"Okay, so, the idea of poker," Clem reiterates for what feels like the ninth time that hour, "is not to bounce in your seat when you get a good hand, remember?"
"But I've got all diamonds," Buffy answers from her side of the kitchen island, turning her hand around for Clem to see and causing the demon to plant his wrinkled face into his leathery hand. "That's a royal flush, right?"
"It's a flush," Clem confirms, turning her hand back inwards, hiding her cards. "A royal flush is ten-jack-queen-king-ace in the same suit."
"Does it beat your cards though?" she asks, leaning forward to peer at them. "What do you have?"
Clem tilts his cards into a steeper angle to stop her prying.
"Keep your cards to yourself until the end," he reminds her, smiling pleasantly as she slumps back down into her seat.
Despite the fact they'd only been playing a week she was getting the hang of it fairly easily, and she didn't even have many tells if she could just contain the wriggle of her hips when she thought she was winning.
"Not that it'll matter much before the draw," he adds, "Rulgen's a mechanic. He'll deal you a good hand at Saturday's game."
Buffy's eyebrows crease. "Rulgen fixes cars? What does that have to do with poker night?"
"He fixes cards," Clem explains, reminding himself to write out the list of poker slang for her again. "It's a term for a guy who cheats when dealing."
"Oh." Buffy nods. "So you're gonna cheat, and Rulgen's gonna cheat, and I'm gonna cheat, all to teach Spike a lesson about cheating?" she asks, raising an eyebrow as Clem smirks a wrinkly smirk back at her. "Complicated."
"He deserves it," Clem answers flippantly, the skin folds of his arms flapping as he waves a dismissive hand. "Last week he ran me so far down to the felt I had to bet my watch."
He catches Buffy glancing at the folds around his wrist, about to make a comment about never being able to see said watch anyway, but she swallows it. Kind of her, Clem muses, but the embarrassment she might have felt for voicing her thoughts would've been a good snack right about now.
"Scoundrel," she comments instead, then after a pause to share a smile asks, "Why are you friends with him?"
The question makes her eyes hit her cards and linger there, even though she'd been the one to ask it.
Clem, for his part, had been expecting it—had felt that question brewing since her birthday party—the shame flavoring the air between them like a lingering aroma. Catching Spike coming in through her kitchen door with an honest-to-God friend in tow had gotten under her skin somehow, but he hadn't been able to figure out why. And even though he fed on those feelings—the shame, and the embarrassment, and the mortification slipping down into his gut like perfectly fragranced spicy ramen—he hadn't wanted to push that particular avenue of discussion out into the open, sensing it would hurt her even as it fed him.
"What do you mean?" he asks, playing dumb since that was what he was expected to do.
Buffy shrugs bashfully. "If he cheats and steals your stuff and is just… so much-" she gestures with her cards, giving him another flash of the hand she's been dealt, "-Spike all the time, why are you friends?"
Clem smiles. He already had his answers. "He's a sweet guy," he replies, and means it, ignoring the eyebrow raise from Buffy loudly enunciating 'disagree'. "And funny, though that's mostly unintentional," he adds with a slight shrug. "He's got a good heart, you know?"
"Care to back that up with evidence?" she prompts, rearranging the cards in her hands like she couldn't care less, but Clem's mouth floods with the taste of regret. With heartache. It isn't a flavor he enjoys.
Too bitter.
Something humorous would be good to offset the sour sting at the back of his tongue. Sitting in Buffy's company as she tries hard not to feel broken is like sucking on a lemon, and is a sensation that has occurred regularly since this unexpected friendship blossomed between them. Mostly she seeks him out for a chat, a bit of light back and forth in the Bronze or at Willy's as she decompresses from her double shift at the Doublemeat, but they dance around what she really wants to talk about. Who she really wants to talk about.
Until this week.
It was Clem's idea to enact a little vengeance on Spike. To teach Buffy to play the game well enough to bring his buddy down a peg or two.
But mostly it was to give her a reason to talk about him. For the sake of Clem's palate if nothing else.
When he's with Spike he can taste the misery of loving Buffy.
When he's with Buffy he can taste the misery of loving Spike.
He might have to swallow around an extra shot of sourness for a few days, but he's hopeful that by the end of it, Spike's name won't be an unmentionable word in her presence.
"He's bailed me out a few times," he says eventually.
"Bailed you out from what?" she asks.
Clem widens his eyes underneath his jowly eyelids to say what do you think? "Jail," he says when she doesn't seem to get it.
Her eyes go wide. "You've been arrested?! For what?"
"Public nudity."
"Ew!"
Clem shrugs, uncaring. "I was hungry."
"You couldn't just order a pizza?"
"I get stomach cramps if I go too long without feeding properly."
Buffy winces. "Well, still very 'ew'."
Clem smirks. "He cares a lot," he says, casting off a couple of cards and taking up two more from the deck between them. They don't help improve the hand he's got by much; three of a kind now, but still not enough to beat the flush she'd waved in his face, so he folds, pushing the pot towards Buffy. "Especially for Dawn."
"Really?" Buffy asks, gathering up the cards to reshuffle.
He bobs his head as she deals out five cards each. "One time he brought a load of papers with him and was writing on them beneath the table mid-play. It turned out to be an essay she needed help with. Ante up," he adds and Buffy drops a couple of chips into the center alongside his.
"He was helping her with her homework?" Buffy asks, obviously perplexed as she picks up her hand, arranging the new cards automatically.
"Yeah. Not a good idea though," Clem says, arranging his own. "One of the guys got him to bet it and he ended up losing the whole essay. Had to rewrite it for her from scratch. Think she got a decent grade. The boys called him Professor the Bloody for a couple of weeks afterward."
Buffy snorts, and Clem watches her hide the grin behind her cards. Then watches it wither away in her eyes like a dying rose in fall as she realizes what made her smile and chastises herself for it.
Clem holds down a sigh. That half-second of truth before guilt and shame flood back in like water rushing into a recently dug hole is the realest she ever seems. The most present. The most alive.
His heart twinges, watching as Buffy stuffs down her momentary realization into a box in her mind. But the box is so obviously cracked and Clem knows those thoughts leak out and torment her regularly.
He tosses in two chips.
"Call?" he asks, and Buffy nods.
"Your two, aaaand-" she evaluates her cards again, "-raise two." She clatters her chips into the center of the kitchen island. Clem matches and asks for three fresh cards.
Buffy takes one.
And wriggles in her seat.
"Stop wriggling." Clem laughs and briefly tastes that hint of spice as Buffy smirks an embarrassed smirk back. "That is the worst tell I've ever seen."
"Sorry," she mutters, rearranging the five cards in her hand, her mouth parting as it frames a question. "Does Spike have a tell?"
Clem nods. "When he gets a good hand he does a double blink."
"A double blink?"
"Yeah, you know." Clem mimes a minute flutter of his eyelashes and—for some unknown reason—Buffy's cheeks burn red. That oh-so-delectable flavor of mortification hits the back of Clem's tongue like he's chowed down on a bucket of hot wings.
"Not just a poker tell, I take it?"Clem asks and Buffy's cheeks deepen to vermillion. "How are things between—"
"There's seriously nothing to tell," she interrupts. "Poker or otherwise."
"I'm about to have acid reflux that says otherwise," he chuckles.
"Clem," Buffy mumbles, his name a weary warning.
He ignores the verbal yellow tape and asks, "Why do you care if people know? About the two of you?"
"Why do you think?" she mutters, eyes still focused on her cards, refusing to look up.
"It's the tight skin, huh?" Clem guesses. "It's all—" he gestures to his cheekbones as Buffy meets his eyes. "Looks suffocating to me," he adds and she holds down a microscopic laugh.
"No, I kinda like it. Not that your folds aren't beautiful, Clem," she adds in a rush. "It's just… I've done the whole vampire tragic love scene before. And it was tragic. Major tragedies everywhere." She swallows, her face hardening into a look of suppressed pain. "I can't do that again."
"I think Spike would be more than happy giving up the tragedies," Clem answers, their cards forgotten except for a place for their eyes to rest so the lack of eye contact doesn't feel cowardly.
"Yeah, right," Buffy rasps, then clears her throat.
There's a long, aching pause. Filled with the salty taste of misery. Clem reaches for the beer he'd discarded on the edge of the kitchen table and swirls it around his mouth to clear his pallet, before pushing further into tear-flavored territory.
"Why are we playing cards, Buffy?" he asks, and her brow furrows.
"The whole… the teaching Spike a lesson thing," she answers. "It was your idea."
"Why do you care if he learns a lesson?" he persists, though gently. Just a cautious prod.
"Because he's an idiot," she replies. "He's gonna get himself hurt."
"And you don't want him to get hurt?"
"No!" Buffy sputters and Clem watches the momentary flash of confusion that tiny two-letter word causes her.
Because she shouldn't care. Especially not after she's dished out her fair share of hurt.
A slippery shifting of self-perceptions swallows her expression for a second. A clear-cut Oh moment before she pulls herself out of its black hole. "I just…He'll end up being turned into… into mafia shark chum if he doesn't stop being so stupid and schemey all the time," she adds tightly.
"He is stupid," Clem agrees. "And way more schemey lately. Making worse and worse bets. Taking on really dangerous stuff for money. No idea why," he lies. "It's not like his expenses have gone up or anything. Blood's still cheap. And he steals most of his cigarettes and booze."
Buffy meets his gaze then, head darting up as recognition dawns in shocked eyes, her breath visibly held. Clem watches her back, the pair of them evaluating all the unsaid words scattered between them like the poker chips heaped on the counter.
"Call?" he asks eventually, but pointedly makes no move towards the chips.
Buffy shifts in her seat, understanding his meaning. This isn't about cards anymore. She takes a pause as she lets new thoughts settle in her mind with a slight air of discomfort.
With a careful breath out she straightens her back. Nods carefully.
"Yeah," she says. And then, "Raise."
xxxxxxx
Saturday night arrives abruptly and playing the part of the wrinkliest gentleman in recorded history, Clem swings by Revello Drive on his way to Willy's so he and Buffy can walk there together.
She answers the door with an eager greeting, grabs her jacket from the coat rack, and follows him out into the balmy Sunnydale evening, the sun having only just set, dragging the last shade of blue out of the sky.
"That's definitely what you're wearing?" Clem asks as they descend the porch steps.
"Yuh huh," Buffy answers perkily, untucking her hair from the coat's collar.
Clem tilts his head in appraisement. "I thought you were gonna wear something distracting?"
Buffy glances down at her outfit. The dark blue skirt with a slit all the way up the thigh hugs her hips and is paired with a black mesh long-sleeved top that visibly showcases the black satin bra beneath.
"I am," she says. "The girls are fully on show here."
"The…?" Clem blinks in confusion before realization hits. "Oh, is that the human version of…? Uh... Okay. Good."
Buffy chuckles at his obvious bashfulness and falls into step beside him.
Willy's is buzzing with demons when they arrive, busy and loud, and as such they slip inside with barely a glance from the patrons.
Clem orders two beers at the bar and passes Buffy hers before heading to the back room.
"Hey, Rulgen!" he calls over the noise from the crowd, greeting the demon already sitting at the poker table.
"Clem." Rulgen raises from his seat fluidly and claps Clem around the shoulders in a brief hug. "How's it hanging?"
"Low and everywhere," Clem answers, gesturing down his saggy body as Rulgen chuckles. "This is Buffy," he adds, introducing Buffy with a showcasing flair.
Rulgen smiles winningly at her, and Buffy can't help but beam back. He'd pass for human if not for the black teeth, the yellow eyes, and the barbed shape of his ears that remind her of lizard hands. Tall and broad with a football player's physique he towers over them both but wears the imposing height with a leaning ease.
"The Vampire Slayer," he says and Buffy feels a rush of pride she hasn't felt in a long time at the almost awed way he says it.
"That's the one," she confirms and shakes his hand.
"Just the girl we need then." He grins wider. "Clem gave you the rundown?"
"Code words? Hand signals? Secret winks?" Buffy lists, nodding. "I'm all in the know."
"Excellent." Rulgen picks up his beer and tips it towards them for a toast. "To lessons learned, then."
"To lessons learned," Clem repeats and the three of them clink bottles just as an unmistakably English accent drifts over the buzz of the crowd.
"Blood. Neat. And nothing farm-based this time, yeah?"
"Showtime," says Rulgen with a grin, and takes a swig of his beer.
Buffy waits, an unexpected dose of nervousness filling her bloodstream like carbonated water, butterflies fluttering in her stomach as anticipation pulls her heartstrings taut. Something's going to change tonight. And she can't sit still about it.
When Spike finally enters with a tumbler of blood in his hand, he nods to Clem and to Rulgen genially.
"'Evening all, we ready to—" he halts abruptly as his eyes fall on Buffy. Freezing to the spot, mouth still parted around the sentence he was halfway through.
After an awkward couple of seconds, Clem clears his throat, but it takes Spike another moment to come to his senses.
"Buffy…"
"Hi, honey," she greets ironically. "How was your day?"
Spike glances at Clem and Rulgen, before placing his glass on the table and moving towards her.
He drags her to the side, fingers wrapped around her forearm, firm but not hard. At least—Buffy suppresses an electric shiver—no harder than the way he'd held her down on his crypt floor a few nights ago.
"What are you doing here?" he whispers.
"Playing poker," Buffy replies pleasantly.
"What?!" He drops her arm. "Why?"
"Clem invited me," she answers, waving chummily at Clem from the other side of the table. He waves back as Rulgen offers a thumbs up, the pair of them leaning against a rickety storage unit, sipping their drinks, and observing the exchange with amusement.
Spike steps back from her like she's completely lost her mind.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" he bites out, whisper-volume forgotten. "Slayer, this isn't a round of Happy Families with your mates, they'll take you for everything you've got!"
"Harsh," Clem comments from the sidelines, but smiles cheerfully when Spike shoots him a dirty look before turning back to Buffy.
Who does nothing to conceal the smirk curling her lips, crossing her arms underneath her chest. As expected Spike's eyes linger on her cleavage just a fraction of a second too long.
"You don't think I can win?"
"N—" Spike drags his eyes back up to hers with force. "-No, I don't think you can bloody win! Not least because they'll read every hand you've been dealt in those giant baby-deer eyes of yours, and you can't bluff worth a damn!"
"Oh, I can't bluff worth a damn?" she bites back. "Says the idiot who hasn't had a single solitary emotion he didn't immediately voice. Or face."
"Oh, they are cute together, aren't they?" Rulgen murmurs almost inaudibly to Clem, who chuckles in agreement.
She firmly ignores it as Spike huffs angrily.
"Fine, you know what? Go ahead and lose your money, Slayer. Makes no odds to me, I was just under the impression you were on the skint side is all."
"Xander lent me—" Buffy begins to argue with an arranged story intended to egg him towards the tables.
She doesn't even need the rest of it.
"Oh, Xander's the bankroll?" Spike cuts in, sneering. "Fantastic. Always good to know whose money's gonna end up lining my pockets. I'll be sure to thank him."
Buffy glowers—not even needing to fake it—as Spike takes a seat at the table. Rulgen joins on his left, and Clem, after a jolly smile in her direction, takes the one opposite.
She waits just long enough for Spike's attention to fall back on her. He raises a provoking not-joining-us? eyebrow
She draws out her own chair, sitting down daintily, crossing her legs under the table, deliberately flashing an expanse of thigh, the slit in her skirt riding the lace trim of her panties.
Spike's jaw clenches momentarily before he suppresses it with force, shuffling the cards.
They ante as Spike deals, and Buffy settles back, picking up her cards as they come.
It doesn't matter what she has, as long as it isn't good. It's agreed; the first hand is Spike's. The fishing lure on the end of a hook.
And as such it takes concentration for her hips not to shift at the two nines—a heart, and a club—nestled in her hand.
"I'll bet twenty to get us started," Rulgen says, barely glancing at his cards.
"Call," agrees Clem, and adds his own chips.
"Raise twenty," Buffy mutters, unusually shy for her first line in this play, and clears her throat as she clatters four chips into the center.
"The whelp's got deep pockets, does he, luv?" Spike purrs and Buffy flicks a glare at him. "Let's dig a little deeper, then. See Harris's forty and raise another twenty." He chucks in the chips.
"Call," Rulgen agrees, meeting the bet.
Clem sighs dramatically, closing his fan of cards. "First hand is never lucky for me, I fold."
Buffy grits her teeth to stop them from getting any bad, terrible notions of biting her lip in nerves. Oh. My turn again.
"Fine," she counters, squaring her shoulders even as Spike's smile starts to stir the embers of her temper. "Your twenty, and another twenty."
"Call," he replies immediately, his eyes not leaving hers as he tosses in the chips.
"Call," mutters Rulgen, not bothering to hide his disinterest in being the third wheel in their duel of glares as he adds his own. He finally takes a proper look at his cards and discards three. "Three cards," he says and waits. And waits. "Spike, stop making bedroom eyes and do your job."
"That's just his face, he does it to me all the time," Clem jokes as Spike's gaze pulls away from Buffy long enough to toss three cards at Rulgen and a glare at Clem.
Buffy takes a deep breath as his eyes drift back to her, piercing and predatory and angry in a way that usually dumps gasoline all over her resolve and sets a match to it.
Another breath and she bids farewell to the pair in her hand, casting off the nine of hearts along with another card. Spike gets to win this round, even if that smirk is going to make her gut boil.
"Give me two," she demands.
Spike peels off two cards from the deck, and hands them directly out to her, holding on with a pinch of his fingers as she tries to take them.
"Usually give you three, don't I, pet?" he says, quietly but not so quietly that no one else can hear, and low enough that it raises the hairs up her arms. "Minimum."
She yanks them out of his hand. "Pig."
She glances down. This time the wriggle of her hips is replaced with ice in her stomach.
Damn.
A straight fanned miraculously in her hand.
Okay, she coaches herself. No big. Just fold when you're supposed to. He still wins this round.
Ugh, he wins this round. I've never let Spike win a round of anything.
This sucks.
"Dealer takes two," Spike announces over her thoughts and takes two cards to replace the ones he's cast off.
Buffy watches closely.
No betraying flutter of his lashes.
Crap.
She glances across to Rulgen, who meets her gaze and obligingly does a double tap with his fingers on the back of his cards. He's holding a pair.
She twists her index finger briefly into a line across her cards. A straight.
He rolls his yellow eyes. Typical.
"Check," he says, and Buffy swallows.
"Check."
She glances at Spike. Facing the unblinking stare head-on. He studies her, and—uncomfortably—she shifts underneath it, fidgeting as she tries not to let the apprehension manifest across her features.
Don't check. Don't check.
He opens his mouth—
And then a grin ever so slightly lifts the corner of his lips.
Buffy, very carefully, doesn't gulp.
Uh-oh…
"Bet," he says, smugness oozing. "Twenty."
Buffy lets out a minute breath. He thinks I have a bad hand.
"Fold," calls Rulgen immediately, and drops his cards.
"F—" Buffy starts.
Her eyes meet those penetrating blues again, the arrogance in them tightening her throat, making her dizzy as though his fingers really were digging in lightly at her jugular. He smiles a slight 'better luck next time, luv' smile and her heels dig into the floor.
He thinks I have a bad hand!
"-Forty." Wait, what?! Her hand moves to throw in the additional chips without prior permission from her brain. Oh, crap.
"Your forty," Spike replies after a blatantly delighted pause. "And another twenty."
"Thirty!" growls Buffy.
"Ten," Spike bites back.
"Buffy!" mouths Rulgen, and she finally snaps out of her short-lived delirium, blinking rapidly.
Oops.
She sighs, overplayed and exhausted. "Fold."
After a moment to bask in the victory, a pleased chuckle tripping across his bared teeth stretched wide in a grin, Spike drags the chips towards himself, stacking them up as he hands the deck off to Rulgen.
"He really is a motherfucker when he wins," Rulgen says to Buffy as he shuffles the cards. She nods in agreement, still blindsided by the near unraveling of Step Goddamn One.
"And you're a six-foot-one baby when you lose," retorts Spike without even looking up.
They play the next several hands as planned; Rulgen's deft fingers and Clem's hidden cards forcing increasing losses on Spike, eroding his stack of chips and his smug attitude.
He loses to Clem.
To Rulgen.
To Buffy, substantially, and in a way that makes it look like he's about to crack a tooth.
"Um…" she mutters, sucking her bottom lip in faux concentration. "Clem, help, which is higher, three fives, or two aces?"
"That's a full house," Clem replies, smiling proudly.
"Talk about beginner's luck," Rulgen adds just as sweetly as Spike rolls his eyes heavenward.
He manages to claw a few more chips back on his deal, and no one mentions the ace he slips out of his coat pocket, dogeared from overuse, before the deck is back in Rulgen's hand.
He deals out the cards and Buffy relaxes minutely. She'd been ready for distraction; for a well-timed stretch that would make the mesh of her top significantly less opaque, or maybe the graze of her calf against Spike's beneath the table to pull his attention away from the fact Rulgen is dealing from the bottom of the deck.
Neither is needed. More at ease now that he's a round-up again, he takes his time watching her, letting his eyes linger over every inch of her. From the slit in her skirt, over the mesh hugging her waist, the bra clearly visible through the sheer fabric. His gaze halts at her neck, and she knows he's thinking of biting her there. Holding her down with his teeth as her hands tug his hair, her nails scratching his arms.
She's thinking the same.
"Ante up," Clem says, and as Spike's attention turns back to the cards in front of him Buffy drags in a shallow breath, willing her heart rate back down.
She drops a chip into the center and tries to get her mind to focus. This is the real deal now, the killing move.
He picks up his cards and there it is. That tiny double flutter of his eyelashes as he finds a ten, jack, queen, and king—all spades—in his hand.
She doesn't need to look up to know Clem and Rulgen have seen it. Their smirks are invisible beneath their poker faces but perfectly present.
Right away, Clem bets ten.
Buffy raises another ten, her initial shyness having evaporated now that they're deeper into the evening and she's finished the beer Clem bought her.
Here we go…
Spike rearranges his cards nonchalantly, barely lifting his eyes from them when he says, "Your twenty, sweetheart, and another twenty."
Rulgen calls.
Clem calls.
Buffy sees and raises another ten.
"Just ten, pet?" Spike says with a condescending pout. "Not gone gun shy, have you?"
Buffy meets his eye, closes her cards into her hand, and leans back in her chair. "Wow," she purrs and offers a tight smile. "You really are a terrible bluffer."
He raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Bad cards, huh?" she asks, sweetly concerned. "Hang in there, Spikey."
Spike tucks his tongue around an incisor, shaking his head like he can't believe the gall of her.
"Your ten," he answers, flicking in the chip. "Won't raise you though," he adds with a sniff. "Don't want you to lose all your pocket money."
"I've got deeper pockets than you right now," she replies, blithely.
"The two of you really need to learn how to flirt," Rulgen mutters as he and Clem meet the call with their own chips.
Clem requests two new cards, slotting the replacements into his hand and letting a happy grin wrinkle his face into a multitude of folds.
Buffy watches the performance; the way he mimics her pleased hip-wriggle in his seat, pumping his eyebrows at her, and she holds down a snort as she fans her cards back out again. She changes three.
And pouts. Purposefully. Her whole bottom lip practically wobbles as she sighs out through her nose.
"What'sa matter, baby?" Spike croons, and she whisks the pantomime off her face. "Bad cards?"
Buffy shifts in her seat, tosses her hair, and affixes Spike with a sour look of disdain.
"Better than yours," she bites back. Not her greatest quip, but it doesn't matter since it seems enough of a distraction for Clem to pass a card—dislodged from his skin folds during his good-hand wriggle hoax—to Rulgen.
Spike snorts in answer and discards a card, requesting one more.
Rulgen slides it across, and Buffy's eyes don't leave his face.
There's no double-flutter of his lashes this time, but his eyes sparkle maliciously.
God, he really is a motherfucker, Buffy thinks to herself, borrowing Rulgen's words since they fit so well.
"And dealer takes two," Rulgen announces lastly.
Buffy finally manages to drag her gaze away from Spike and flicks a look to Clem.
He doesn't do anything as obvious as nod, but there's a readable look of acknowledgement on his face. He clears his throat.
"Twenty," he bets.
"Twenty," matches Buffy, a little quick off the mark, a bit too rehearsed. It doesn't seem to register with Spike, however, who's watching her intently. "And raise ten."
"Wouldn't do that, honey," he purrs low and leonine, and she glares harder.
"You're all talk," she retorts.
"You think so, do you?" Spike asks casually, taking a sip of the blood that had gone somewhat forgotten for most of the play.
Buffy makes an unimpressed pfft sound at his overtaxed nonchalance. "I know so."
Another long sip, his thumb wiping away a line of red before he offers her a conciliatory smile. "Can't say I didn't warn you. Your thirty-," A beat. "And double it."
Buffy's hips beg to do a smug little wriggle. She fights it down with everything she has as Rulgen sighs theatrically.
"Fold," he says. "I've got Clem's luck this round."
"Hey!" Clem protests, though not sincerely, and throws in four chips to stay in.
"Oh, my turn again?" Buffy asks without taking her eyes off Spike. "Raise thirty."
"Raise you ten," Spike bats back, locked into her death stare.
"Fold," Clem says, not bothering with much of a performance since Spike's attention isn't anywhere near him.
Buffy smirks. "Raise you twenty," she says.
"Ten."
"Thirty."
"Back down, Slayer, you're gonna bankrupt yourself!"
"Spoken like the world's worst bluffer," she answers, with a light shrug.
His eye twitches. "Fine. All in."
Buffy doesn't even try to hide the grin stretching across her face like a cat that's spotted a mouse in a trap. "Raise twenty."
Spike looks at her like she's an idiot, a slight crease between his eyebrows. "I said 'all in,' luv. Nothing left to bet with. Nice Slayers don't raise after that."
"Yeah, well, I don't see how that's my problem. You're the one that's out of chips, not me. And by the way, I'd be really good at Crappy Families. Or whatever it is you said."
"If you need to fold, buddy, just fold," Rulgen chimes in, and Buffy hears Spike's jaw squeak under the tension.
"I don't need to fold, I'm bust. You need those frilly ears of yours wrung out?" He turns to Clem, visibly pushing the irritation down to a less violent level. "Clem, spot me."
"Sorry, pal. I'm all out of watches," Clem replies, baring his wrists as Spike scowls across the table.
"I know what you could bet," Buffy pipes up, tightening her lips to stop a cackle bubbling up from her gut. "Why don't you bet your boots?"
Spike's head whips to face her, blinking like he's suffering from severe auditory hallucinations and can't believe what he's just heard.
"My what?"
Rulgen leans back in his chair to observe Spike's legs, appraising him blatantly, tapping his lip with an obsidian nail. "They are nice boots."
"Definitely worth at least the twenty you need to play the hand," Clem agrees, nodding whilst inspecting his claws.
"Are you all high? I'm not betting my boots!"
"Right. Because you're all talk," Buffy says, smiling the smile of gotcha. A verbal pat on the back with a too-heavy hand.
Spike stares at her. Glares at her. And when all she does is smile back, he sucks air in over his teeth, shaking his head in utter contempt.
"Fine. Have it your way." He slaps his cards face down on the table and bends at the waist to unlace his boots, dumping them into the center of the table on top of the already cascading heap of chips. "They're vintage Docs though, so we're calling it a raise. All in like a good girl, Slayer," he demands.
Buffy snorts, rolls her eyes—no longer acting—and with her free hand pushes in the rest of her pile.
Spike waits a beat, incinerating her with a petulant glower, before turning his cards over and dropping them unceremoniously face up under her nose.
"Straight. Flush," he enunciates, clipping the consonants. "Tough luck, sweetheart. Tell Xander I appreciate the—"
The clickety-click of Buffy lowering her cards in a fan cuts him off. He blanches (or would if there was any melanin left in his skin to lose). A single puff of air escapes his lungs in shock.
The dogeared ace from his pocket completes her hand.
"That's one of those royal thingies, right?" Buffy asks sweetly, propping her chin in her palm, the sour tone replaced with one of overindulged smugness before she leans in by an inch. "Tough luck, sweetheart."
"Wow, buddy," Clem chuckles. "That was hard to watch." Spike purses his lips and Clem—on cue—burps loudly into his hand. "Jeez, excuse me."
"Your boots, darlin'," Rulgen says and hands her Spike's boots off the table. Buffy drops them unceremoniously on the floor between her and Clem.
They play another hand, lazy and easygoing, as Spike stews.
"Check," Rulgen says.
"Bet ten," says Clem.
"See, and—" Buffy bends at the waist to retrieve the boots, holding them up by the laces. "Raise …hmm …what do you guys think? A buck?"
"Oi!" Spike growls, sitting straight up out of his peeved slump.
Clem tsks, appearing to give the matter serious consideration as he drags his fingers reflectively across his chin, inadvertently creating a ripple of skin folds. "Seems high."
"You're right," Buffy agrees, nodding as though Clem is the height of wisdom. "We'll call it forty cents."
"Jesus Christ," Spike hisses, as she chucks the boots back on the table.
After a few more bets, Rulgen takes the round with a simple high jack—congratulated with entirely too much good humor from Clem and Buffy—and Spike's patience finally snaps.
"Right, that's enough." He rises out of his chair. "Give them back, I'm going home."
Buffy stays her hips with an iron will, propping her elbows up on the table for the show.
"You lost them," Rulgen says pleasantly, offering a blackened smile.
"Give over!" Spike bites out, baring more than a little tooth. "It's a bloody mile back to my crypt, I don't wanna be picking glass and grit out of my feet the rest of the sodding evening!"
"Bet something else if you want them back."
"You lot are the ones who said they're only worth forty cents!" Spike argues.
"Yes, and now they're my forty-cent boots," replies Rulgen, unmoved by the vampire's minimal tower over him. He raises an eyebrow. "Do you even have forty cents on you?"
Buffy entertains herself by watching Spike's Adam's apple strain as he curls his black-painted fingers into a fist around his smoldering temper before she adds another log to the fire.
"I'll give you four chips for your shirt."
His fury swings her way, shoulders tense, as he plants his hands flat on the table. "You wanna play strip, sweetheart, that's something we can do in our own time."
"Right, plus I don't think that shirt is worth forty bucks." Rulgen chuckles in an artless goad. "No offense."
"Full offense," growls Spike.
"And I could do without the exhibitionism," Clem adds, his mouth pulling back into a revolting grimace. "All that tight skin." He shudders, eliciting a fond smirk from Buffy as she shuffles the cards.
Spike's nostrils flare with rage before he turns to Buffy. "Chips," he demands and she pauses her shuffling to push across a small stack with her index finger. He shrugs off his duster.
"Next time you get arrested for public nudity, Clem, don't bloody well come crying to me," he bites out and peels off his t-shirt, petulantly flinging it into Clem's face. Clem catches it deftly, folds it neatly, and hands it to Buffy.
"Thank you, Clem," she sing-songs as she extracts the small heap of cards he's taken the opportunity to slip her, hiding them beneath the deck as she lays the shirt next to her chips. She deals, Rulgen and Clem from the top, Spike from the bottom.
Spike holds back a scowl, sliding his coat back over his now bare shoulders, and tosses a chip into the center as he takes his seat and his cards.
It only takes one half-turn of betting for his patience to snap.
"Raise twenty," Rulgen says and Spike's hackles rise.
"Rulgen," he says in an icy tone. "You aren't walking out of here with my boots. Put them in the pot."
"Nah," retorts Rulgen with excessive wit, offering a satisfied smile even as Spike's hand curls.
"It's cool, buddy," Clem chimes in as he answers Rulgen's raise. "I'm dating this real lady who runs a shoe store with her sister, who can get you a discount on some new boots."
Buffy refrains from glancing at Clem, but can't help a smirk. He's holding two queens. A flick of her eyes up to Rulgen and he subtly taps the back of his cards once. He's holding one.
"Thanks, mate," Spike growls with no note of thanks in his tone, "but I think you're missing the point of vintage—" He's cut off as Buffy calls and raises another thirty, but not his shirt. "Buffy," he pleads. "Have a heart. I'll freeze."
"You don't have body heat, Spike. I'm not gonna cry a river here," she parries blithely. "You want the shirt back-" she reaches across to take the lapel of his coat in her hand, casually brushing his nipple with the back of her knuckles, and as Spike's eyes flick to her hand, Rulgen swaps a card with Clem. "-Why don't you bet another layer?"
Spike bats her hand away. "Not betting my coat, Slayer."
"So you fold?" She smirks, knowing he won't.
Spike glares, and digs into his coat pocket, tugging out his silver lighter. "That covers it easy," he snaps, jaw wire-tight, waiting for further argument.
Replacement cards are drawn and Buffy prides herself on the seamless bottom deck dealing as she slides Spike the two cards he asks for, not missing the flutter of his eyelashes as he slots them into his hand.
He raises ten.
"I'll call," Rulgen says and adds a chip to the table. "Aaaand raise." A single boot follows.
"What does that make the pot now?" Clem asks, rearranging his cards.
"I'm gonna say…" Rulgen mulls, running a finger down the fronds of his ear. "Eighty—"
"What?!" Spike barks.
Buffy bursts out laughing and Clem shakes his head, suppressing a chuckle as he adds eight chips to the pot. "The two of you are really heartless."
Buffy clears the tears in her eyes and checks her cards, spotting the two of clubs to join Clem's two of hearts.
She holds it under the table while Spike and Rulgen argue over what the suitable inflation of boot prices is, and Clem takes it, encasing it in a skin fold of his forearm.
"I call," Buffy says, grinning. "And raise twenty."
"Big pot," laughs Rulgen. "What do you think, Spike? Ten chips worth the price of the coat?"
"Leather's not for sale," he snarls back.
Rulgen's black grin widens. "How about the denim?"
Buffy's fairly sure if blood pumped in Spike's veins he would be completely red in the face. His expression darkens murderously.
"He won't," she says confidently.
"Yeah. You're probably right. Always suspected," agrees Clem succinctly, not raising his eyes from his cards. His tongue darts out to lick a lip, and Buffy catches the look of overindulgence on Clem's face as palpable horror rolls off Spike and over Clem's taste buds.
Rulgen feigns confusion and then feigns dawning realization. "Ah." His glance dips to Spike's crotch. He wrinkles his nose. "Shame."
Spike checks his cards again with gritted teeth and with an angry huff says, "Pants go in, so does the other bloody boot."
Rulgen tsks in thought.
"What do we say, Clem?" he asks, yellow eyes mere slits from having too much fun. "That agreeable to you?"
Clem sighs deeply, worries his lip as he looks at his card, tilting his head back and forth in thought, causing a multitude of folds to gather at his shoulders. "Alright, what the hell." He adds his chips as Rulgen adds the boot.
"Good for me," Buffy answers perkily with a shrug as she tosses in her chips. "It's Xander's money anyway." She turns to Spike, resting her chin on her hand. "You're late to call, sweetie."
"They come off if I lose," Spike says smoothly and lowers his cards. "Flush."
"Beats my pair," laments Rulgen with overplayed regret.
Buffy hums in disappointment and drops her cards in the center without any flourish. "I've only got a king."
Spike glares across the table at Clem, last to show his hand.
Clem clears his throat.
Spike shakes his head. Don't you fucking dare, writ clearly across his face.
"Full house," Clem says, displaying the pair of twos and three queens with a turn of his wrist.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Spike huffs, running a hand through his hair. "Clem, let me off."
"Clem is so not letting you off," Buffy argues before Clem even thinks about opening his mouth. "You pawned his watch, so pay him back in jeans." She pauses before she plays her metaphorical ace, letting Spike simmer before she runs her foot up the inside of his calf—delicate and light, as though making a show of the obstructing layers between them—and lets her eyelids grow just a little heavy. "Unless you're shy?"
Spike rolls his eyes, swallowing before he meets her gaze, and for a brief sparkling second Buffy feels just a tiny bit guilty. He looks so owned. So ready to bend and twist himself around her little finger. So completely her willing slave and that would be a horrible thing if this wasn't part of a bigger play, a larger pot to win.
He lets the breath out through his nose in an irritated sigh without breaking eye contact, before standing and turning his back to the table. His belt clinks as he undoes it.
To distract herself from the memories that sound evokes, Buffy glances at the other players around the table; Rulgen, grinning wide and mean and clearly enjoying the way Spike's naturally argumentative nature has been suppressed all evening. Clem with his hand over his eyes, trying not to look like he's eaten an entire buffet of anguish and needs a post-feast nap.
She can't help but blush as Spike turns, holding his coat closed around his waist as he dumps the jeans on the table.
"So, Spike's out," Rulgen notes, collecting the deck from Buffy before adding, "In more ways than one."
Buffy hides a snort poorly as Spike takes his seat, scowling.
"Hardly fair," Spike grouches. "Show's worth at least a hundred." He pointedly raises an eyebrow, daring Rulgen to comment further.
"Give you the hundred," Rulgen says, the leer already tugging up the corner of his lips. "If you give us the whole show, gorgeous."
Spike props his elbow on the table and raises two fingers directly in front of Rulgen's face, which creases with laughter.
"If you want back in, Spikey," Buffy pipes up, passing the jeans off to Clem. "You can still bet your coat."
When he meets her eyes there's fire in them, and she's sure—really, really sure—he's figured out the whole charade. That it's finally snapped in his mind.
He hooks a bare ankle around the leg of her chair and yanks her closer with a squeal of metal on cement. He leans with one arm on the table and the hand of his other on the back of her chair, ever so slightly caging her in.
"Would you take it off me if you won, honey?"
Buffy meets his eyes with a stern look of her own. That fire isn't going to melt her resolve this time.
"Uh-huh."
Another drag of her chair and her knees are between his legs, affording her the full, uncensored view of what his duster is hiding from Clem and Rulgen.
He leans in, mouth close to her ear, breath tickling her neck.
"Has Clem got any more cards up his folds?" he whispers and her stomach drops. He's figured it out. "Is Rulgen gonna be dealing from the bottom?" Shit, he knows that too.
He pulls back enough for her to meet his eyes, and as she does there's a dizzying freefall, tripping over the final line in the sand. The last call before hands are shown. His lips part, a last question coming.
"Is this hand gonna be worth the coat?" he asks and she knows he doesn't care about the boots. The shirt. The jeans.
There are higher stakes to play for.
She doesn't care that Clem is trying desperately to avert his eyes. She doesn't care that Rulgen isn't.
She leans in.
And kisses him hard. Nothing too deep, but meaning spread thick. No more games.
Spike pulls back with a sigh.
"Deal then," he commands to Rulgen. "And if there's any more fancy fingering, mark me, I'm gonna use your ears for doilies."
Rulgen deals.
They bet, but everyone knows what the real pot is.
Cards are drawn.
One more round of betting before Rulgen and Clem graciously bow out.
Buffy's hips are wriggleless, her lip tucked behind her teeth. A clean, no-cheating round has brought her a pair of eights. Nothing big.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Spike raises one more time and she meets it. It doesn't matter, she'll win the last round. The one played without cards.
He shows his hand….
…A pair of sevens.
He doesn't even blink when she turns her cards over, but the room deflates noticeably, sighs exhaled.
"Welp," Rulgen says, getting up from his seat and stretching. "It's been fun." He thumps Spike on the back a little too hard, earning a sly glare as he hustles Clem onto his feet. "Come on, Clem, I think he's learned his lesson."
"Yeah, I think he's still got one to go," Clem says, and as he flings Spike's clothes over his shoulder and picks up his boots, he offers a goodbye wave to Buffy. "Don't be too hard on him," he says before departing with Rulgen.
The door closes behind him, and it's suddenly just them. Oppressively just them, as Spike's gaze swings slowly back to her.
"If you wanted to get me out of my clothes, Slayer," he says quietly, "there are nicer, less rage-inducing, ways to go about it."
"I know," she replies, her voice unbearably tight. "In theory anyway. Nice isn't so much an 'us' thing."
Spike scoffs as he leans back in his seat, the duster opening enough to afford her a view of the tightly muscled planes of his chest and stomach. "Is that what this is? Punishment for giving as good as I get?"
"No." She shakes her head and takes a breath. "It's a lesson."
His eyes narrow. "On what?"
Buffy takes a moment to steady her nerves—heart beating a little too hard, but given the destination she's been driving towards all evening, she decides it can't be helped—and hooks her ankle around the leg of his chair, dragging him closer.
His hand flies out to the table's edge to steady himself, annoyance hardening his expression, but it changes to watchful hesitation as she rises out of her seat.
With her hands on his shoulders, she straddles his lap, glad for the slit in her skirt that lets her thighs widen without hiking the skirt up to her waist.
His eyes dilate brazenly, and as she leans closer he instinctively—needfully—tilts his head for a kiss, uncaring of the conversation they've left on pause.
She stops him from closing the distance with both hands flat against the lapels of his coat, fingers softly curling into the leather.
"This is mine, right?" she asks, and his eyes open again from their dreamlike gaze. "Take it off."
His teeth grit momentarily, making his jaw as sharp as a razor, but it doesn't last when she dips her hands beneath the coat, widening the neckline off his shoulders.
He shrugs out of it, wiry naked arms encircling her as it puddles at the back of his chair.
She lets her hands roam; greedily tracing the muscled contours of his chest and over his collarbone as he shivers under her touch, a brief questioning look confirming that something really has changed between them before he relaxes into it, holding the demand for answers back for later.
He swallows a moan as her fingers skim his throat but she can feel it underneath her hands anyway as she cups his face, drawing him in.
"Is this the lesson?" he asks before their lips meet. "M'not sure I need it."
She smirks, sinking her fingers into his hair. "Call it a consolation prize."
He preens back into her hands and hums contentedly. "You're far more than a consolation prize, sweetheart."
"Oh, so you can say the right things when you want to," Buffy murmurs as she presses a kiss to his neck, savoring the answering twitch it causes from his cock trapped beneath her. "That's good to know."
"I—" His retort is twisted into a loud groan as she sets her mouth just beneath his jaw, kissing up to his ear before she bites it gently, simultaneously rolling her hips into his.
"I know I can be rude, luv," he purrs, his fingers gripping her waist and encouraging another soft grind against him. "I know I'm bad… but, God, just keep doing that, swear I'll do better."
"Do better quietly," she whispers, and kisses him deeply; a lingering first press of her lips, then a brief pause to take a breath before she widens the kiss and twines her tongue with his. Another loud moan vibrates her lips, and she reaches down to pinch his nipple, earning a surprised gasp. "I said quietly."
"Well it's bloody hard work being quiet when you're wriggling in my lap like that," he hisses back. The chair creaks as his pelvis meets a downward stroke of her hips.
"Do you want me to get off?" she teases with a slight grin as she makes to move back, and his painted fingernails pressing harder into her spine, forcing an arch.
"Don't you dare," Spike growls as she takes back up the slow rhythmic grind of her hips. He purrs dreamily, groaning at the friction. "Just stay right here, honey. I'll get you off."
A derisive snort that's mostly amusement escapes her, but she winds her arms around his shoulders and sinks another long, easy kiss against his lips, breathing deeply to stop the intensity from making her dizzy. She edges back onto his knees, releasing his cock from beneath her skirt, and he follows her, needing to close the brief distance between them. With his hands on her hips he drags her back in, the crux of her legs pressing against his erection, and she groans, cupping the back of his head as he buries his face at her neck.
"God, Buffy…"
The door leading back to the bar opens a fraction, startling them both. "Piss off!" Spike barks at the time Buffy shouts "Out!" and the door slams shut again, footsteps pounding a retreat but barely heard as Spike grips the back of her neck and drags her into a searing kiss, her lips bruising under the force.
Her thighs squeeze his waist as her feet hook around the chair legs to anchor her, needing the stability as he rocks up into her, his erection pressed hard into the satin panties that match her bra. He hums against her lips, hand curling into a fist in her hair to hold her close as a damp slickness soaks the fabric.
"Was this always the end game?" he murmurs against her lips as he slips the fabric out of the way, gliding directly against wet skin as Buffy gulps around a whimper.
"Yes," she answers truthfully. Beginning the game, she corrects inside her head, and a nervous flutter tickles her heart.
He hums, edging her chin up with gentle nudging kisses to get at her neck.
"You really are infuriating, you know that?" His tongue flicks across her pulse and electrical fireworks shoot up Buffy's spine. "And a bloody awful cheat."
"You're worse," Buffy murmurs, and slips a hand down between them, wrapping a firm hand around his length to deepen the pressure against her core.
"Would've had you fair and square several times over, luv," Spike retorts, the hand trailing down her back to cup her ass through her skirt, making their thrusts burn with intensity.
"You know what I think?" Buffy whispers, her throat raw from holding down the moans clogging her lungs, and dodging his lips as his teeth score the nerve endings at her shoulder. "I think the big bad-" she slides up to the tip of his cock and down again, relishing the way his hand tugs at her hair, "-can't handle losing-" back up again, "-at his own game."
"Don't much feel like I've lost right now," he purrs as the head of his cock glides over her clit. Buffy gasps and lets him steal a rough kiss as she rides the sensation for a few more strokes.
It pains her to do it, but as he moves to press into her—to fill her up the way she's been aching for all evening, she pulls back—pinning him in place with a glare.
"This is the lesson, Spike," she says, and the dazed fugue of arousal sharpens to a point in his eyes. "No more games. No more cheating. No more schemes—"
He opens his mouth to protest, but she halts it with her fingers wrapped hard around his cock and he groans loudly.
"I know you're doing it for me," she continues. "I know you're doing all this stupid stuff to try and help. All this mega idiotic, super dangerous, gonna-get-chummed-if-you-keep-it-up crap, and I don't think I even want to know the half of what you've got going on." She softens her tone, and her grip on him. "But it stops now."
His mouth parts wordlessly, and she lays a light kiss to his lips, her heart skipping a beat as he melts into it, chasing it even as she leans back. "Agreed?"
He nods desperately. "Agreed."
She sinks down onto him, taking him in fully and he growls like a tiger, meeting her thrust so hard her hands grip the table for balance.
He barrels forward, raising her up and seating her on the table edge, and Buffy gasps at the new angle, her thighs cinching tight around him as he grinds into her. She lets her head thump back against the table, a low moan pulled from her, along with the tension she seems to continuously carry in her lower back. Every first thrust between them feels like a release in miniature, like all her muscles have been set on fire, the bruising, persistent pace keeping the flames burning.
He pushes into a bundle of nerves at the back of her and she strangles a scream in her throat. He hooks his forearms underneath her knees and drives deep, pressing hard until the scream escapes in a desperate squeak.
"Spike—" Buffy shudders, losing control of her fragile upper hand as his fingers squeeze her waist, chips and cards sliding beneath her, digging into her back. He drags her forward by her legs and leans over her, bending her in half to sink his teeth into her neck, pinning her as she writhes beneath him, climbing perilously higher towards a final peak.
"Scream for me, honey." Spike commands, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her thighs as he presses closer. "Show me how much you want me."
He hits that spot again and Buffy feels every muscle squeeze tight in a chokehold. Spike grunts appreciatively, a flash of a wicked grin twisting his lips before he bares down on the nerves already singing with oversensitivity, and Buffy screams, uncaring for whatever ears might be listening at the door.
As she spirals higher she dazedly considers that the orgasms he rings out of her are a greed for him. That they're not a giving thing the way they would be for other people. Wanting to make sure she gets off either out of courtesy or a sense of achievement.
It's a vice. It's a selfishness because it's the only intimacy he can steal from her that isn't shrouded in denial. Turning an act of giving into an act of taking. An act of keeping. Something of hers that she can't yank out of his reach afterward.
It's a momentarily painful thought, but right now he's taking her world apart with the rhythm of his hips. And all she cares about is that fracturing. That's the only thing that matters. Every time, it's the only thing that matters.
That, and the words that have been stuck in her throat, choking her for weeks. Half-chewed and too big to swallow. Every rut, every kiss, every scratch makes those phantom words burn. Makes more words clog her throat even as she digs her nails in to keep hold of them.
Want you. I want you, I need you, I lo—
She jerks back from that last obstacle. Not ready, not ready, not ready.
Not ready to say it, not ready to think it.
It was there though.
"Love you," Spike breathes against her skin. "Love you, Buffy, I love you."
The tightness in her gut eases a little at the words having been said, even if not by her. They just need to linger in the air, it doesn't matter who says them, and like a key turning a lock, she comes apart in his hands. A last curse and Spike falls with her, bundling her up in his arms and hugging so tight her lungs are momentarily bereft of air before he eases up enough to let her gasp.
After an age of shivering against each other, slowly letting the spasms dwindle under soft stroking fingers, Spike pulls back, letting her legs drop, and Buffy steadies herself, still panting.
"Isn't this the bit where you run off?" he asks, looking somewhat stunned that she's still in his arms post-internal-earthquake.
Buffy chuckles breathlessly and moves to sit up. She slips off the table and stands, braced by his hands for just a second longer.
"It'll be a short run," she answers, brushing her skirt down her legs. "My house is pretty close."
"Oh, well bully for you," he says with a smirk. "It's gonna be a bloody cold walk back for me."
"I'll let you borrow my coat," Buffy says and generously passes him the duster from the back of the chair. He offers a slight smile before reaching to take it. "If you come back with me," she adds as he shrugs it over his shoulders.
Spike's eyes dart to hers, confusion mingled with hope written clearly on his face. "Come back with you?"
"Yeah." Buffy nods, and swallows. "I said no more games. A-and I meant it… For me too," she manages tentatively. She waits for him to interrogate, to insist on the parameters of this brave new world, but when all he does is wordlessly open his mouth, she clears her throat. "I need you, Spike," she says quietly because too much volume might frighten the words away. "I really, really need you around. But if you pull any more insane crap and get yourself killed—" She stops before the thought can pull her down into a black hole that's filled with all the other people she's lost; the dead and the undead and the alive but somewhere else. "I can't lose you, too. I've already lost enough. So this is the… the…"
"Ultimatum?" he fills in, looking stunned.
"This is the deal," she says, starting again. "No more schemes from you… and no more hiding by me."
He's speechless for a few beats before he swallows. "I can do that," he says with an extremely cautious, lovesick smile. "And Dawn?"
She smiles back. "You can be quiet, right? Part of the whole… vampire stealth?"
He raises his eyes to the ceiling as though offering thanks, and she catches the double flutter of finally getting what he wants.
"And tomorrow?" he asks and the hope lacing his tone is almost painful to hear.
"I guess…" A steady breath out. "This is the part where I ask how you like your eggs in the morning. Except the answer better be 'burned' because that's my specialty—"
The kiss almost takes her off balance, his hands at the back of her neck refusing any retreat, and she winds her arms under the coat, wrapping around the planes of his back. The pressure of his lips against hers dissolves into a multitude of kisses across her cheek, her jaw, her neck, until his face is buried in her hair, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders.
She squeezes him back just as tight. "Let's go home."
"Yes, luv," he murmurs as he unwinds, sniffing sharply like there's an added bit of moisture at the back of his eyes, and makes sure the duster's fully closed as she takes his hand and leads him out.
On their way back through the bar, much less busy but by no means deserted, Willy spots them and ducks behind the counter, popping back up with Spike's boots in hand. He passes them to Buffy without comment.
She passes them to Spike and he takes them, following behind her as she heads for the door.
"Nice legs!" a demon wolf whistles as Spike passes, and Buffy barely glances over her shoulder as Spike smashes the demon's face into the table, barely breaking his stride.
"Is that any way to treat someone paying you a compliment?" she teases as they let the bar door swing shut behind him, and Spike clips his teeth at her before stooping to tug on his boots.
"They're your legs now, sweetheart," he says as he straightens, wrapping an arm around her neck. "For your eyes only."
She grins, nuzzling deeper into his side, and the walk home is peppered with soft easy kisses she hadn't thought herself capable of any longer. So sweet and so carefree that if there was any last little bug of doubt still in her head it would've died from malnourishment.
Spike's lips barely leave hers as they climb the porch steps to her front door, his gait clumsy from distraction as she shuts it behind her.
"Go upstairs," she says, pulling away from his lips, and earning a brief moan of protest. "Get into bed, I'll be up in a minute."
"Not gonna make me wait, are you?" he huffs, angling for another kiss and she lets him have it.
"Nah, I think I've done that enough."
He smiles gratefully, and after a last peck on her cheek disappears up the stairs. She watches him go, before heading for the kitchen and picking up the phone, dialing a number off by heart.
"Hey, Clem," she trills brightly when he answers the phone as she fills a glass of water from the kitchen tap. "Was just calling to make sure you got home safe."
"No you weren't," he chuckles. "You were calling to brag."
"Just a little brag," she concedes. "Teeny weeny, itty bitty, brag. Practically need a microscope for it."
"I can see it from space," he retorts, "but it was nicely done. Is he there now?"
Buffy smiles at the soft foot tread above her. "Uh-huh."
"Shall I bring his things over in the morning?"
"Perfect. And I'll see you next Friday for movie night?"
"It's a date," Clem agrees. "Although, for God's sake, don't tell Spike I said that."
She hangs up, still smiling, before shutting off the lights and heading upstairs.
The bedside light is on in her bedroom, illuminating Spike sitting upright in her bed, one arm propped on his knee, fingers fidgeting with the rings around his knuckles. Nervous, and needy, and visibly vibrating with impatience.
"Hi," Buffy says as she closes the door behind her.
"Come here," he pleads in response, holding out a hand.
She crosses the room and takes it, letting him tug her down to the mattress, mouth already over hers as he peels off her skirt and underwear. He breaks the kiss briefly to pull the sheer top over her head and undo her bra, before his skin slides across hers, his hips between her thighs, his hands on her waist, tangling her up in the sheets that are his now too.
"I'm never leaving," he says, as she arches into him, and he slides into her. "You know that, don't you? I'm not going anywhere, luv."
Not going anywhere, luv.
Buffy sighs, a last shard of anxiety melting off her warmed heart. Love love love.
She falls into oblivion with his promise in her ears.
xxxxxxx
The next morning Buffy wakes to an empty bed, lurching awake as her searching arm meets empty sheets, but any instinctive dread from waking up alone dissolves with the sight of Spike's boots discarded on the floor. The smell of breakfast cooking downstairs wafts through the minutely ajar bedroom door and makes her salivate.
She dresses in pajamas and a robe before going vampire hunting. She finds him at the stove, making eggs in the shadows, the kitchen blinds still closed.
"Morning," she says, and he turns, smiling.
"Morning, sweetheart."
From the doorway, she casts an eye over his re-dressed form; tight, black t-shirt, and jeans hugging his hips. "Clem dropped your clothes off, huh?"
Spike nods. "Smug git couldn't stop grinning. Thought his whole face was gonna disappear into the folds," he mutters, turning back to stir the eggs lest they become Eggs a la Buffy.
"I like Clem," Buffy mumbles, wrapping her arms around him from behind. He startles at the unexpected contact before sinking back into her, putty in her hands. "He's got a good heart," she adds.
Spike snorts. "Yeah well, good intentions aside, when I next see him I'm gonna skin him," he mutters. "It'll probably take hours."
Buffy laughs, laying her head against his shoulder.
…I love you.
AN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY RENAE! Many many happy returns to the best beta a girl could ask for! I can't believe this is the second story I've written in honor of your special day! Here's to far too many more, I hope!
This fic would not have been possible without my two dedicated poker betas, Em_Kayelle (who literally sat down and wrote out a whole poker skit several times to help, which really carved the poker portion into a readable narrative in my head) and Bookishy, (who knew all the rules and how to cheat them, offering up loads of suggestions and advice). I'm so incredibly grateful to you both!
The title was the brainchild of Spikelover4ever, but originally for another birthday fic gift. The pun was perfect for this one though, and her beta work was on point as always, thanks girl 3
And of course CD85, who's banners bring me just endless joy. My WIP heap is the length it is because I'm just so greedy to see what new work of art she'll marry to my words.
Hope you all enjoyed my last new work for a while as I'm cutting myself off as I work through this damn heap of WIPs! (she lies, shamelessly)
Happy Birthday Nae, love ya loads!