The sun dipped low on the horizon as Buffy stared out the window, watching
the light disappear behind towers of chrome and steel. She sighed quietly;
the one thing she missed about being home was watching the sunset from her
back porch. A smile danced over her face as the memories played like a
silent film. She saw her and her mom sitting at the island in the kitchen,
talking about the future while the sun filled the room with a rosy glow.
Images of her and Dawn lying curled up on the back porch steps passed
through her mind, Buffy's hand idly smoothing her sister's hair as they
contemplated life on the Hellmouth. She saw Giles, taking off his glasses
and sighing as he stared at the setting sun, searching for answers to give
the girl he loved like a daughter. In her mind's eye she could see Willow
and Tara in the kitchen, making dinner and sharing a private moment against
the darkening sky while Xander and Anya argued on the steps, determined not
to yell in the house and disturb the comfortable silence. "I wonder if the
new owners sit on the porch and watch the sun set," Buffy asked the empty
office, "if someone else finds comfort on those wooden steps, like we all
used to." With that thought, she turned out the light in the office and
walked out towards the cold New York air, her mind still lost in the not-so-
distant past.
The wind howled and whistled, whipping the long hem of his leather duster furiously. People filled the sidewalks, their cheeks red with cold as they hurriedly walked from one building to another. Everyone was in a hurry, they all had a direction and a purpose, no one walked idly here, there was always someplace to go, someone to see, something to do. He didn't mind the organized chaos of the city, it was alive with memories; since leaving the warm sanctuary of his hotel room, the thoughts had strengthened their assault on his emotionally wrought mind. Every time Spike came to the Big Apple, he was following a Slayer, first the one back in the seventies and now the one he still thought of as his own. This trip was different, it wasn't about one good day or one perfect moment; it wasn't even about him; this was all for her.
Sometimes it seemed that no matter what he did, the past just kept following him. It was a constant thorn in his side, mocking shadows that reminded him of how far he had fallen. The last time he was in New York, Dru had dragged him up and down the subway, delighting in the flashing white lights and the loud noises. It was in those dark depths of the city that he had truly earned his reputation as the Slayer of Slayers. Now he was avoiding the subway lines, the train station, the imposing Cathedrals and all tattoo parlors; he didn't want to relive any of the things he had done here, over thirty years ago.
The hotel room was too small for him, bright walls that seemed to inch closer together with every passing minute. As Spike lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, he had allowed himself to dwell on the past. It was torture; no matter how hard he tried everything came back to Buffy. Being in the City was having an effect on Spike, every moment that passed just strengthened his need to see her. No matter how much he tried to change and mold himself into this ideal Prince Charming meets Casanova with a little Superman mixed in, he kept coming back to the face he had hidden behind for decades. Every time he tried to make himself better, he only succeeded in building another layer to hide behind. Only this time he wasn't trying to cover the face of a scared Victorian poet with that of a violent bloodthirsty emotionally stoic demon. He was trying to reinvent himself, to become someone worthy of Buffy's love; Spike had spent three years trying to carve himself into someone she could be proud of, someone she could love. Furious with himself for wasting so much time brooding and waxing poetry, Spike had left the hotel. He wandered aimlessly through the city streets, he didn't know where he was going and he didn't care.
The streets were filled with cars and the sidewalks were crowded for a weekday night. It was early, only a little after seven, but the pitch-black sky made it feel like it should be closer to midnight. Buffy shivered involuntarily as she strode purposefully out the glass doors that separated her office building from the outside world. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten anything in hours and Buffy turned down a nearby avenue, walking towards her favorite Italian restaurant, Amici. The family- owned restaurant was fairly empty, there were a few couples lingering over steaming plates of pasta and a large dinner party in the back room. Grateful to be out of the freezing cold, Buffy smiled at the hostess as she led the blonde to a corner booth.
Buffy settled comfortably into the red leather seats, glancing out the menu absently, already knowing what she wanted. Her server, a young girl with black hair pulled back in a thick braid, placed a basket of bread on the table. "How are you Ms. Summers," Natasha asked, her dark eyes sparkling at the sight of one of her favorite customers. "Fine," Buffy replied with a warm grin; after coming to Amici for so long, all the staff knew her and the owners welcomed her like a member of their own family. "I'll have the fettuccine alfredo with a small house salad," Buffy said. "And a glass of white wine," she added as an afterthought. Natasha nodded and bustled quietly back to the kitchen to place her order.
Outside, Spike was just about to go looking for a blood bank when the bright lights of Amici caught his eye. The restaurant was perched on a street corner, drawing Spike's attention as he leapt out of the path of an oncoming taxi. Shrugging his shoulders he pushed open the heavy glass door, little bells ringing as he walked into the restaurant. As the door whipped open, a blast of cold air drew the hostess's attention away from the waiter she had been flirting with. She smiled at the man who had just entered the restaurant, his leather jacket swirling behind him like a medieval cloak. Her eyes took in the stranger appreciatively, his platinum blond hair was mussed into soft curls, and his navy sweater accented his cobalt eyes. A knowing smirk danced over his lips, impossibly high cheekbones that were strikingly prominent as he locked eyes with her. The hostess licked her suddenly dry lips and attempted to compose herself as his British accent fell on her ears. "Table for one, luv, if that's not too much trouble," he said with a devilish smile. She nodded, nearly kicking the waiter in her haste to seat him. "Right this way," she stammered, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Spike. He surveyed the small restaurant, taking in the home- like atmosphere and the scattered tables of couples enjoying enormous bowls of food, as the hostess guided him to a leather booth.
Buffy sipped the wine that had been brought to her table and closed her eyes, allowing her limbs to loosen. The wine seeped into her system, spreading warmth throughout her petite body and easing away hours of tension. She tore a corner off the bread and popped a piece into her mouth, savoring the tastes that enveloped her tongue. "This is what I needed," Buffy sighed as she surveyed the quaint scene from her booth that lined the perimeter of the restaurant. The dimmed lights added to the intimate and welcoming feel of the restaurant, diminishing the feelings of loneliness that had threatened to overwhelm the former Slayer.
Stopping two tables behind Buffy, the hostess looked questioningly at the man behind her. "Is this alright," she asked, placing a wine list on top of the menu. Spike nodded, "it's fine luv, thanks." He waited until she had begun the trip back to her post before removing his duster. Sliding into the booth, he picked up the menu, studying it critically. Even though he didn't really need to eat, everything on the menu looked good. A dark- haired waitress interrupted his internal monologue. "Hi, welcome to Amici. My name is Natasha and I'll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?" Spike smiled at Natasha and drawled, "Bourbon, on the rocks." She nodded, her smile widening at his throaty accent that completed his sexy aura. "I'll be right back with that." Before putting the order in at the bar, Natasha stopped at her other table, "the food'll be out in a minute or two," she told Buffy who nodded absently.
Buffy's hands were clenched tightly under the table, her knuckles white from the tension. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps and she was struggling to cling to the last measure of self-control she had left. The stranger with a British accent sitting behind Buffy had successfully ruined her quiet evening. Instead of forgetting about her tattered past, the accent had only made her think of Spike. It was bad enough that she had stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk when a guy with platinum hair walks past, now every throaty British accent was enough to send her into emotional overload.
Taking a deep breath, Buffy savagely tore a corner off the loaf of bread. She drained her wine glass in a long swallow. "I'm going to have a nice dinner even if it kills me," she muttered under her breath, "some random accent isn't going to break me apart. I'll just ignore him. I need an unromantic, non-tragedy stricken thought.Giles. Now there's something boring. Giles and his books, boring books, lots of boring books, research books, boring research.Scoobie research, Sunnydale, the Magic Box.research sessions, training sessions, patrol, Spi-." She stopped rambling when Natasha placed a small salad on the table. "Long day," she murmured, trying to think of someway to justify her insane behavior to the waitress who just smiled. Replacing the empty wine glass with a full one, Natasha moved on to her other table.
She smiled at the waitress, but Natasha had already moved onto her other table. "Are you already to order," she asked, trying to avoid her customer's sapphire eyes in an effort to maintain her composure. "Yeah, I'll have the veal chop special, cooked very rare, and a salad," Spike said, "and another brandy." "Sure thing," Natasha said, scribbling down the order, "I'll go put that in and bring out some bread for you." Spike sipped his bourbon slowly, relishing in the familiar burning sensation as the liquor tore down his throat. His eyes flickered over the dining room, studying his fellow diners before falling on the woman in front of him.
Caramel-blonde hair covered her shoulders in loose waves, a sharp contrast to the rich red of her sweater. Spike found himself wondering what who she was; there was something strangely familiar about her. For what felt like the thousandth time that day, his thoughts drifted back to Buffy. He looked down at the tabletop, concentrating on buttering a thick slice of bread. This woman was just another in a long line of blondes that Spike had mistaken for his golden goddess over the last three years.
Absently, Spike reached into the pocket of his duster and removed a worn velvet box. Inside a large diamond winked back at him, sparkling brightly in the shadowy booth. "I'm trying Buffy," he whispered, "I'm trying to be the man you deserve." Spike had been carrying the engagement ring around for over a hundred years; it had belonged to his mother, one of the few things he had kept from his human life. The salad was placed in front of him, interrupting Spike's train of thought. Tucking the diamond back into his coat, he attacked the leafy greens drenched in balsamic vinaigrette dressing. He was tired of thinking about what could have been, it was easier to just focus on the present moment.
Pushing the empty salad plate away, Spike couldn't stop himself from staring at the blonde in front of him. "Bugger this," he growled. At the risk of turning into a brooding ponce like his grand-Sire, Spike signaled to the waitress. Natasha hurried over to the table, "is everything alright?" He nodded, "yeah it's fine. I just had a question. That woman over there, do you know who she is?" Natasha beamed; she could just tell that they would make an adorable match. "It's just that she looks like some I knew and I was wondering." Spike took a sip of his bourbon, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Why, that's Ms. Summers," Natasha said, casting a look in Buffy's direction. Spike's throat closed and he coughed violently, forgetting that he didn't need to breathe. "What did you say her name was," he whispered hoarsely, his blue eyes blazing with a thousand questions. The waitress's smile widened, "Ms. Summers, Buffy Summers." Spike's eyes widened in disbelief, he couldn't believe his luck. A thin smile curled the corners of his mouth, a plan already forming in Spike's mind. He had to make sure that he didn't ruin this perfect opportunity. "Alright luv, I'm going to need your help with this. The two of us, we used to be close a long time ago..but I ruined it. Think you could help me with a little favor?" Natasha nodded; the pain in his blue eyes was heart wrenching and his voice cracked with the emotional strain. "Send her a glass of champagne and a plate of strawberries. Put all the strawberries in a circle, the tips pointing in, and put a piece of chocolate in the center." The waitress nodded, "I'll go tell the cook right away. And who should I say it's from?" Spike smiled, "just bring it to her, I'll take care of the rest."
Dropping the empty fork onto the plate, Buffy sighed with satisfaction. The fettuccine was phenomenal, everything at Amici was homemade and she hadn't ever had a bad meal. She swirled the remaining bit of wine, finishing the glass with a long swallow. The wine had worked its magic, warming Buffy to her inner-most core; she could feel the last of her tension melting into oblivion. Natasha suddenly appeared beside her table, scooping the dirty dishes out of Buffy's way, replacing them with a plate of strawberries and a fluted glass of champagne.
Looking up questioningly, Buffy told her waitress, "I didn't order this." Natasha smiled, "I know. It's from the gentleman behind you. He said you would understand." Having delivered her message, the brunette disappeared into the recesses of the kitchen. Buffy stared at the dessert, a mixture of confusion and disbelief dancing over her face. There were seven ruby red strawberries arranged in a circle, with a piece of dark chocolate perched in the center. She smiled, instinctively sliding her heart-shaped pendant back and forth along the chain; it was just like a dessert Spike used to make for her. Every Valentine's Day or anniversary, he would bring out a bottle of champagne and present her with a plate of strawberries.
She was so involved with her memories, nibbling absently on the fruit, that Buffy didn't notice the man beside her table until he cleared his throat quietly. Swiveling her head to look at him, her eyes widened with recognition. Struggling to swallow over the lump in her throat, she gazed incredulously at him. She had dreamt about this moment for years and now that it was here, she was frozen. All the color drained from her face, her green eyes standing out vividly against her pale skin.
Spike smiled wanly, hesitating a moment before he broke the silence, not knowing whether Buffy was going to punch him or fall over in a faint. She continued to stare out at him, not believing that he was really in front of her. "Hello Buffy." The instant the words left his mouth, Spike kicked himself for his lack of eloquence. He hadn't seen Buffy in years and the first words out of his mouth were a simple greeting that didn't say anything.
Tears spilled down Buffy's cheeks, she trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the table. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, afraid that she was trapped in some dream world. "Spike," she choked out, her voice shaky. She couldn't believe what was going on; pressing her lips together, she bit down on the inside of her cheek, trying to calm her ragged nerves. The muscles in Spike's jaw were clenching and unclenching furiously as he raked his brain for something to say. In his hotel room he had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say to Buffy, knowing exactly what he needed to say. At that moment, staring into the wide green eyes that he had been dreaming about, Spike was speechless. All his words were irrelevant.
Not knowing what she was doing but tired of second-guessing herself, Buffy slid out of the booth. She stood in front of Spike, hesitating for a moment before she wrapped her arms around his neck. Spike stiffened at her touch, but slowly his arms found their way around her waist and his cheek came to rest against her blonde hair. Familiar scents surrounded them as the world faded away, leaving Buffy and Spike in the moment. Buffy inhaled the scent of leather and bourbon as Spike drank in her sweet citrus perfume.
Amazingly Buffy hadn't tried to stake him, but Spike knew that she was a woman of many layers. There was a sea of turbulent emotions hidden under her calm exterior. His fingers tipped her chin up so that their eyes met; he needed to see if she was angry with him, if she hated him as much as he hated himself. Her eyes sparkled with tears, black mascara pooling at the corners. Brushing away the moisture with his fingertips, Spike moved his hand towards her shoulder. Buffy leaned into his embrace, pressing their bodies closer together. She opened her mouth, parting her lips slightly before tilting her head towards Spike. Tightening his arm around her waist, Spike closed the minuscule distance between them. His lips grazed gently over hers, a gentle caress that sent shivers down her spine. Buffy clung to him tightly, her kisses passionate and demanding.
After what felt like an eternity without oxygen, Buffy reluctantly broke the kiss. She took a tentative step backwards, not realizing that she was clinging desperately to the lapels of his duster. The rational part of her brain was telling her to let go of Spike, but the alcohol-numbed portion was telling her to kiss now and talk later.
The air was alive with electricity, emotions rolling off the couple in waves. Buffy melted into Spike's embrace, her body fitting perfectly against his. Wrapping a steadying arm around her waist, Spike gently pulled their bodies apart. "We should go somewhere more private and talk," he said, his eyes silently pleading with Buffy to not argue. She nodded, reaching backwards into the booth, patting the seat for her purse without breaking eye contact with Spike. Catching her arm before she knocked them both over, Spike pressed a few bills onto the table. "I've got it," he said quietly, helping Buffy into her coat. She was too shocked to do anything but follow his lead.
The wind howled and whistled, whipping the long hem of his leather duster furiously. People filled the sidewalks, their cheeks red with cold as they hurriedly walked from one building to another. Everyone was in a hurry, they all had a direction and a purpose, no one walked idly here, there was always someplace to go, someone to see, something to do. He didn't mind the organized chaos of the city, it was alive with memories; since leaving the warm sanctuary of his hotel room, the thoughts had strengthened their assault on his emotionally wrought mind. Every time Spike came to the Big Apple, he was following a Slayer, first the one back in the seventies and now the one he still thought of as his own. This trip was different, it wasn't about one good day or one perfect moment; it wasn't even about him; this was all for her.
Sometimes it seemed that no matter what he did, the past just kept following him. It was a constant thorn in his side, mocking shadows that reminded him of how far he had fallen. The last time he was in New York, Dru had dragged him up and down the subway, delighting in the flashing white lights and the loud noises. It was in those dark depths of the city that he had truly earned his reputation as the Slayer of Slayers. Now he was avoiding the subway lines, the train station, the imposing Cathedrals and all tattoo parlors; he didn't want to relive any of the things he had done here, over thirty years ago.
The hotel room was too small for him, bright walls that seemed to inch closer together with every passing minute. As Spike lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, he had allowed himself to dwell on the past. It was torture; no matter how hard he tried everything came back to Buffy. Being in the City was having an effect on Spike, every moment that passed just strengthened his need to see her. No matter how much he tried to change and mold himself into this ideal Prince Charming meets Casanova with a little Superman mixed in, he kept coming back to the face he had hidden behind for decades. Every time he tried to make himself better, he only succeeded in building another layer to hide behind. Only this time he wasn't trying to cover the face of a scared Victorian poet with that of a violent bloodthirsty emotionally stoic demon. He was trying to reinvent himself, to become someone worthy of Buffy's love; Spike had spent three years trying to carve himself into someone she could be proud of, someone she could love. Furious with himself for wasting so much time brooding and waxing poetry, Spike had left the hotel. He wandered aimlessly through the city streets, he didn't know where he was going and he didn't care.
The streets were filled with cars and the sidewalks were crowded for a weekday night. It was early, only a little after seven, but the pitch-black sky made it feel like it should be closer to midnight. Buffy shivered involuntarily as she strode purposefully out the glass doors that separated her office building from the outside world. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten anything in hours and Buffy turned down a nearby avenue, walking towards her favorite Italian restaurant, Amici. The family- owned restaurant was fairly empty, there were a few couples lingering over steaming plates of pasta and a large dinner party in the back room. Grateful to be out of the freezing cold, Buffy smiled at the hostess as she led the blonde to a corner booth.
Buffy settled comfortably into the red leather seats, glancing out the menu absently, already knowing what she wanted. Her server, a young girl with black hair pulled back in a thick braid, placed a basket of bread on the table. "How are you Ms. Summers," Natasha asked, her dark eyes sparkling at the sight of one of her favorite customers. "Fine," Buffy replied with a warm grin; after coming to Amici for so long, all the staff knew her and the owners welcomed her like a member of their own family. "I'll have the fettuccine alfredo with a small house salad," Buffy said. "And a glass of white wine," she added as an afterthought. Natasha nodded and bustled quietly back to the kitchen to place her order.
Outside, Spike was just about to go looking for a blood bank when the bright lights of Amici caught his eye. The restaurant was perched on a street corner, drawing Spike's attention as he leapt out of the path of an oncoming taxi. Shrugging his shoulders he pushed open the heavy glass door, little bells ringing as he walked into the restaurant. As the door whipped open, a blast of cold air drew the hostess's attention away from the waiter she had been flirting with. She smiled at the man who had just entered the restaurant, his leather jacket swirling behind him like a medieval cloak. Her eyes took in the stranger appreciatively, his platinum blond hair was mussed into soft curls, and his navy sweater accented his cobalt eyes. A knowing smirk danced over his lips, impossibly high cheekbones that were strikingly prominent as he locked eyes with her. The hostess licked her suddenly dry lips and attempted to compose herself as his British accent fell on her ears. "Table for one, luv, if that's not too much trouble," he said with a devilish smile. She nodded, nearly kicking the waiter in her haste to seat him. "Right this way," she stammered, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Spike. He surveyed the small restaurant, taking in the home- like atmosphere and the scattered tables of couples enjoying enormous bowls of food, as the hostess guided him to a leather booth.
Buffy sipped the wine that had been brought to her table and closed her eyes, allowing her limbs to loosen. The wine seeped into her system, spreading warmth throughout her petite body and easing away hours of tension. She tore a corner off the bread and popped a piece into her mouth, savoring the tastes that enveloped her tongue. "This is what I needed," Buffy sighed as she surveyed the quaint scene from her booth that lined the perimeter of the restaurant. The dimmed lights added to the intimate and welcoming feel of the restaurant, diminishing the feelings of loneliness that had threatened to overwhelm the former Slayer.
Stopping two tables behind Buffy, the hostess looked questioningly at the man behind her. "Is this alright," she asked, placing a wine list on top of the menu. Spike nodded, "it's fine luv, thanks." He waited until she had begun the trip back to her post before removing his duster. Sliding into the booth, he picked up the menu, studying it critically. Even though he didn't really need to eat, everything on the menu looked good. A dark- haired waitress interrupted his internal monologue. "Hi, welcome to Amici. My name is Natasha and I'll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?" Spike smiled at Natasha and drawled, "Bourbon, on the rocks." She nodded, her smile widening at his throaty accent that completed his sexy aura. "I'll be right back with that." Before putting the order in at the bar, Natasha stopped at her other table, "the food'll be out in a minute or two," she told Buffy who nodded absently.
Buffy's hands were clenched tightly under the table, her knuckles white from the tension. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps and she was struggling to cling to the last measure of self-control she had left. The stranger with a British accent sitting behind Buffy had successfully ruined her quiet evening. Instead of forgetting about her tattered past, the accent had only made her think of Spike. It was bad enough that she had stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk when a guy with platinum hair walks past, now every throaty British accent was enough to send her into emotional overload.
Taking a deep breath, Buffy savagely tore a corner off the loaf of bread. She drained her wine glass in a long swallow. "I'm going to have a nice dinner even if it kills me," she muttered under her breath, "some random accent isn't going to break me apart. I'll just ignore him. I need an unromantic, non-tragedy stricken thought.Giles. Now there's something boring. Giles and his books, boring books, lots of boring books, research books, boring research.Scoobie research, Sunnydale, the Magic Box.research sessions, training sessions, patrol, Spi-." She stopped rambling when Natasha placed a small salad on the table. "Long day," she murmured, trying to think of someway to justify her insane behavior to the waitress who just smiled. Replacing the empty wine glass with a full one, Natasha moved on to her other table.
She smiled at the waitress, but Natasha had already moved onto her other table. "Are you already to order," she asked, trying to avoid her customer's sapphire eyes in an effort to maintain her composure. "Yeah, I'll have the veal chop special, cooked very rare, and a salad," Spike said, "and another brandy." "Sure thing," Natasha said, scribbling down the order, "I'll go put that in and bring out some bread for you." Spike sipped his bourbon slowly, relishing in the familiar burning sensation as the liquor tore down his throat. His eyes flickered over the dining room, studying his fellow diners before falling on the woman in front of him.
Caramel-blonde hair covered her shoulders in loose waves, a sharp contrast to the rich red of her sweater. Spike found himself wondering what who she was; there was something strangely familiar about her. For what felt like the thousandth time that day, his thoughts drifted back to Buffy. He looked down at the tabletop, concentrating on buttering a thick slice of bread. This woman was just another in a long line of blondes that Spike had mistaken for his golden goddess over the last three years.
Absently, Spike reached into the pocket of his duster and removed a worn velvet box. Inside a large diamond winked back at him, sparkling brightly in the shadowy booth. "I'm trying Buffy," he whispered, "I'm trying to be the man you deserve." Spike had been carrying the engagement ring around for over a hundred years; it had belonged to his mother, one of the few things he had kept from his human life. The salad was placed in front of him, interrupting Spike's train of thought. Tucking the diamond back into his coat, he attacked the leafy greens drenched in balsamic vinaigrette dressing. He was tired of thinking about what could have been, it was easier to just focus on the present moment.
Pushing the empty salad plate away, Spike couldn't stop himself from staring at the blonde in front of him. "Bugger this," he growled. At the risk of turning into a brooding ponce like his grand-Sire, Spike signaled to the waitress. Natasha hurried over to the table, "is everything alright?" He nodded, "yeah it's fine. I just had a question. That woman over there, do you know who she is?" Natasha beamed; she could just tell that they would make an adorable match. "It's just that she looks like some I knew and I was wondering." Spike took a sip of his bourbon, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Why, that's Ms. Summers," Natasha said, casting a look in Buffy's direction. Spike's throat closed and he coughed violently, forgetting that he didn't need to breathe. "What did you say her name was," he whispered hoarsely, his blue eyes blazing with a thousand questions. The waitress's smile widened, "Ms. Summers, Buffy Summers." Spike's eyes widened in disbelief, he couldn't believe his luck. A thin smile curled the corners of his mouth, a plan already forming in Spike's mind. He had to make sure that he didn't ruin this perfect opportunity. "Alright luv, I'm going to need your help with this. The two of us, we used to be close a long time ago..but I ruined it. Think you could help me with a little favor?" Natasha nodded; the pain in his blue eyes was heart wrenching and his voice cracked with the emotional strain. "Send her a glass of champagne and a plate of strawberries. Put all the strawberries in a circle, the tips pointing in, and put a piece of chocolate in the center." The waitress nodded, "I'll go tell the cook right away. And who should I say it's from?" Spike smiled, "just bring it to her, I'll take care of the rest."
Dropping the empty fork onto the plate, Buffy sighed with satisfaction. The fettuccine was phenomenal, everything at Amici was homemade and she hadn't ever had a bad meal. She swirled the remaining bit of wine, finishing the glass with a long swallow. The wine had worked its magic, warming Buffy to her inner-most core; she could feel the last of her tension melting into oblivion. Natasha suddenly appeared beside her table, scooping the dirty dishes out of Buffy's way, replacing them with a plate of strawberries and a fluted glass of champagne.
Looking up questioningly, Buffy told her waitress, "I didn't order this." Natasha smiled, "I know. It's from the gentleman behind you. He said you would understand." Having delivered her message, the brunette disappeared into the recesses of the kitchen. Buffy stared at the dessert, a mixture of confusion and disbelief dancing over her face. There were seven ruby red strawberries arranged in a circle, with a piece of dark chocolate perched in the center. She smiled, instinctively sliding her heart-shaped pendant back and forth along the chain; it was just like a dessert Spike used to make for her. Every Valentine's Day or anniversary, he would bring out a bottle of champagne and present her with a plate of strawberries.
She was so involved with her memories, nibbling absently on the fruit, that Buffy didn't notice the man beside her table until he cleared his throat quietly. Swiveling her head to look at him, her eyes widened with recognition. Struggling to swallow over the lump in her throat, she gazed incredulously at him. She had dreamt about this moment for years and now that it was here, she was frozen. All the color drained from her face, her green eyes standing out vividly against her pale skin.
Spike smiled wanly, hesitating a moment before he broke the silence, not knowing whether Buffy was going to punch him or fall over in a faint. She continued to stare out at him, not believing that he was really in front of her. "Hello Buffy." The instant the words left his mouth, Spike kicked himself for his lack of eloquence. He hadn't seen Buffy in years and the first words out of his mouth were a simple greeting that didn't say anything.
Tears spilled down Buffy's cheeks, she trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the table. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, afraid that she was trapped in some dream world. "Spike," she choked out, her voice shaky. She couldn't believe what was going on; pressing her lips together, she bit down on the inside of her cheek, trying to calm her ragged nerves. The muscles in Spike's jaw were clenching and unclenching furiously as he raked his brain for something to say. In his hotel room he had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say to Buffy, knowing exactly what he needed to say. At that moment, staring into the wide green eyes that he had been dreaming about, Spike was speechless. All his words were irrelevant.
Not knowing what she was doing but tired of second-guessing herself, Buffy slid out of the booth. She stood in front of Spike, hesitating for a moment before she wrapped her arms around his neck. Spike stiffened at her touch, but slowly his arms found their way around her waist and his cheek came to rest against her blonde hair. Familiar scents surrounded them as the world faded away, leaving Buffy and Spike in the moment. Buffy inhaled the scent of leather and bourbon as Spike drank in her sweet citrus perfume.
Amazingly Buffy hadn't tried to stake him, but Spike knew that she was a woman of many layers. There was a sea of turbulent emotions hidden under her calm exterior. His fingers tipped her chin up so that their eyes met; he needed to see if she was angry with him, if she hated him as much as he hated himself. Her eyes sparkled with tears, black mascara pooling at the corners. Brushing away the moisture with his fingertips, Spike moved his hand towards her shoulder. Buffy leaned into his embrace, pressing their bodies closer together. She opened her mouth, parting her lips slightly before tilting her head towards Spike. Tightening his arm around her waist, Spike closed the minuscule distance between them. His lips grazed gently over hers, a gentle caress that sent shivers down her spine. Buffy clung to him tightly, her kisses passionate and demanding.
After what felt like an eternity without oxygen, Buffy reluctantly broke the kiss. She took a tentative step backwards, not realizing that she was clinging desperately to the lapels of his duster. The rational part of her brain was telling her to let go of Spike, but the alcohol-numbed portion was telling her to kiss now and talk later.
The air was alive with electricity, emotions rolling off the couple in waves. Buffy melted into Spike's embrace, her body fitting perfectly against his. Wrapping a steadying arm around her waist, Spike gently pulled their bodies apart. "We should go somewhere more private and talk," he said, his eyes silently pleading with Buffy to not argue. She nodded, reaching backwards into the booth, patting the seat for her purse without breaking eye contact with Spike. Catching her arm before she knocked them both over, Spike pressed a few bills onto the table. "I've got it," he said quietly, helping Buffy into her coat. She was too shocked to do anything but follow his lead.
