More students lined the hallway of the dorm rooms, laughing and chatting and crowding the corridor. Several greeted Buffy with a friendly smile or a wave that she returned sheepishly, acutely aware of Spike's body pressed in at her back. Music blared, and several students were holding cups of decidedly-not-lemonade that Buffy narrowly avoided becoming drenched in as she pushed through the throng.
"Hey Buffy, who's your boyfriend?" someone called from down the hall and she realized her hand was still swaddled in his. She unlatched with a jerk, sensing his trademark lecherous grin stretching wider as she unlocked her door to a holler of catcalls.
Housing Spike for the weekend. That's all I'm doing because Giles asked me to. So, if this gets back to Willow or Xander or Anya or anyone, I was gripping his wrist not holding his hand, she coached herself, swallowing hard and making a determined effort not to miss the feel of fingers curled around hers. Any fingers, not Spike's singularly, obviously, it was just nice to be holding hands, that was all.
She heard him close the door behind them as she moved to turn on the bedside light. The music that had been playing in the halls became muffled, enriching the privacy of her bedroom into a softly romantic setting. Which she forcefully ignored.
"Okay, on the bed," she instructed as she crouched over the weapons box tucked inside her closet.
She caught the grin stretching across his mouth as she glanced up.
"And here I was assuming we were saving that for the big night."
"Very funny," she muttered and stood, a length of chain attached to shackles clanking in her hands.
"Oh, getting a little adventurous already, are we?" he crowed.
She was rolling her eyes before he'd even finished the sentence, causing his smirk to deepen into a leer as her cheeks pinkened from his artless bit of goading.
"Spike, just shut up, and get on the bed."
"Don't see the need, Slayer," Spike said, rebelliously leaning against her desk. "Not intending to scarper."
"I'm not leaving you here by yourself loose," Buffy retorted.
He raised an eyebrow, but it didn't quite suppress the minor flare of disappointment on his face. "And where are you scurrying off to, then?"
Too late, Buffy realized she wasn't going to get him into the chains if he thought she was leaving him there alone.
"Nowhere," she lied, unable to stop herself shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other.
He cocked his head, unimpressed. "Does 'nowhere' have anything to do with that raucous we just walked through?" he asked.
Damn! Buffy's leg practically twitched for an impatient stomp.
"Alright, fine," she huffed."It's Friday night and a bunch of people are going to a party on campus and frankly my original plans weren't sitting around in a dorm room that still smells sort of herb-funky from whatever spell Willow was working on last."
He tilted his head, a quirk of his eyebrow making her feel like a little kid coaxed into a confession she hadn't wanted to make. "That so hard?"
Buffy pinched her lips in answer and impatiently gestured for him to get on the bed for the millionth time.
"Woman, I will not be leashed up like a mutt," he growled—ignoring the obvious point against him that he'd spent the last couple of weeks in just such a position—and made absolutely no move to comply.
Buffy snorted. "The amount you yap on? You'd be a purebred chihuahua."
Spike's eyes flared, dangerous and yellow. He stalked towards her until they were almost nose to nose, running a tongue across a razor-sharp incisor. "Teeth like these? I'd be a Doberman, sweetheart."
"You wish," she said, shoving him back.
He righted himself with a petulant glare.
"Christ, loosen up, will you?" he said, straightening his jacket. "Look, we've already been more than spotted, what's the harm in heading out together?"
"I don't need a date, Spike," she replied coldly, crossing her arms and making the shackles clink.
"Oh, is that right?" His lips tightened. "'Fraid I'll cramp your style, are you? Trawling for Mr Wrong?"
Buffy's brow furrowed. "I'm not… I'm not 'on the prowl' or whatever the next revolting phrase you're about to use is," she answered and then quietly mumbled, "Fully taking a break from that whole scene."
Her gaze flicked up to his, and she blinked in shock. In the lamp's soft half-light she almost didn't see it; a fleeting expression crossing his angular face that was bizarrely close to relief. Smothered instantly as he squared his shoulders with a sniff. "Not got any excuses then."
"I don't need an excuse not to be seen in public with you," she bit back.
Spike winced at the double negative, visibly untangling it in his head. "...You need a reason to be seen with me?"
Buffy groaned internally, realizing she'd inadvertently issued Spike a challenge. She prickled as he sidled closer, closing her eyes in exasperation as his hands found her waist.
"Got a reason for you, pet..." he purred, pulling her against the noticeable bulge in his jeans. He dipped his head, lips almost brushing over hers. "I'm a good time, I promise. Show you all sorts of fun. We could make a night of it…"
She glowered up at him, and he didn't bother to hold down a grin. Her pulse started up that stuttering waltz that usually signified he was about to win a round whether she liked it or not; an auditory manifestation of her resolve wavering, and she knew he heard it.
He didn't look surprised when she laid her hand on his chest, her fingers curling gently into the neckline of his T-shirt as she let her gaze turn heavy-lidded, bringing him down towards her.
But before their lips could meet she spun and turned her back on him, using the leverage to fling him over her shoulder and down onto the bed.
Spike hit the mattress with a crying screech of the springs, suddenly on his back with a muttered curse.
"Think I'm beginning to piece together why you can't seem to land a bloke," he groaned with a huff of aggravation. "Bit too much rough in your tumble."
"I seem to have landed you just fine," Buffy retorted as she advanced with the shackles.
Spike struggled up onto his elbows.
"You forgot how thin these walls are, Slayer?" he asked. "You leave me here chained up an' I promise you I'll make all sorts of noise. By the end of the evening, your squeaky clean reputation will be well 'n' truly sullied."
She sucked a cheek in defiance and moved towards him.
"Oh, Buffy," he moaned at a deafening pitch. "Be gentle with me."
Buffy froze as another groan tumbled out of him, practically loud enough to shake the walls; obscene and pornographic, and yes her cheeks were definitely turning red from having heard it. "Right there—"
"Stop it!" she hissed, the blush increasing in hue all the way up to cherry red.
"That's it—"
"Spike!"
"Whoa! Bit of warning next time, luv!" he bellowed.
"Alright!" she shouted, wincing as a snicker from out in the corridor burned her ears. "Fine, you can come just—" Another laugh from outside, and she closed her eyes in embarrassment. "Just shut up."
She stepped back as he swung his legs off the bed and stood, bouncing with obnoxious joviality at having got his way.
"Don't sulk, pet," he said, narrowing his eyes at her in the imitation of the glare she was trying to burn into his skin.
"Ground rules," she snarled, pointing a manicured finger at him. "You stay in my sights the entire time. I catch you making hungry happy meal eyes at anyone your face is gonna look like a Jackson Paddock."
"Pollock."
"Whatever. Are we clear?"
Spike smiled pleasantly, not intending it to look genial and knowing it didn't from the scowl that darkened her eyes. "Crystal."
"Second," she continued, "this is not a romantic outing, or anything even close. I don't want word getting back to anyone who knows me about our… arrangement. Mundo hostility or frosty distance. Agreed?"
"Easy," Spike snarled and really meant it with the way she was sucking the fun right out of the evening.
"Good," she bit out and dropped the shackles onto the bed with a sigh. "I'm going to change. Go and wait outside."
"Mm, give it a minute," he replied with a smirk and nodded towards the door. "Don't want our audience to think I've not got the stamina—OW! Let go!"
She dragged him by the ear, releasing it as she opened the door with one hand and thrust him out into the corridor with the other. His back hit the wall with enough force to leave a dent, narrowly avoiding squashing two girls who weren't doing anything to hide the fact they'd heard his affected performance.
Buffy slammed the door, causing a giggle from the onlookers. He glared until they dropped their eyes to their drinks, biting their cheeks.
Gonna make her pay for that, he thought to himself but found the sentiment lacked its usual venom.
Didn't matter, he'd got what he wanted.
Almost.
He adjusted the collar of his duster, and after an unconcerned shrug to anyone still bothering to watch he pushed off from the wall, maneuvering through the pack of students until he was back out in the fresh night air.
He dug in his pocket, retrieving his cigarettes and his lighter. He lit one, and took a drag, letting the blue smoke curl up into the night air on an exhale, one hand tucked into the duster's pocket. Fingering the notebook's edges.
This was a bit of a risky game. It was undoubtedly a possibility that the secret soldier who'd just about crippled him might be lurking around at whatever festivities they were about to make their way towards. The safe bet would be to stay behind, find a way to him that didn't involve showing his face, and continue his research from the shadows.
But the thought of being left behind whilst she paraded off into a fog of drunken college boys made him feel something a shade too close to jealousy. His gut had mutinously clenched at the thought of her getting a little loose and falling into someone else's arms. Had then suddenly relaxed again when she'd said how not on the lookout she was for all that.
Alright, so maybe definitely jealous. Just a little. Obviously, they were playing this game a bit too convincingly, but still, the last thing he wanted was for her to find some new Tall-and-Awkward to shack up with right in front of him whilst she kept him chained to the spare bed—
He shook his head out of that particular horror show.
She's not Dru, he calmed himself, carefully not probing into the relief that thought brought him. If there's one girl that isn't into bloody revenge-exhibitionism fucking, it's your girl.
He brought himself up sharp at the possessive slip.
Mine?
Thatgirl!
…Bollocks.
He caught her scent before she approached, and he flicked his cigarette away before turning around.
Shit, she looked good. Gorgeous. His eyes roamed, and he didn't bother to appear subtle about it, taking in the purple mesh skirt hugging her hips the same way he suddenly wished he was, the soft red camisole underneath a sheer lilac top that was clinging to her curves the way his hands were immediately aching to.
She'd painted her lips in a soft delicate pink that he immediately wanted to ruin. A medium-sized silver crucifix dangled from a chain between her breasts as though to ward off his wandering gaze. He let his eyes linger there deliberately.
"Your mouth is open," she said in an unbothered tone, pulling on a denim jacket and untucking her hair from the collar.
Instead of clamping shut, Spike turned his look of blatant hunger into a teeth-baring sneer.
"So?"
"It's just weird. If your mouth is open there's usually a million pervy words coming out of it," she answered and started walking off without him, the sway of her ass immediately catching his attention. "Come on then, Spikey," she called over her shoulder, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "Heel."
He did, though not without a snort of derision (even if it didn't sound quite dismissive enough). He caught up easily, matching her stride with his. She was walking with speed, and he expected she was trying to outpace him just to be difficult. So he let her. Falling behind to watch her silhouette. The way her hips swayed. The way her hair bounced. It was intoxicating and alright he was man enough to admit it at this point. Slayer was hot, and he wanted that heat pressed against him by the end of the night. None of this "frosty distance" bollocks.
Spike cracked his neck and considered the end goal. He had some ground to cover if he was going to unpick that knot of annoyance that was making her shoulders hunch.
"I've been thinking," he said in an obnoxiously bright tone that he knew would push her irritation higher. He left a brief pause so she could get a dig in.
"A surprise to us all," she parried on cue and he jogged to catch up to her side.
"Think you need a bit more warming up to the Romantics, luv. Maybe some extra tutelage," he added, with a pump of his eyebrows for emphasis.
"Do I?" she bit back, clearly unconvinced.
"Got a fitting one," he declared, shrugging lightly like he could care less if he shared it or not.
The silence stretched for an awkward beat until Buffy huffed, and tilted her head to prompt him.
Spike smiled, and wet his lip. "Good-night? Ah, no; the hour is ill, which severs those it should-," he stalled a second to wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her close with a bump of their hips that made her stagger, "-unite," he growled. "Let us remain together still-," he dipped his head to hers and felt a shiver ripple down her spine as his nose brushed the shell of her ear. "Then it will be good night."
Buffy shot him an unimpressed look. "Shelley," she stated, a little smugly. "I liked that one."
"Betcha don't know the next bit," he goaded, curling his fingers over her hip. He'd admit the teasing wasn't particularly skillful, but the Slayer never was one to balk at a challenge.
She glanced at him, and after a minute glower, sucked in a breath. "How… How can I call the lone night good, though thy sweet wishes wing its flight." Her voice was a tad robotic, focussing on the words not the intent behind them, as though he'd call her out if she got even a single word of it wrong. "Be it not said, thought, understood…," she paused to clear her throat. "Then it will be good night."
Spike grinned and brought her another millimeter closer so he could brush his lips along the soft skin under her ear. "And then?"
"No, The End. I'm not doing the third part," she said, batting his arms off her, and almost sprinting unsteadily out of his embrace.
"Why not?" he countered with a chuckle, bouncing to block her path.
"Because you… you're doing that I'm-Thinking-Something-Gross curly thing with your tongue and I am so not encouraging that."
"I could do something else with it."
"He said, proving my point," she said, skirting around him. "We're here anyway, so tongues stay in their respective mouths. Respectfully," she added as she mounted the porch of a frat house, music streaming from the windows.
"Sure, luv," Spike purred, following her up. "Whatever you say."
AN: Under advisement; here is the last part of the poem:
To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.
["Good-Night" by Percy Bysshe Shelley]