Thanks zanthinegirl. I never realized "pants" meant underwear in the UK. You learn something new everyday! I have replaced the word "pants" with "trousers" as per your suggestion.

The Best in Me – Chapter Two

Between "Intervention" and "Tough Love"

"Come with me," said Eric, leading Spike out into the sunny grounds of the cemetery. He shielded Spike from the sun with a sturdy, long-stemmed, black umbrella that had a handsome wooden handle and a long, wooden, pointed tip at the other end.

Spike hovered at the edge of the shadow cast by his crypt. "'Ang on a minute," he protested. "Blue boy's still inside..."

"Hugh's going to work on your home environment while we go shopping, precious," explained Eric. "Capice?" He spun the umbrella languidly on his shoulder.

Spike hesitated as he thought he heard crashing sounds from within the crypt. Then he reminded himself that he had to make sacrifices for the greater purpose of winning over Buffy. He thought again of the kiss Buffy had given him freely. "Right. Let's go shopping," he agreed.

A black SUV with tinted windows stopped in the parking strip of Sunnydale's more up-market shopping precinct. Across the road, stores were bathed in sunlight but this side of the road was in shadow. Spike and Eric emerged from the vehicle, Spike taking the opportunity to light a cigarette as soon as he was out of the confines of the SUV.

Eric whipped the cigarette out from between Spikes bruised lips with his thumb and forefinger.

"Hey!" cried Spike, his annoyance almost strong enough to make him go vamp-faced.

Eric pointed the end of his umbrella at Spike. "Cigarette tips are the nemesis of couture!" he hissed. "You light one of those things anywhere near the clothes you're about to try on and you and this umbrella are going to have a heart-felt moment." He mashed the cigarette between the heel of his Italian shoe and the pavement, then slowly lowered the umbrella. "Move it. Into the store." He pushed Spike towards a tall glass door.

Spike remained wary of the pointy, wooden end of the umbrella as he made his way into the store.

Inside, the space was well lit with polished floorboards below. Chrome racks of men's clothing filled what would otherwise be a Spartan room and white shelves lined the walls. Across the room, a clerk busied himself, folding sweaters on a shelf. His hair was dark and neatly clipped and he had a light, athletic build. He looked vaguely like Will from TV's Will & Grace.

Spike could tell immediately that this was not his sort of place. For one thing, he couldn't spot a jot of leather in the joint. No blacks or blood reds. Just grays, whites, pastels and earthy shades.

Spike snorted with contempt then looked at Eric, expectantly.

"I know what you're thinking," began Eric, "but bear with me. I noticed your wardrobe was a bit unbalanced. I thought this might be a good place to find some pieces that will accentuate your more sensitive side. Bring out something that your would-be girlfriend might be attracted to."

Spike frowned, puzzled. "Sensitive side? I thought I told you I didn't want to be turned into a wet blanket."

"I believe your actual words were 'nancy-boy' which I imagine is a completely different thing, but we're not here to argue semantics." Eric pulled a brilliant white shirt off a chrome rack then reached over to a shelf and lifted from it a baby-blue sweater. "This is cashmere," he said. "Very friendly to the touch," he added, stroking it. "This will make you huggable."

"Huggable," said Spike, raising his eyebrows and trying on the word for size. He imagined Buffy wrapping her arms around him and stroking his cashmere-covered chest. "Spike, you're so huggable," she cooed in his imagination.

He returned to reality as Eric shoved a pile of couture into his arms. He looked down at the clothes and then back at Eric.

"Corduroy trousers?" he asked, incredulously.

"Corduroy is a very touchy-feely fabric," Eric argued. "And these are a nice snug fit."

They were the color of wet ashes; the closest thing to black in the store. Spike imagined wearing them, imagined Buffy getting touchy-feely with his corduroy clad thighs. "Awright, I'll try them at least."

Spike looked into the mirrors of the change cubicle he was in. There were mirrors on three sides, creating the illusion of infinite space. He could see his duster hanging on the back of the door, behind him. He could also see his jeans and t-shirt discarded on top of his boots on the floor. What he couldn't see, was his own reflection so he had no idea whether he looked like a total pratt in the clothes Eric had handed him.

"Well? Come on out. Don't be shy!" called Eric from outside the cubicle.

Spike swung the door open and stepped out of the cubicle. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking uncomfortable.

He wore the baby-blue sweater over the white shirt and the dark gray, corduroy pants which pooled slightly around his ankles and his black socks. He felt like a dick.

Eric cooed and oohed and ahhed. "That sweater brings out the blue in your eyes."

He reached over to tuck in Spikes shirt but Spike stopped him, "You're not going there, mate," and did it himself.

Eric didn't loose a beat. He just busied himself turning up Spike's shirt sleeves. Then he handed Spike a black, silver buckled, leather belt and shiny, black leather lace-up shoes.

Spike put them on then folded his arms again.

Eric mussed up Spike's hair the way he had earlier at the crypt. My hair must look like I've just gotten up from wrestling in bloody bed with the Buffybot, thought Spike.

Eric beamed at his work. "Why, I could just eat you up, you English muffin, you!"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Right. Freak show's over," he announced, shutting himself in the cubicle and reversing the process.

"Baby, we've only just begun," contested Eric.

A long time later, they returned to the crypt. Spike's patience had been worn down to a fine thread and it was all he could do to stop himself from kicking Eric's demon ass, especially since the chip in his head offered no resistance where demons were involved. He kept reminding himself that Eric and Hugh were there to help him win over Buffy but now he'd added another thought: It better bloody work!

Spike entered the crypt, both hands grasping several bags of outfits, toiletries, hair products and groceries. The groceries were Buffy-friendly foods for his fridge. Spike stood on his threshold, gob-smacked at what lay before him, the bags limp in his hands.

His crypt had been transformed. Somehow, Hugh had cleaned it up and turned it into a cozy love nest with carefully arranged lighting highlighting different areas of the crypt. But the "piece de resistance" was the bed. Clad in sumptuous tones of crimson, it was covered in various rich textures. It was also scattered with a myriad of comfortable cushions. The sheets were soft, like silk.

Spike's Buffy shrine was nowhere to be seen.

"The sheets are silk," said Hugh, as though reading his thoughts. "I went with the colors in this red striped shirt I found, since it was the most colorful thing in the crypt... other than the shrine."

"Yeah, wot did you do with my Buffy stuff, anyway?" Spike asked.

"What do you think I did with it? I put it in a garbage bag is what I did," replied Hugh.

Spike felt his ire rising. This better bloody be worth it. It had taken a lot of time and care to collect his Buffy shrine.

"Right. You ponces have done your work now, so if you don't mind, I'll take over from here," he announced.

"No so fast, schnookums," said Eric. "We may have reworked you on the outside, but this girl of yours is going to be judging you on the inside as well. Invite her over. Be sure to romance her. Treat her like a lady. Show a little caring and panache. Don't just beat her over the head and drag her into your cave."

"Oh, please!" scoffed Spike. "I kept one of my lovers happy for about a hundred years. I think I know more than enough about romance."

"If you say so, lover-boy. We'll be watching." It was then that Spike noticed that Eric held a palm-sized crystal ball in his hand. In the centre of the ball, everything that was happening in the crypt at that moment was playing itself out in miniature, as if on a TV screen.

"Listen, if you blokes get a happy wotching couples during private moments," began Spike, looking at the ball, "that's your business but--"

"We'll only be watching you up to a certain point," interrupted Hugh. "At some point during the night it will become obvious whether she's into you or not. If not, we intend to give you some useful feedback that could help you the next time around."

"Well, you're on your own now, bubba," said Eric, giving Spike a friendly embrace. "See you in the morning...if you're alone, that is."

Hugh also hugged him. "Good luck, bro."

And the two demons left.

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