Four and a half days went by before Buffy was re-summoned to her watcher's home.
Summonings were never good. Either she'd done something wrong and it was Giles' job to admonish her for it, or the universe had done something wrong and it was her job to dish out the admonishing.
She tried to tamp down the nervousness that he'd either discovered her and Spike's little agreement or that an apocalypse was brewing, dreading the former and praying for the latter.
It turned out to be neither, though that hardly made her life any less complicated.
"We need to find a permanent solution to this…" Giles gestured with his glasses mid-polish to Spike; comfortably reclined on the sofa watching TV. "This…" Giles fumbled. "'Detainee' situation," he ended lamely.
Buffy glanced across at Spike catching the malicious crease of amusement around his eyes at Giles' inept articulation.
"Is he being a pain?" she asked.
"Yes," they both replied, Giles with a glare and Spike with a self-satisfied smirk.
Giles turned his attention back to Buffy with a calming breath out through his nose. "This might seem like too big a favor to ask of you, but I have a… colleague visiting for a couple of days, to assist on a paper—"
"Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Spike sneered without turning around.
Giles rolled his eyes before continuing. "I'm aware Willow is on a nature retreat with her like-minded, um, companion—" another dirty chuckle echoed from Spike, though this one made less sense, and Buffy glared at the back of his head. "So perhaps," Giles continued with effort, "just for the weekend, you could stow Spike in your dorm?"
Buffy blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she attempted to comprehend the multiple layers of strangeness blossoming in her mind like the world's weirdest rose:
Giles had a girlfriend coming to stay (that's definitely what that bashful blush meant) and he wanted her (Buffy) to… to…
"Spike? In my room?" she reiterated, trying to wrap her head around the concept. "My room and… and Spike?" she tried again, with no better comprehension.
Oh boy.
Her gaze flicked back to Spike and she nearly jolted when his eyes met hers, comfortably watching her as though she was far more interesting than the talk show droning on in the background.
"He… um…" she floundered, trying to think of a plausible reason to decline. There were of course many reasons. So many reasons. But (annoyingly) he was smiling at her in a way that was completely sinful, and instead of all the very good reasons that were definitely in there somewhere, her brain supplied their latest off-broadway production of being a couple in love.
The kisses that—to her shame—she was still reliving.
The feel of his arms pinning her to him that—if she concentrated—she could still feel across the middle of her back and the curve of her waist.
The look of attention in his eyes when they'd—God forbid—actually had a bit of a conversation.
It was all a little too close to unraveling the entirely fictional premise of this non-relationship.
School had kept her busy, and patrol had used up her free time, but she needed to catch her breath after being in his presence to reassert the not realness of the thing.
Therefore; close quarters, extended periods of time, mundo unavoidability, and even less escapability—all of this pointed to 'no' and 'terrible idea' and 'hello, why are you considering this?!'
Buffy steeled her jaw as Spike pumped an eyebrow in an obnoxious goad, obviously reading the subtitles to the thoughts parading through her head.
"Isn't there an alternative?" she asked in overplayed exasperation, turning back to Giles so she wouldn't have to witness the flare of triumph igniting Spike's eyes into a deeper blue.
"None I would feel particularly comfortable with," Giles sighed. "I could ask Xander, or at a stretch even Joyce, though neither prospect I feel is equal to your watchful eye, Buffy. However, if you'd really prefer—"
"No!" Buffy blurted out, the idea of Spike bunking with either her mother or one of her closest friends sending a shudder of horror through her gut. It didn't matter how much he crossed his heart, swore himself to secrecy, promised he didn't kiss-and-tell before he sank his lips over hers, it hadn't stopped her from feeling like she was waiting for the Damocles sword of his loose-lipped nature to fall down upon her.
Isolation was key. Getting him permanently away from Giles would be even more key. A big jangling ring of keys. All the keys.
"No, no. I'll manage," she states. "It's just for a couple of days, right?"
"Indeed," Giles answered, a look of relief flooding his face.
"Fine." She nodded, still not turning to look in Spike's direction. "But you owe me big. Huge. Probably in the form of retail reimbursement."
"Agreed, tentatively and within reason," Giles replied with a fatherly tone of indulgence.
"I'm housing Spike for the weekend, Giles. There will be no reason."
"Yes, fair point," Giles sighed, casting a sour look at his soon-to-be temporary ex-roommate.
"Alright," Buffy said, sternly. "Good. Okay…" She turned back into that watchful gaze from the fiend who had stayed miraculously silent during the entire exchange. "Let's go, Spike," she said, deciding not to make a big deal of said silence, and heading for the door.
Spike snickered as he rose off the sofa and vaulted over it.
"Cheerio then, Rupes" he said, brushing past him to the coat rack and shrugging on his duster. "Don't strain anything working to all hours on your… paper."
Buffy caught hold of his collar, yanking him through the doorway before he could finish chuckling at the thin line that Giles had pinched his lips into.
They made it to the end of the driveway before Spike's hand caught her side, drawing her into him as his gait matched hers.
"I want to play," he purred, and Buffy shrugged away from his arm.
"No, we're in-," she fumbled around the word 'public', acknowledging the entirely empty street around them. "…Outside."
"So?"
"So?" Buffy parroted back at him. "Do we need a recap here? You hate me? I hate you? Not a real couple? Any of that ringing a bell?"
"Easy, luv, nothing's changed," he bit back. "I meant, what's it matter if we're outside?"
Buffy scoffed like he was being deliberately dimwitted. "Someone could see."
Spike glanced around them. "Who?"
Buffy managed a glare, despite the point in his favor.
"Just… someone," she retorted and attempted to continue stalking down the street.
He caught her by the elbow, and with his free hand wrapped his fingers around hers, letting their now linked hands fall naturally between them as he let go of her arm.
"Anyone you know catches us, I'll make a right good show of struggling," he said around a poorly held-back smile. "Satisfied?"
Buffy huffed because if she didn't she might inadvertently swallow instead and look like an awestruck idiot. And she wasn't awestruck. Just… surprised. His hand was cool, but firm. His fingers wrapped fully around hers, enveloping her hand in a surprisingly tender grip.
Whatever.
"Fine," she muttered.
"Fine," he repeated back.
"Fine," she enunciated and hauled him into step with her.
They walked hand in hand for several blocks in silence. Tense, uncomfortable silence. At least Buffy thought as much before Spike's thumb brushed along her knuckles almost absentmindedly. She glanced over at him, taking in his peaceful expression that was a complete stranger to her; calm and serene as though he were simply enjoying the night air.
"You got any new poems for me this week?" Spike asked suddenly, jolting her out of her study with a flinch.
Buffy paused for a moment, half glaring at his pleasantly—suspiciously—open expression.
"Well?" Spike persisted.
She relaxed slightly, deciding talking as they walked wouldn't kill her, but couldn't suppress a grimace at the topic.
"We've been doing more of the romantics," she said, sounding less than enthused.
Spike nodded. "Poe, Shelley, Keats?" he listed.
"And Blake," she added. "We did The Sick Rose, which I liked at first, it was all vivid-y and not a million pages long, which yay, but then when you pick it apart it it turns out it's majorly anti-sex and all pious preachiness and the rose gets corrupted by the worm and it's all a metaphor for daring to be, you know, unvirginal which is just such a gross opinion. Like, women are just supposed to be these untouchable pillars of purity, not people? Pass."
Spike chuckled, and Buffy turned to him, her cheeks coloring a light pink at her unintended lecture but yet ready to defend it nevertheless.
"What?" she asked accusingly, her arm stiffening, ready to pull her hand out of his.
"Good for you, luv," Spike answered, smiling a smile that she would've loathed to describe as oddly…proud. "Don't hold with all that purity bollocks myself either. S'more your former's bag." Buffy's hand twitched in his, a tell for the flinch she'd almost suppressed, and perhaps uncharacteristically he decided to leave that one barb as a singularity for the time being. "Though if I were to play devil's advocate—" he continued.
"Play?" Buffy cut in with a raised eyebrow and a resentful tone. "As in not a full-time occupation?"
Spike only flicked her a glare.
"—I might point out that Blake was a sexual progressive."
"Ugh, after seeing a painting of the guy really not loving that mental image, but so what?"
"So," drawled Spike, "The Sick Rose could be interpreted as a warning not to hide love, rather than an argument for chastity."
Buffy paused in the street, and he paused with her, their hands linking a bridge between their distance. "Huh?" she asked.
"'Found out thy bed, Of crimson joy, His dark secret love, Does thy life destroy,'" Spike quoted without pause. "It's the secrecy that's the killer, ain't it?"
Buffy felt her mouth open wordlessly, trying to summon a rebuttal but Spike's words—like the poem's worm—had twisted deep.
It's the secrecy that's the killer…
She held herself still as his meaning burnished her heart with frosted swirls of ice. Didn't she know that far too well? Didn't she live a life of secrecy in every single atom of her being? Hadn't it brought her to the brink of death time after time? Those outside her immediate circle lived in a happy bubble of ignorance. Or as happy as you can be when your close relatives mysteriously go missing every week or utter chaos descends in the spring as reliably as a sunrise.
And those inside her inner circle… well, they weren't exactly dialed into every aspect of her life either.
Heaping on more secrets by the day, she thought to herself, feeling the weight of Spike's hand in hers.
"Yeah, well," she said, managing not to croak. "I still don't think it counts as romantic. Not my idea of romance anyway."
Spike grinned, and Buffy assumed the next words out of his mouth were going to be along the lines of correcting her by way of explaining the Romantics didn't necessarily mean love-type romance or however Willow had tried to put it. Or draw her attention to the impromptu lesson on the complexities of a poem that until two minutes ago she'd had her opinion firmly cemented in 'dislike'. Maybe ask for a favor in return.
Why does that sound like wishful thinking!? she chastised herself.
He stepped a little closer and her skin prickled.
"And what would the dainty little Slayer's idea of romance be?"
She let out a snort. Should've guessed he'd turn it into something pseudo-pervy, with a molecule of relief. Spike's practically offensive sexuality was a side she was much more acclimatized to.
"Suffice to say, worms aren't involved," she answered and started waking again.
"Roses, though?" he parried, undeterred. "Sick or otherwise."
Buffy shrugged a shoulder (the shoulder not attached to the arm, attached to the hand that he was holding). "Roses are nice."
"And the rest of it?"
"Rest of what?"
"You a dinner and dancing kind of girl? Picnic at sunset? Long walks on the beach?" he asked, grinning as her mouth opened a little.
His hand squeezed a bit firmer around her fingers in encouragement, and for some inexplicable reason, it felt like he was directly squeezing her heart.
What is wrong with me?! Buffy huffed internally, chalking it up to the seemingly endless loneliness that had crept in after Parker and had stolen her confidence so completely. This game just gets more complicated by the second.
Buffy took stock of herself, shaking off the hypnotic feeling of being the center of Spike's attention that came with such mixed emotions. Even if they were doing an awful lot of pretending (and walking down a street holding hands) keeping at least a foothold on reality was critical.
"I dunno," she answered
"No?" Spike prodded and she couldn't help a flinch.
"Haven't exactly had a wide variety of experiences there." It went unsaid that the majority of her dating portfolio had been a complexity of pining and navigating her chosen one-ness. Coupled with the fact Angel had blown hot or cold depending on which side his guilt was manifesting, the whole 'dating' part of their interactions had been more than somewhat strained.
She squashed the self-pity those thoughts inevitably attempted to drown her with and went on the offense. A tactic she was good at.
"Dare I ask what your idea of romance is?" she inquired, ready to loathe the answer. "Candlelit dinner sharing a corpse for two?"
Spike chuckled. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," he answered, clearly enjoying the sneer of disgust twisting her face, then after a pause of reflection added, "I like a bit of music."
Buffy turned her head to better take in his answer as they took a turn in the streets leading to Sunnydale UC's campus, faint voices of students enjoying the beginning of the weekend starting to resonate in the evening air, and spurring on Spike's next comment. "Somewhere with a bit of a crowd—"
"If this is a hunting thing, feel free to skip every single detail," she interrupted.
He smiled back. "Not hunting, 'least not like that. Hunting each other, more like. Bit of conversation, bit of flirting… find a dark corner, an' stealing some alone time together. Things start to get a little heated maybe, enough that we both know what the other wants, but the setting prevents the giving. The taking. Always found it kind of exciting, knowing what's up ahead in the evening but can't get there yet."
His eyes found hers then and Buffy's skin felt all at once too tight. Too hot. And in her distraction her boot caught on a root protruding from one of the trees lining the boulevard towards the university, edged with frat houses and sororities, voices drifting towards them from open windows.
She stumbled, caught up immediately in Spike's arms; the one holding her hand sandwiched between them as his free one held her by the waist.
She bit down her thanks, choosing instead to wait a heartbeat or two for him to unwind from her.
When he didn't step back, her eyes flashed to his.
"What are you doing?"
Blue eyes dipped to her lips, his face edging towards hers. "Playing."
She didn't lean back, and he didn't let go, a risk to his personal safety that he persisted in taking. Though this close and with her arm trapped she couldn't drive her fist through his nose. And she was too intoxicated by his words to focus on alternative means of detangling herself from him.
"Playing?" she asked as he closed the distance a little. He hummed in agreement, his lips brushing hers—
A gaggle of students flocking out of a frat house interrupted the moment, passing them by clearly on the way to a party. The distraction was enough for Buffy to catch her breath, and steal a moment of clarity. She broke away from Spike and led him towards the campus dorms with her heart thudding in her ears in time to the mantra she'd been practicing all week.
Just a game.
Just a game.
Just a game.
AN: PSA that I'm not doing 'Hush', since I'm already covering that episode in another fic (If You Can't Say Anything Nice) and I'm not doing it twice, my quota for creepy men with silver teeth has reached its limit. Plot will be going off-canon(ish) from this point.
A massive massive thank you to everyone that's commented so far! They're all so treasured and so inspiring.