When Spike Met Buffy

Part 13

Buffy woke to the sound of breakfast being made in the kitchen. Slowly, she stretched, all the muscles in her body protesting at a night spent on the living room floor. Her outstretched hands encountered a familiar leather duster laid out on the floor next to her. Reaching for it in confusion, she also uncovered the tattered remnants of a black t-shirt.

Oh god.

"Mornin', luv," came an all-too-familiar voice from the kitchen. He lifted the skillet high so she could see it over the countertop that separated them. "Thought you might be hungry after last night."

She nodded, numbly, transfixed by horror at her actions and by the sight of him without a shirt on. Who knew Spike was sexy? She kicked herself mentally for such thinking. Bad Buffy, what have you done? You're nothing more than a friend to him. and now he probably thinks you're an easy friend.

She watched, clutching his discarded duster around her naked form, as he scooped scrambled eggs and bacon onto two plates. Pouring juice into glasses, he set them on the countertop, which served as the breakfast nook. Noticing the way she clutched his coat to herself, he furrowed his brow in concern.

"Cold, pet?" Without waiting for a response, he moved to the back of the couch and picked up the throw that lay across it. As he became fully visible from around the couch, walking towards her, it was immediately apparent that a shirt wasn't the only thing he'd neglected to put on when he woke up.

Buffy's eyes widened and she looked away instantly. "Th-thanks," she stammered, trying to forget the image of Naked Spike. "But, shouldn't you be wearing. pants?"

She could practically see the eyebrow raising as his attitude shifted. "Oh, that's right. Hide your blushing eyes," he said sarcastically. All other sound was muffled and the lights dimmed as the afghan was unceremoniously chucked at her head.

As she removed the heavy blanket, wrapping it around her in lieu of his duster, she watched bemusedly as he paced across the room from her. He toyed with an unlit cigarette between his fingers, but she would be hard- put to say where, exactly, he had pulled it from, as she was still holding onto his duster. He seemed to be having an internal debate with himself, and she watched as he grew more and more frustrated. Finally, he turned to her, a scowl twisting his handsome features.

"Well, say something." She smiled at him, a little too innocently. "Why do I need to? You seem to be carrying on enough conversation for the both of us."

He let out an angry growl and placed the cigarette between his lips, preparing to light it. "What the hell is wrong with you? I mean."

She frowned, interrupting him. "Don't you dare light that cancer stick."

He ignored her, holding the flame from his lighter to the tip of the cigarette, watching it glow before inhaling from it. Pointedly blowing the smoke in her direction, he snorted with amusement as she fanned the smoke away from her face. "Well, I bloody well need something to keep me from wringing your pretty little neck, it seems." He perched on the arm of the couch, staring at her with a mixture of hurt and anger.

She felt a knife twist in her heart as she saw his expression, knowing he was only reacting to the coldness she was showing him. But she knew they were only good together as friends. Anything more would ruin what they had. I'm sorry this morning couldn't be songbirds and roses, Spike, she thought sadly. I really am.

"I only asked you to put pants on, Spike," she muttered, staring at the carpet.

"Well," he said smugly, "you were certainly eager enough to get them off last night."

Her cheeks burned at the memory and she avoided his piercing gaze. If she looked into his eyes at this point, it would be her undoing. She wouldn't have the courage to follow through with what she knew needed to be done. "That was a mistake," she whispered.

"I'm sorry, luv," he drawled, taking a drag from his cigarette and stretching back against the couch. "You're going to have to speak up, I can't hear you through your self-recrimination."

She winced before raising her jaw slightly, still not meeting his eyes. "What we did, last night, was a mistake, Spike."

His façade of anger melted away, replaced by barely-concealed desperation. "It didn't feel like a mistake to me," he insisted. "Felt bloody wonderful."

"Yeah, well, it felt great, but." Her voice trailed off as she tried to find the words. "It was just sex. I feel terrible now, having just had meaningless sex with my best friend." She picked at the fibers of the carpet, fighting back the tears. "And no matter how hard I try to convince myself that it meant something more, I know we'll never be anything more than friends."

"That's great," he ground out, glaring at her. "Fucking brilliant logic you've got there, Buffy. Have sex now, feel great, regret it in the morning and trample a bloke's hopes. Oh, but please, let's remain friends!" He flashed her a brilliant smile that was completely fake, before his expression once again shifted to a frown. "Don't bleedin' think so."

She quickly wiped away the tear that leaked from the corner of one eye, before he'd had a chance to see it fall. "Spike." she tried again.

"Save it, Summers," he sniped, grabbing the duster from her grasp. "Hope you really like eggs, because I've come down with a sudden case of not being very hungry." He stared down at her, smirking, as he shrugged into the long leather coat. "Call me next time you need a sympathy fuck."

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, watching as he strode purposefully towards the door. Finally, it hit her, and she halted him by calling out his name. He silently turned to face her, fuming. She gestured to the pants that still lay on the back of the couch. Raising an eyebrow, she commented, "Prostitution may be legal in the state of Nevada, but you can still be picked up for public nudity."

He rolled his eyes, glaring daggers at her as he retrieved his pants and put them on, followed by his shoes. She raised the scrap of fabric that was his shirt and he shook his head. "Keep it for a souvenir, Summers."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You're a pig, Spike."

"Oink, oink." He leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Because, deny it as you might, I shagged you here on the pictures of your beloved Soldier Boy, and you liked it. You screamed my name, and you enjoyed every bleedin' moment." Straightening, he looked down at her. "But if you say last night didn't mean anything, I suppose you're right. Didn't mean a sodding thing. Silly me."

She cringed at the tone in his voice, so different from the voice he'd used last night, murmuring affections in her ear. She watched as he turned to the breakfast nook and picked up a slice of bacon from one of the plates, chewing off a piece.

Swallowing, he smirked. "Mmm. You'll love your breakfast, luv. It's frigid now, just like you." He turned to the door again.

"Where are you going, Spike?" she asked softly. "Home?"

"After this morning?" he laughed. "No, I value my apartment too much. So." He trailed off, looking at her with what could have been construed as longing, if not for the scowl twisting his mouth. "Out for a walk. Bitch."

She felt all hopes at staying friends with this man dissolve as he walked through the door, slamming it behind him.