Indigo Overture – Chapter Two
Rating:
Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – PG13
It was
He adjusted the
mirror and softened when he caught sight of Oz and
Xander snored on
the floor. He always slept on the
floor. In fact, he was always
sleeping. Never driving. It was an issue that made Spike’s eye twitch,
but he was just too tired to bitch. He’d
let that dog lie for now.
Angel and Buffy
got in the back and after they tugged the door closed, Spike pulled out onto
the highway. He popped a Sex Pistols CD
into the radio, but kept the volume low.
One consolation was that the van belonged to Oz and Oz didn’t give a
shit how he drove or what music he played.
Hell, the bloke was good enough to let him smoke when he was
driving…despite Red’s many protests.
He lit a fag and
tried to focus on the music, but his ears and eyes kept pulling to the rearview
mirror. Angel was brooding. His head was slung back against the headrest,
strong jaw twitching in the light that flickered through the windows. That same light played on his girlfriend,
bathing her sleepy features in an orange glow.
Damn, but that girl
was gorgeous. Her eyes were closed and
her head was resting on Angel’s shoulder, the golden spray of her hair curving
around her chin and over his arm. When
had he last felt the silk of a woman’s hair against his arm?
Drusilla. It was always Drusilla.
Spike kept his
eyes on the road and his mind in the past.
Her dark beauty haunted him still.
He could still picture her in the kitchen of their flat. The Family Flat. That’s what they had called it, Dru and Darla
and Angel and him. Dru and he were babies
when it had all started.
He had grown up
with her, separated by less than a block in distance and a year in age. They had played in the same yards, groaned
over the same teachers, and graduated from the same school. And through every damn year, he had loved
Drusilla Simmons more than life. His
mind could still conjure the perfect image of her raven hair and doe eyes. She had been his life.
So when she had
gone to
God, his knees had
shaken on that night. Angel and Darla
had blown him away. They were older,
wiser, and infinitely cooler. They
looked like a magazine cover, all sharp eyes and slick clothes. Bigger than life, they were. In comparison he felt small and exposed, his
heart thumping in fear for the girl on his arm.
But, a few beers
washed the intimidation away. Soon
enough, the four of them were gabbing away like old friends. They spoke of music and travel and the
madness of humanity. They spoke of
breaking out, of running free, of a thousand
They were moving
in with Darla and Angel. Moving into
the Family Flat.
Spike shook away
the memories and changed lanes, flicking his cigarette out the window. Everyone was asleep, passengers slack-mouthed
and breathing deeply. He secretly loved
these moments, the quiet rumble of the van, his own music thumping softly
through the speakers. And he was left
alone to watch them all sleep.
He’d always had
trouble sleeping. How many nights had he
sat at the scratched wooden table in their flat, watching the three of them
slumber? Darla and Angel and Dru bathed
in the soft light of the muted telly, Angel’s arms around their shoulders,
their beautiful faces snuggled into his sides.
He hadn’t been
jealous of Angel. It wasn’t like
that. Things were different there. Logic and rules just didn’t apply. Besides, if it hadn’t been for Angel, he’d
never have done anything of interest. He
would have been William forever, never Spike.
He would have never gotten drunk enough to slip his hand under
Drusilla’s skirt.
And that’s how he
remembered his first time. A blur of
half empty scotch glasses scattered across Angel’s big bed. And Drusilla’s soft mewling as he petted her
back onto the mattress, his lips worshipping her as if he had waited his whole
life for this moment. And indeed he
had. Beside them, Angel and Darla made
their own noises, the smell of sex and liquor strong in the air. But Drusilla’s voice drowned them out. She swept him away with her endless babbling
about the moon and the stars and secrets whispered on the breeze.
Six months later
that same voice had babbled to someone else and he swore his heart would never
beat again. Even now, he could see
himself standing at the door to their room, the one they had shared since that
night with all the scotch. He could
remember hearing her moans and the slide of her skin against the sheets. He had swallowed hard on the bile that
threatened to rise up in his throat, because it wasn’t him in that room. It wasn’t him between her thighs.
A car passed,
bright lights burning his eyes and dragging him back to the present. He returned his gaze to the rearview mirror
where Angel’s profile was shadowed.
Angel. It was appropriate, yeah? After all, who had saved him when his world
came crashing down?
The track changed
on the CD and his gaze traveled past Angel’s chin, resting on the smooth skin
of Buffy’s forehead. Even in sleep, her
hand reached for the nape of Angel’s neck.
Angel didn’t notice. He hadn’t
noticed much of her at all tonight.
It was Angel’s
way. He was focused on the performance,
frustrated with their failure. Nothing
was going to cheer him right now, not even pretty pink-tipped fingers stroking
his hair. Even when those fingers were
attached to a girl with eyes like green diamonds and skin so soft, it begged to
be kissed.
Buffy’s lips
parted in a sigh and the Sex Pistols sang on,
“You
need hands to hold someone you care for....
When you fear...nobody wants to know you
You need hands to brush away the tears....”
Buffy’s fingers
traced his jaw, and Spike’s skin itched at the sight. He jerked his eyes back to the road and his
mind back to where it belonged. Away
from the past. And definitely away from
Angel’s girl.
***
Two weeks after
the worst show ever, they were still reeling from the aftermath, or at least
Angel was. Living with him since that
night had been an adventure hell, so Buffy was grateful to be in a new place,
even if that place was Xander’s apartment, which smelled faintly of stale
cheese somehow. Still, stale cheese or
not, it was better than tiptoeing through her own living room, trying not to do
or say anything too chipper. Because God
forbid someone try to cheer up her boyfriend, Sir Sulksalot.
So, yeah, tonight
she was really fine with him wanting to write.
She was totally okay that he had blown off Xander’s offer to host a
Saturday game night to whoever could make it.
She was more than ready for a bit of time on her own. As much as she loved him, she needed a break
from the brooding.
She was bummed
when she arrived to find that Oz wouldn’t be there either. But four was the perfect Parcheesi number and
Buffy was determined to have a good time.
After the second round of Parcheesi, Xander dozed off with his bowl of popcorn
on the couch. The party had dwindled to
Spike,
“It’s a flush,”
Buffy said triumphantly as
“It’s a flush?”
she repeated less certainly.
“It’s not a bloody
flush,” Spike said.
“Well, what kind
of flush is it?” Buffy asked, dropping her eyes to the table.
“Um, not any
kind,”
“But, they’re all
black,” Buffy whined.
“They have to be
all one suit,”
“Oh,” she said,
avoiding a pair of blue eyes that were probably sparking with
anticipation. She knew he’d be chomping
at the bit to rub this in.
She quietly folded
the cards and watched his long fingers pull the money across the table, “In any
event, a straight would beat it, pet.”
She finally braved
his stare as she pushed in a new quarter.
So, she wasn’t great at poker.
She’d only learned an hour ago.
“Don’t worry,
Buff; you’ll get the hang of it. By next
game night, you’ll be a poker pro!”
His lips twitched,
and she braced herself for some well earned mockery. But then something very strange happened. Spike smiled.
A normal, nice smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. And for reasons that she could only guess
were shock-related, her belly did a little loop-de-loop.
“Course she
will. I’m teaching her, yeah?”
Buffy averted her
gaze quickly, but not so quickly that she failed to notice that he had really
pretty eyes behind all that black leather and bad attitude. She was going to go for a snappy comeback,
but honestly her heart wasn’t in it. She
could still see him smiling from the corner of her eye, and after all the Angel
crankiness she wasn’t in the mood for any more bickering. So, she smiled back and accepted the cards he
dealt.
“Daft men you’ve
both got,” he breezed, “Leaving their birds alone with me. Lucky for them I’m too honorable to talk you
out of your pants in addition to your money.”
“Please. You couldn’t talk my pants out of a fire,”
Buffy retorted in mock disgust.
“Funny that
something hot comes to mind when you think of me and your pants, eh, luv?”
“Where does someone
go to learn this level of perversion?” Buffy asked with a scowl.
“My bedroom,”
Spike replied and
“Ba-dum-bump!” the
redhead said with a grin.
“Hey, Will, my
side, please?” Buffy warned with a grin.
“Sorry, it was kind
of funny, though.”
“Kind of
funny? It was brilliant, thank you.”
“Don’t get all
excited. It wasn’t Monty Python or
anything,” Buffy breezed, playing her single piece of knowledge about his home
country. She hoped it would throw him a
curve. By the way he blinked and gaped,
she guessed it did.
“What does Little
Miss Prom Queen know about Monty Python?” he stumbled.
“Reduced to
mocking my high school days? You’re just
one step away from cootie jokes, Spike.” Buffy clucked, shaking her head at
“Sad how?” Spike
asked, his eyes glittering with mischief, “Look at you, with your bouncy hair
and your little tappy heels. You might
as well wear still wear your tiara and a Homecoming banner.”
“I wasn’t
Homecoming Queen, you pig.”
“You may not have
been prom queen, but I’ll be buggered if I’m not on the right track here,”
Spike finished, dropping his forgotten hand to the table.
“Oh, you think
so?” Buffy teased back, laying down her cards too, “So I suppose I should
assume your leather-wearing, cancer-stick-smoking, rebel-without-a-clue routine
should automatically mark you as a drop-out, right?”
“Uh, Buffy,”
“Is that what you
think?” Spike prodded eyes bright and challenging.
“Well, just look
at you!” Buffy said, smile still playing at the corners of her glossy lips,
“Poor Spikey,” she mock-sighed, “full of angst and rage against the
system. So you flunked out, or got
expelled, and then left home to make it on your own, or mooch off of college
students, which is maybe the same in your warped mind.”
“Uh huh,” Spike
said, crossing his arms, “You sure about that?”
“I’ll bet I’m
close,” she said, leaning forward until she could rest her elbows on her small
pile of change.
“I’ll tell you
what. If you’re so sure, why don’t we
put a little wager on it? We can each
give our personal version of our tender late teen years. Whoever is closest takes home a little dosh.”
Spike slouched
back in his chair, the pink tip of his tongue darting to his bottom lip while
he waited for her response. Buffy
pouted, eyeing him warily.
“Who decides who
wins?”
“Red,” he said,
and Buffy swore she heard the redhead breathe a tiny “Gee, great,” before he
continued, “She knows plenty enough about my past, and I’ll reckon with all
your late-night nail painting sessions, she’s learned a bit about yours.”
“She has,” Buffy said, casting a sideways glance at
“How much?” she
asked Spike.
“Twenty bucks,” he
said cracking his neck with a tilt of his jaw.
“You’re on, Bleach
Boy.”
“I’ll go first,”
he said, lighting a new cigarette.
“Buffy Summers. I still say it’s
not a real name,”
Her hackles rose
at the mention of their first altercation, but she ignored it. It was different now. First, she hated him. Now…well, she still hated him, but he was so
much fun to hate! Which had to be a
little better, right? Spike leaned back
in his chair, propping his clunky boots on the table for effect. Total Drama King.
“I can almost see
you walking the halls, handing out little muffins so people will vote you Prom
Queen or Class Beauty or whatever other insipid title you wanted as your
own. Or maybe you were just the head
cheerleader, dating the captain of the football team.”
Ha!
He couldn’t be farther from the truth.
She had never even been nominated for court in any of the major events,
and cheerleading couldn’t be further than her thing.
“But, what they
called you is inconsequential. You were
always the Princess. So damn gorgeous,
you probably made boys stumble into their lockers and trip down stairs. But you weren’t a snob. No, you were the picture of grace, a real
Audrey Hepburn. Your smile illuminated
the hallways, and your honey-voiced greeting probably turned every male in
earshot into a wobbly kneed ponce.”
His voice was
sharp, stinging like a blade. But the
words! Oh, those words. Buffy felt her breath quickening as he went
on.
“You were the one, weren’t you? Your list of prospective suitors probably
read like the local phone book, and I don’t mean dates, I mean suitors. Because Buffy Summers was that spectacular
kind of girl that men don’t just want to screw.
No, you’re the kind they wanted to marry.”
Buffy exhaled a breath
she hadn’t been conscious of holding.
Had she ever received a more amazing string of compliments in her
life? Her face felt flushed and her
heart was actually racing. Beside her,
even
“And that’s why
you didn’t go away for college,” Spike continued, dropping his feet to the
floor and tapping the light so that it swung lazily back and forth over the
table, “Everything about you was wound up in that little town. So you stayed until Prince Charming rode up
on his bloody white horse to drag you here.”
Buffy blinked and
wondered if she should feel offended, flattered or completely wigged out. Because truth be known, he was right. More right than she would ever admit, and
thankfully more right than
Spike leaned
forward, sneering as he stubbed out his cigarette, “So, maybe you weren’t the
class president or the captain of the cheerleading squad, but you were always
the Princess. It’s still in you, from
your pretty pink fingertips to the way you blush when you think someone is paying you a compliment.”
So, it wasn’t a
compliment? The words? Very Buffy friendly. The tone?
Not so much. Buffy made a face
and thought about asking, but then, how do you ask something like that without
looking completely self absorbed?
He leaned back in
his chair again and crossed his arms, “Your turn.”
Buffy shook her
hair, trying to whip away the uneasiness and confusion Spike’s “guess” had
brought on. She narrowed her eyes and
rubbed her palms together, her teeth worrying her bottom lip just before she
started.
“Okay, fine. Spike in high school,” she rolled her
shoulders and stretched her neck right then left, like she did before a kick
boxing competition. “Hm, all that bleach
and leather does get the message across.
You were always a rebel, I’m sure.
You were the kid who cut class and swore at the teachers. The guy caught in the bathroom smoking
cigarettes and reading Playboy.”
His face was blank
and her dared glance at
“So, yeah,” she
said, more confident now, “You were the bad boy, probably went through more
girls and more trouble than most men had at twice your age. But, you had your reasons. Your family was poor and you had to be
strong, had to be tough to survive in your hood.”
Buffy frowned, a
new thought occurring to her, “Wait…do you have hoods over there?”
“Hoods?” he asked,
with mild interest.
“Yeah, hoods,
ghettos, seedy parts of town?” she said, wrinkling her nose in curiosity.
“Don’t be
daft. Course there are bad parts. It’s
She curled her lip
in distaste and slid her gaze sideways from him, “Whatever. So, you were a delinquent and as is par for
course with your sort, you eventually ticked off the wrong person. Some type of authority figure got fed up with
your crap and threw you out of school.
Too proud to admit failure, you left home, determined to scrape out a
living on your own…. eventually leading you to bars, then bar bands, then
Angel’s bar band.”
She lifted her
shoulders in a shrug and lifted her brows.
Spike blinked and
sucked in his bottom lip.
“Angel really
didn’t tell you anything, did he?” he said, and his expression was
unreadable. Something about that
statement twisted in her gut. Because he
really hadn’t said much about it. Spike
was his roommate when he was studying music in
“He told me you
were his roommate,” she said, not surprised to hear her voice had fallen flat,
“Why? Am I closer than you want to
admit?”
Spike shook his
head, “Not how it works, pet. First you
tell me how close I was.”
“Well,” Buffy
smirked triumphantly, “If you insist on reverting to John Hughes terms, scary
but fitting considering your obvious Billy Idol look-alike ambitions, I was
never a princess. I was, however, a
jock.”
“A jock?” Spike
said, his brows lifting in interest.
“Yeah,” Buffy
confirmed, “I was a champion kick-boxer, a pretty good gymnast, and I even
dabbled in a little fencing.”
“What about the
rest of it?” he asked, lowering his voice to something that sounded almost
intimate, “Did the boys fall at your feet?”
Her cheeks flamed
and she dropped her gaze to the table, giving away the truth in a
heartbeat. Spike snickered and added,
“How many hearts did you break, Buffy.”
“I tried hard not
to break any,” she said quietly.
“Right,” he said,
and that one syllable word spoke volumes of bitterness.
She lifted her
eyes and challenged him, “So what about you?”
He gazed at her
squarely, crossing his arms over his chest, “You couldn’t be further from the
truth. My family is affluent; I never
had a day of trouble in school; I didn’t start smoking heavily until I got to this god-forsaken
sun drenched state; and before coming here, I studied at
Buffy gasped, her
expression reminiscent of someone who witnessed a cockroach landing in their
cereal bowl, “You went to
“Yeah, imagine me
learning and reading and all that rot,” he said with a rueful smile, his eyes
dark with bitterness. Buffy didn’t like
that. It was supposed to be all fun and games,
but Spike didn’t seem to be in the playing mood.
“To study what,
irritation specialization?” Buffy chuckled, trying to lighten things up. But Spike wasn’t lightening. What happened to the crinkly eyes and the
banter?
“19th
century literature,” he said simply, and Buffy looked like said cockroach had suddenly
burst into song and dance. She gaped for
a full minute while
“You’re kidding,”
she said, then turned to
She suddenly felt
like a preschooler in the presence of Harvard graduates. She had struggled through three years
studying fashion merchandising.
Struggled being the key word. And
here she was flanked by
“Color me
surprised,” she said, shifting uncomfortably on her chair.
Spike tossed the
freshly gathered cards to the table with so much force that Xander jerked in
his sleep on the couch a few feet away, “Why’s that, luv?” he snapped, “Too
hard to imagine me being anything more than a brain-dead, drop-out drummer?”
Buffy jerked back
in surprise. No crinkle in those eyes at
all. Just the narrow, cold squint of the
genuinely offended. Okay, this was new. Spike looked hurt. Maybe she had been a little harsh. She didn’t like admitting it, but she liked
the icy look in his eyes even less.
“Don’t worry,” he
sneered, “I didn’t actually graduate, so part of your theory is safe.”
With a final
muttering to
“Why all the
bitter?” Buffy whispered with a sideways glance at Will, “Was I that awful?”
“Oh, no!” she
assured, then paused, “Okay, a little, but nothing that isn’t totally normal
for the two of you. That’s just an ooky
subject with Spike.”
“You should have
told me,” Buffy said.
“I tried, but you
two were lost in
“I’m sorry,” she
said, frowning at
“Oh, don’t
be. I’m fine.”
Her eyes traced
the outline of Spike’s shoulders, wondering how an
But she didn’t
know for sure. She didn’t know anything
about him for sure. She stood up and
scooted her chair in, sighing when
She sat down
primly, smoothing her hands over her thighs and giving the television a cursory
glance. Out of the corner of her eye,
she watched the blue light of the TV carve shadows beneath his cheekbones. He hadn’t looked her way. She wiggled her last twenty out of her jeans
and held it towards him.
“Forget it,” he
hissed.
But she
wouldn’t. Fair was fair, and he had
won. Buffy stood back up and returned to
the card table to gather her purse and keys.
When
“I’m sorry,” she
said softly, walking quickly to the door before he could respond.
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