Well.
Wasn't going too bad.
It was no use lying to himself. No use pretending that he wasn't nervous as hell. He might've looked easy, might've seemed lax, but if his heart had been able to beat it would've been doing it double-time. When she'd come down those stairs at Revello, so carefully nonchalant, so carefully dressed-down, it had still been like the sun on his face. He'd felt her surprise when he hadn't offered her his arm, when he hadn't opened the door of the deSoto for her, and that was good too. Gotten off to the right foot, got her off balance. Her laughing jag had bucked up his spirit even more - he suspected it was mostly just nerves, mostly just her coming to grips with a situation completely out of the world of expectation, but still… she was willing to let herself laugh.
The Slayer he was more familiar with was back before he could blink.
Pissed as hell.
When she'd confronted him about bringing her to a sex club, he'd thought that maybe he'd ruined everything. Her anger had brought him crashing down to earth faster than any stake pressed to his chest could have, but he counted it as a good thing. It reminded him, reminded him of why he was here, reminded him of the end game. So he'd tried to tease her, to brush away the sudden flaring emotion that had been so absent on the car ride over, where it had been so light and easy with him ignoring her and still so aware…
It hadn't worked and so he'd tried to explain, explain about religion and existence and experience, but she'd just gotten more upset, and that in turn had caused something to burn inside his chest that was a little like hurt and a little like disbelief. She'd said she didn't think that he could love, didn't think that demons could feel that way, but being confronted with it so coldly, so directly…
He snapped at her and he wasn't ashamed of it. He didn't think returning bitchiness with a bark was more than was called for, nor did he think that she would get the real meaning behind the words. Still, he'd had to suck down a cigarette before he felt less… jittery. Before he felt steady enough to tell her to leave the stakes in the car, which he knew she had, and to tell her about the dampening spell. She'd reacted more than he'd expected her to, seemed to warm to his little speech, and then even more to the way he'd been shown a little respect. She'd been surprised by it, shocked, and he wondered if maybe there wasn't something else there too. When she'd frozen in the hallway he'd actually been a little worried – he had no idea she'd be so… affected.
At least he thought that's what she was.
Hell, he was a little surprised.
With the mixed up way the inside of his head was painted, he sometimes forgot that his was still a name that tasted dangerous on demon tongues. He'd been grateful for a few minutes of peace, a few minutes silence when they'd split at the locker room doors. A few minutes to breath where the orchid and night jasmine scent of her didn't threaten to choke him on top of the hot, salted copper of her blood. He'd practically collapsed against the wall of lockers when he'd got inside, dropping his chin to his chest and heaving a sigh, relaxed for the first time since he'd picked her up. She wasn't watching him, wasn't judging his every move, every breath, and it was sweet.
He'd had to flash his teeth at the Kirval demon across the room who eyed him rudely, sending him scurrying out before he shrugged out of his duster and folded it into his locker, careful not to catch the scarred leather and tear it. His fingers had lingered on the hem of his t-shirt before he pulled it up over his head. Sometimes he felt… smaller without his duster. Not vulnerable per se, just… less. And with Buffy, well, no amount of armor was too much armor. 'Specially when the girl could gut him with a word or a smile.
Pocketing his key, Spike stepped out into the hallway and leaned back against the wall across from Buffy's door, the picture of easy swagger when inside his thoughts were careening around like wind-up cars that crashed into some surface only to head off in another direction. It was infuriating for someone like him, who had all the time in the world to go mad and who had long ago coached themselves into a greater semblance of calm. But it was Buffy after all. If anyone could tear him apart one thought, one hope at a time, he thought it might be her.
Spike scrubbed a hand hard over his face.
God, what was he doing?
Once he'd settled on a plan he'd promised himself he wouldn't second guess it, but that was exactly what he was doing. The Bit had suggested dinner and dancing, something to show her that he could be romantic and classy, not so brash and punk rock, but he was trying to do the smart thing by keeping her on her toes. He knew she'd never been to the club before, didn't even know it existed, and there was more than one reason he'd chosen it. One of those reasons was that he'd hoped it would just be fun for her, regardless of whether or not he tagged along. She wasn't the type to take a night off, to hunt down a good time, and so he was going to try to give her that. Hell, if he stayed inconspicuous enough she might let herself enjoy the evening.
He wasn't above winning by default.
Friends first and all that bollocks.
But she'd come out of the locker room looking almost relieved to see him, and he'd smirked and it was back to how it always was, his confident front teasing at her resistant one. Half the time he wondered if it was just a game she played to amuse herself; anyone could tell there was heat between them.
He'd been… encouraged by her reaction to the paint room. He wasn't sure how she'd feel about getting dirty; for a Slayer she was surprisingly squeamish about her blood and gore. Still, she'd seemed surprised and even a little delighted when the stuff had changed colors under her touch, and had painted herself up with only a token comment about her hair. Done a good job of it too, not that she wasn't always beautiful, but even in girly colors the clawing slashes and warrior stripes she crafted gave her a look that was almost wicked in the dark.
And then she had planted two big, pink handprints on his chest and he'd almost swallowed his tongue.
He knew what handprints meant here. She didn't. He would have told her when she admired the one on a passing Riddix demon but he just couldn't pass up the opportunity to tease her. And he couldn't regret it either, because for a second it seemed like she was teasing him back, not just shrieking at him for pretending to cop a feel, but then she'd shoved him lightly and left those two, perfect handprints on his chest.
He knew his eyes flashed, felt a rumble grow in his chest, but he couldn't help it.
Because here, handprints meant possession. Belonging. It meant you were here with someone, and while he'd happily wear those marks for the rest of his un-life, he didn't think she'd feel quite the same way.
He debated telling her. He really did. But she'd kept right on painting like it didn't matter and who was he to spoil the mood? And besides, still evil here.
So instead he'd just turned her around and done the back of her, more to see if she'd let him than anything else. He wasn't really surprised that she did; was almost a bit of a dare for her, turning her back on a master vamp, on him. He was surprised that she returned the favor though, and that she kept things so light, so innocuous. There were a lot of ways she could have gone just to be a bitch, but she seemed to have a good handle on herself tonight and that was… pleasant.
Their little conversation on the balcony over the dance floor had echoed much of that. He'd been a bastard and blocked her in against the railing, trapped her, but he'd wanted a moment, just a second of being that close, of almost having her in his arms, and the fact that her heartbeat had picked up and goosebumps had broken out over the back of her neck was just… neat. Still, he'd focused and he'd told her, tried to explain why he'd brought her here but he wasn't sure it came out right. She'd still pushed back, named herself the Slayer and everyone else a demon, still seeing in black and white even though he was trying to show her that there was color in between.
Of course, she wasn't entirely wrong.
As he'd moved deeper into the club he'd been greeted like a long-lost brother, swallowed into the sea of demons who knew him, some even that respected him or with whom he'd made decent friends. He wasn't oblivious to the fact that when she caught up with him the greetings ceased. They knew who she was, and it was… interesting to see the separation of work and play.
He'd debated getting drinks while they were in the club. Not many of them were innocent, and some were downright deadly to certain types, but he figured not letting her near the bar at all would be more suspicious than anything, so he left her at a table and went to do the ordering himself. He'd chosen the Throttle because it walked a fine line; she'd feel it but he didn't think she'd be able to cry foul on him or claim he'd drugged her at the end of the night. He didn't want to have to cheat, and he didn't want to give her an excuse to say he did. After answering honestly that he didn't actually know what was in the things, they'd toasted each other with the shots and the world opened up, even beyond their heightened senses. It was as close to a drinking game as he ever wanted to get, but he couldn't knock the results; every sense sharpening, separating so that he could almost feel her laughter on his skin as she caught a couple of giggles at his expense.
He could feel his teeth sharpen in his mouth, hear her blood pick up in her veins, and when she jumped to her feet he thought that maybe now she'd be ready to play. Grabbing her wrist he'd pulled her to the stairwell, marveled at the way her pulse hammered a tattoo against his sensitive fingertips. He laughed when she headed straight for the music, a wicked glint in her eye and a sway in her hips that threatened to rock the dance floor, but he didn't think she even heard him. She was gorgeous in that moment, blonde hair gleaming, strength in her step, but he had something else in mind for them first, and so he swept her up and spun her around to the second doorway, murmuring words in her ear that he wasn't even sure of, too lost in the feel of her against his side, the scent of her in his lungs.
Dropping her back to her feet with well-hidden reluctance, he had spun around and backed slowly into the stairwell, curiosity nipping at him with sharp teeth, wondering.
This whole night. What it meant.
It was all lost on him.
She didn't have to be here. She could have stayed home easily enough, and here, another chance to ditch him if she wanted to. And he wondered, what it would mean if she followed him.
"You coming?" he whispered.