bent over, lining up his shot.

            "So, Spike, man…" He paused as he took the shot, sunk the ball in a corner pocket, then straightened to look at his friend. "I just don't get this relationship you're in."
            Innocently, Spike eyed the pool table, sipping his beer. He watched Oz as he lined up another shot. "What do you mean?"

            "You enjoy being with her?" came the reply as the shorter man rounded the table.

            "Yeah."

            "You find her attractive?" He took his shot.

            Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. "Extremely. Where's this going, mate?"

            "And you're not sleeping with her?" The tone in the other man's voice was that of skepticism.

            Spike set his beer down on the table behind him, taking a seat in one of the chairs. "No."

            "So, what are you afraid of? Don't want to let yourself be happy?" Oz leaned up against the pool table, twirling a cue between his fingers.

            "Oz, man, I don't see why you're not happy for me," Spike protested. "This is a big step for me, mate. Being friends with a woman and not having sex with her. I feel like I'm growing…"

            "Hey," a teenager behind Oz interrupted. "You done shootin', yet, guys? I got me a whole bunch of quarters and we're wantin' to play." He gestured to his buddies next to him.

            Spike snorted. "No, we're not done. We were here first. Go do your laundry with those quarters of yours."

            The teenager rolled his eyes and Spike swore he heard "Asshole" muttered by the group as they walked away.

            Sighing and taking another sip of beer, Spike lit up a cigarette. He looked at Oz, who had a silently amused smile on his face. "Now, where was I?"

            "You were growing." Oz gestured to the table. "It's your shot."

            "Oh, here. Hold this, will you?" He held out his cigarette to Oz, who gingerly held the filter between his thumb and index finger. Assessing the pool table, Spike continued. "It's very freeing, really. I can say anything to her."

            "You can't say anything to me?" Oz retorted, amused.

            "Not like that, mate. It's just from a woman's perspective. Entirely different animal." He leaned over, lining up his shot. "She tells me about the men she goes out with, and I tell her about the women I see." He took the shot and missed it.

            "You tell her about other women?" the other man replied doubtfully as he handed Spike back his lit cigarette.

            "Yeah, man," Spike said, taking a drag off his fag. "Like, for instance, the other night with Cordelia, I took her to a place that wasn't even human. She actually meowed."

            Oz stopped, mid-shot. "You made a woman meow?"

            "Yeah, see, that's the point," Spike asserted, more for his own benefit than for Oz's. "I can say these things to her and not worry about it or lie to her, because I'm not trying to get her into bed or anything. I can just be myself."

            Oz just stared at him, mouth open. "You made a woman meow?"

            The next day, Spike and Buffy sat in their now favorite Chinese restaurant. After receiving their meals, Buffy twirled her fork in her chow mein, her brow creased in thought. "So," she said, "what do you do with these women?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "You just get up out of bed and leave after it's over?"

            He nodded, taking a bite of sweet and sour pork. "Pretty much," he admitted nonchalantly.

            "Explain. I mean, what do you say that makes them not throw heavy objects at you?" she laughed, taking a bite of her own food.

            "Well, that I have to get to the office early in the morning, or that I have to meet a friend for drinks or business." He shrugged as he chewed another bite of pork. "Stuff like that."

            She rolled her eyes. "Spike, you never get to the office any time before ten o'clock."

            "They don't know that, pet," he pointed out. "They just met me."

            "That's disgusting," she muttered, shaking her head.

            "I know," he grinned, completely unrepentant. "I feel terrible." He took a large bite of eggroll.

            She sighed and stabbed at her pepper steak. "I am so glad I never got involved with you. I'd just have been another chick that you rolled out of bed with. You would have told me something like, 'Oh, I have to get the dog groomed today.' And you don't even have a dog!" She muttered around a bite of steak, thoroughly perturbed.

            He blinked, confused. "What are you so upset about? This isn't about you, luv."

            "Yes it is," she bit back, chin raised defiantly. The defiance was comically off-set by the sauce dripping down from one corner of her mouth. "You're a walking insult to all women, and I'm a woman."

            "Good to know," he said, biting back a laugh. "For a second there I was worried." He shrugged and opened a packet of sweet and sour sauce, pouring it over his pork. "Besides, the women I'm with, they have an okay time. I don't hear any complaints." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

            "And you know this how?" she asked, her own eyebrows risen in skepticism.

            He stared. "What do you mean? I just know," he said, gesturing for emphasis.

            "Oh, you know, do you?"

            "What," he laughed. "You're saying they'd fake it? With me?"

            She giggled and rolled her eyes. "Spike, you think you're god's gift to women… It's entirely possible that they have faked it."

            He was too insulted to formulate a reply. He settled for choking on a piece of pork, turning a lovely shade of beet red while he raised an eyebrow at her.

            She laughed and continued with her hypothesis. "Most women have faked it, at one time or another."

            "Yeah," he coughed, recovering and drinking some water. "Well, not with me, they haven't."

            "How do you know?"

            "I just know."

            "Oh, right," she sighed. "Because you're a man."

            "What's that supposed to mean?" he argued.

            "Oh, nothing… It's just that all men are so positive that it never happens to them, but yet all women have done it at least once in their lives." She smiled sweetly at him and took an exaggerated bite of her own eggroll. "You do the math."

            "You think I can't tell the difference?"

            She shook her head. "Not if your life depended on it."

            "Oh, bloody hell…" he laughed. "Please…"

            She stared at him for a moment, smiled, and looked down at her plate. After a moment of chewing, a low moan came from her throat. He watched as she shifted slightly in her seat, as if uncomfortable. She moaned again, her lips forming a perfect "O". "Oh…oh, god…"

            Alarmed, he leaned over to pat her shoulder. "Are you all right, luv?"

            She threw her head to the side, continuing her moaning. "Oh, god…god, yes, great…perfect…oohhhhhhhhh," she moaned again, gyrating her hips on the seat. She bucked softly against the leather of the booth, throwing her head back. "God! God, yes! Oh, honey! I'm coming… baby, yes! Oh, oh, oh… ohhhh… Yes! Yes! Yes! So good, so fucking good… Please… Don't stop… OHHHH!" She reached her crescendo, froze for a moment, and then sagged against the booth, a blissful smile plastered against her face, apparently panting for breath. "Thank you, thank you, baby…Oh, god…Damn…" She took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyelids hooded in what appeared to be passion, and then sat up straight. Daintily, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin and stared him straight in the eye.

            Spike was frozen, hand halfway to her shoulder, his mouth dropped open in utter shock. Dimly, he was aware of the other patrons of the restaurant staring in their direction. He saw Buffy looking back at him innocently as she took a healthy bite of pepper steak. She smiled and batted her eyes, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder. One waiter dropped a glass.

            In the background of complete silence, they both heard an elderly woman lean over to her waiter and say, "I'll have whatever she's having."

TBC