Indigo Overture – Chapter Four
Rating:
Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – PG-13
Oz,
“Where’s Xander?”
he asked around the cigarette he was poised to light.
“Telling the
photographer we’d do it,” Oz supplied, while his thumb stroked lazy circles on
“That boy wastes
no time when it comes to food or money,” Spike mused, looking up and down the
street with little interest, “So, who’s driving?”
Buffy was still
silently smoldering across from
“Subtle,” Oz said
very quietly, and
Spike smirked
knowingly, “Uh huh. Well, you two go get
your,” he paused with a mischievous look in the couple’s direction, “wallet and we’ll all just hook up later
this evening.”
“Angel and I have
a thing later,” Buffy said irritably, “I need to be home a little early.”
“I work at
“Oh!”
“Oh for God’s
sake,” Spike said, whirling to face Buffy in a cloud of smoke, “It’s a mall,
Buffy. I doubt even the two of us could
manage to kill each other there.”
“Never say never,”
she sniffed, turning up her nose at him.
“In that case,
whoever survives will meet the two of you at the mall,” Spike said to the
couple, flicking his cigarette to the ground.
Buffy started to protest, but he interrupted, “Save it, Goldilocks!” he
shouted, practically jogging away from the crowd. Then, over his shoulder he added, “Well, come
on! You said you haven’t got all day!”
“Hold up, Bleach
Boy!” she shouted, “If you hadn’t noticed, these boots aren’t exactly made for
walking!”
Oh, he’d
noticed. And that little reminder plus
the thought of her in those boots in his car was prompting a scad of illicit
mental images, each involving less clothing than the one before. He had been entirely too aware of her today,
the smell of her shampoo and the sound of her gum popping when she had strolled
in with
“Time’s a
wasting,” he yelled, not slowing a bit as he headed down the street where he’d
parked his car.
“Cool car,” she
said as he slowed to pull his keys from his pocket. For a brief moment, the world shifted and he
considered the possibility that he had been wrong about Buffy. He was half ready to take back every nasty
thing he’d ever said about her. That’s
when he noticed the shiny red Mustang parked next to his dirty black
“That piece of
Ford trash is not mine,” he said, with a disdainful tip of his head towards the
Mustang. He then spun to his girl,
tapping her steel fender with the toe of his boot, “This baby belongs to me,”
he said.
“Oh,” she said,
her nose wrinkling, “That’s right, I forgot.”
“Do you want a
ride or not, shorty?”
“You’re not
exactly NBA material yourself, you know,” she retorted, hands on her hips.
“Maybe not, but I
don’t wear heels like that to pretend I am, either,” he said with a pointed
look at her boots. Mainly it was an
excuse to see her legs. And so what? The girl had a nice pair of stems.
To his complete
shock, she let the comment go and moved to get in the car. She even chose not to yammer on about her ass
being too precious for his
“Oh, be careful,
it sticks a little,” he patronized her, settling himself behind the wheel
easily while she regained her balance.
Buffy sat down
with a “humph”, swinging her legs in and kicking the soda cans and burger wrappers
away from her feet. Then she leaned over
and pulled the door closed, folding her hands in her lap afterwards.
“The consummate
neat freak, I see,” she said, clearly itching to pick a fight.
Spike turned the key
and the engine rumbled to life and wondered why he wasn’t so keen to fight
back. He had a dozen nasty remarks at
his beckon call, but something was holding him back. Maybe it was curiosity. He’d never spent more than ten minutes with
the girl without trading snide comments.
Spike sighed loudly and let his head drop back to the seat rest, rolling
his face to the side until he had the blonde in his sights.
“Look, why don’t
we call a truce for the afternoon? It’s
bad enough we have to scamper through a mall like a pair of dull suburbanoid
freaks. We could try to be civil.”
“Or we could try
to stab each others’ eyes out with forks from Steak Escape,” Buffy chirped with
a false smile.
Spike squealed the
tires backing out, “Forget I asked.
Clearly, civilized conversation is beyond the capability of your mouth.”
A mouth which
looked more capable in other areas than Spike wanted to consider.
With eyes full of
fire, she inhaled and opened her mouth and he lifted his brows to say, “I told
you so.”
“Oh, shut up.” she
sulked, and he grinned as he gunned the engine.
After half a
block, Buffy leaned forward to turn on the radio. The CD he had been listening to earlier
rattled to life, crackling over the speakers and sending Spike into a fit of
steering wheel pounding and singing along.
“What is this?”
she asked, as if she had pulled something hairy out of his fridge.
“The Buzzcocks,”
he replied.
“The Buzz-whats?”
Buffy asked with a lip curled in distaste.
“You clearly have
no taste,” Spike scolded, shaking his head at her regretfully.
“Coming from
someone who considers this music?”
she mused, “Not offended here.”
“And I suppose
you’d have me listening to J Lot or what not?” Spike snarled.
She blinked at
him, her lips parted, “J-What?”
“J-Lot,” he
repeated, while he batted out the drum line with his thumbs.
“It’s J…Lo,” she said very slowly, “As in
Jennifer Lopez.”
“Whatever,” he
scoffed and to his surprise, she chuckled.
To his greater surprise, he really liked that sound…her bubbly laughter
mixed in with the screeches of the Buzzcocks and the roar of his DeSoto’s
engine.
***
Okay, so his car
was smelly, but the rest of the trip hadn’t been that bad. He was actually being almost normal, other
than the two curbs he ran over and the icky punk music.
But he had agreed
to trade songs on and off and he had even rolled down the windows when he
smoked. It was borderline
considerate. Which was really ooky,
because, hello? Spike here.
They pulled into
the parking garage and Buffy started to plan a course of action. She got out of the car and kicked away the
soda can that made a desperate attempt at escape.
“Alright, pet, I’d
say this is your domain,” he said, stepping out of the car and lighting a
cigarette.
“First off,” Buffy
said, plucking the cigarette from his lips, “These little Stink Sticks? Not allowed in fine public establishments.”
“Hey,” Spike said
as she tossed it to the ground, crushing the cherry neatly with her boot heel,
“I can smoke at every pub on
Buffy raised a
brow in revulsion, “Note my use of the word ‘fine’.”
“Snooty little
thing, aren’t you?” he said, but she just rolled her eyes and led him to the
mall entrance.
“Probably couldn’t
hold a couple shots of Jack to save your ass,” he added in the vestibule.
Ah, the return of
the Spike she knew and didn’t love.
Buffy flipped her hair and narrowed her eyes, “Which is terrible,
because every girl dreams of slamming down the shots with losers like you.”
The double doors closed
behind them leaving them with nothing but the gleam of lights and the smell of
perfume counters. The chime of registers
and smattering of laughter met her ears.
Her kingdom awaited. Buffy
actually felt her credit cards tingle in her purse.
“Ah,” she said
with an eager smile, “Twice in one day.
Not bad at all.”
“If you’re talking
about shagging, I agree whole-heartedly,” Spike said, scratching his head and
looking as out of place as a person could possibly look in a mall.
“Mind in the
gutter much?” she scolded.
“Always,” Spike
smirked, then peered around warily, “So, where are we off to?”
“Jeans.”
“Pardon?” Spike
asked.
“Jeans. Yours are black.”
“What’s wrong with
black?” Spike argued.
“In the world of
permanent markers, nothing. In the world
of denim?” Buffy wrinkled her nose and
shook her head, “Black jeans went out with Billy Idol, which may come as a
great shock to you,” she said with mock-sympathy and a pat to his shoulder.
“Oh, you are one
step away,” he warned, stepping forward until she could feel the heat coming
off of him. And feeling Spike’s
“heat”? Ew.
“Time is a
factor,” she said, marching quickly away from said heat in search of the
nearest Gap.
If Buffy had to
pick through all the funny scenes her life had brought her, Spike in a Gap
store had to be in the top ten. Buffy
looked up from the table of folded sweaters to see Spike playing air guitar
with a mannequin arm he ripped off and singing “I Wanna Be Sedated” while store
clerks looked on in slacked-mouth horror.
Make that the top
five.
“Try these on,”
Buffy commanded, handing him a pile of jeans and a few t-shirts to boot.
“Try them on?” he
asked, as if the concept was beyond him.
“Yes!” Buffy said,
yanking the mannequin arm from his hand for emphasis, “You know, in a dressing
room?”
“Right,” he said
looking around the store dumbly until she jabbed a finger at the neat row of
white doors.
He ambled to the
dressing rooms while she struggled to reattach the amputated arm without
knocking the entire model over. She
dropped to her knees for leverage, fully focused on the task before her. After more than a few minutes of twisting and
pushing, she heard something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand
on end.
“Oi!”
The next few
minutes played out in slow motion. There
was a gasp, and an “Oh, my,” followed quickly by about four more gasps and
shrieks of astonishment and interest.
Buffy felt like she was underwater.
With great trepidation, she lifted her head to find Spike. Half naked.
In The Gap.
His didn’t have
his boots on and his black jeans were unbuttoned just far enough to let Buffy
know which piece of clothing Spike felt was unnecessary. She could not look away from fast enough. Not that it helped to look up, because he
wasn’t wearing a shirt. And every inch
of his torso was ripped. Stomach, chest, arms….yep…every inch. Especially his stomach. One could grate a block of cheddar on those
abs. Pulling her eyes the entire distance
up to his face was like lifting a small car.
His body was like a train wreck; a really hot train wreck. He had a wadded pair of jeans over his right
arm and a belt over his left. But Buffy
was struggling to notice the clothing.
She was struggling to notice pretty much everything in the store. In fact, what store? They were in a store?
“They don’t fit, I
need something else.”
“What?” Buffy
whisper-screamed, clutching the dismembered arm for dear life.
“The jeans are too
long and the shirts are itchy,” he said, looking around the store, apparently
irritated by the attention he was getting standing around half-dressed.
“What do you mea?¾nevermind,” Buffy hissed, taking his arm in
a death grip and smiling apologetically at the store clerk, “So sorry, he’s
from another country.”
“Watch the grip!”
Spike complained, but Buffy didn’t even slow down. She dragged him to the back of that store and
shoved him into the dressing room like a misbehaving dog. When she clicked the door shut, she realized
she had been holding her breath.
“What’s that all
about?” he yelped through the door, “I already told you these don’t fit.”
“Get dressed! We have to leave. Now!” she panted, trying to convince herself that
she had only been holding her breath because of the shock.
“What?!” he
retorted.
“What on earth made you think that wandering
around The Gap shirtless and unbuttoned is acceptable?”
“Notice I was
unbuttoned, did ya?” he drawled and she could practically feel his smirk
through the door.
“The smell was
unmistakable,” she ground out, wishing her eyes could punch through the door
with laser beams.
“Oh, that was
uncalled for!” he said, but she knew damn well his offense was all show.
Buffy turned
around to lean her back against the door.
She waited impatiently while he rustled with his shirt. To her dismay, an appealing image of him
tugging that material over his chest and abs was appearing quite vividly in her
mind.
“So, do you shop
half naked in England?”
“I don’t know,” he
said, tugging on his jeans next. “When I
got fitted for trousers for graduation, the tailor had me get undressed. He measured me and then had me pick out stuff
I liked.”
Buffy shook her
head in utter disbelief, “Are you telling me you haven’t bought a new pair of
jeans since you graduated from high school?”
“No,” he snapped,
opening the door so quickly that she stumbled backwards into the dressing room
as he emerged, hair mussed from tugging shirts on and off. “I’ve bought other trousers.”
“And how have you
accomplished this without being picked up by store security?” Or a Playgirl magazine scout?
“I’ve never tried
any on,” he shrugged, “And I certainly don’t shop in poofter stores like this
one.”
Buffy’s face turned
icy, “Haven’t you ever noticed that no one else in these stores is wandering
around sans shirt. They even have signs
on the mall doors…shirt and shoes required!”
Spike crossed his
arms and stared her down pragmatically, “Do I strike you as the sort to fret
about the Galleria Rules of Conduct?”
“Point taken,” she acquiesced with a tilt of
her head. Then she took his arm and practically jogged out of the store.
Fortunately for
them, the next store was much less eventful.
Spike stayed in the dressing room, which was less unsettling, but also
not quite as entertaining. She briefly
entertained the idea of Angel walking around a store barefoot and shirtless and
the thought sent her chuckling. Not a
chance would he cut loose like that.
Which was fine, good even, because she was totally not comparing them.
Thankfully
everything fit perfectly. Better yet,
Angel had a pair of similar jeans. That
meant she just needed to find something appropriate for Willow and Oz and the
band’s lower half was as good as matched.
That is, if Willow and Oz ever bothered to finish their little sexfest
and get their asses to the mall as promised.
Buffy glanced down at her cell phone, willing it to ring.
“These are
absolutely brilliant,” Spike said at her left as he nibbled on an Auntie Anne’s
pretzel.
“I told you so,”
she said, swinging the bag at her side.
“Want a bite?” he
asked, and she shook her head, but not before he had his thumb and forefinger
in her face, offering up a little buttery chunk.
“You have to try
this,” he demanded, despite her former mention of calorie counting, “It’s not
like an extra pound would hurt you.”
“Thanks for the
offer, no thanks for the opinion,” she replied, but on an impulse that she knew
right away was bad, she took the piece with her mouth. Her lips grazed his skin with a flick of her
tongue and it was like a static shock without the sting.
She stopped in her
tracks and their eyes met for an instant while shoppers whizzed past them in
both directions. Spike’s expression was
a little smoky, his mouth pouting in a way she’d never seen.
“Shirt,” she
mumbled dumbly.
Spike continued to
stare for a second, and she felt his gaze burning a path over her lips. “What’s that, luv?” he said at last, voice
husky.
“We need a shirt,”
she said, flushing brightly as she started marching with great purpose towards
something. What that something was, she
had no idea.
The stores flew by
in a blur. She didn’t see the names or
the merchandise, and she didn’t care.
What was she doing? What was
happening here? First, the “Spike has
abs” moment in The Gap, of all places.
Then the flirty little almost licking his fingers bit? It all rated really high on the
ickometer.
Buffy was still
speeding through the mall with Spike trailing behind her, glaring bullets at
her cell phone. Where were they,
anyways? If they’d bothered to show up a
little more promptly, maybe she wouldn’t be in this mess.
She decided it had
to be about this morning. She was feeling
insecure, undesirable. Spike was
convenient, so she was transferring. A
big, gross transfer. That’s all. Once Willow and Oz concluded their hot monkey
sex, maybe they’d bother to show up or at least call her cell phone and tell
her where to meet them.
“Hey Buffy!” he
shouted, “What about this one?”
Buffy whirled in
her tracks, seeing Spike next to an instantly familiar store front. He was staring at a window she had looked
through herself. A wave of ice washed
over her body and she felt her heart skip about three beats at once. With a tight throat, she looked at the
mannequin he was pointing at and back to Spike.
“Oh my God,” she
croaked, covering her mouth with a trembling hand.
“Oh, come on,” he
said hopefully, jabbing his thumb at the shirt, “It’s not that bad, yeah? It’s not even black.”
“No, it really
isn’t,” she agreed, because it wasn’t black, of course. It was blue.
Blue like his eyes; Blue like her dream; completely and impossibly blue.
*****
Six days, ten
hours, and roughly twenty minutes.
That’s how long it had been since his fingers had grazed the lips of the
blonde in front of him. Simply having
that little piece of knowledge in his brain was almost as unsettling as the
situation he found himself in now.
“This is taking
forever,” Spike complained from his perch on the toilet. He briefly wondered if it had taken that long
when she was in here with Willow or dolling up the Grand Poofter at home.
“Maybe you should
have thought about that before slathering your hair with Dippity Do,” she said,
and Spike sighed at her toes, which were peeking out of a new pair of
sandals.
They were in the
tiny bathroom of the photo studio. He
wore a pair of dangerously faded jeans.
After Buffy’s vehement refusal of the blue shirt, she had picked out red
button-downs that she said would look decent on all of the guys. Spike really didn’t care; especially since
Buffy let him wear his Ramones “All the Stuff and More” shirt (Best album ever, thank you.) underneath
it. So the outfit wasn’t the
problem.
“There is nothing
in my bathroom called Dippity-sodding-Do.”
“Just shut up and
hold still,” she commanded.
She was the problem. More
specifically, what she was doing to his hair.
She was mussing. Her back was to
the sink and her hands were in his hair.
Tousling things.
“I look like a
complete ponce,” he griped, trying very hard not to notice how good she smelled
or the way she was chewing on her pretty little pink lip. Bloody distraction, that.
“No,” she said, pausing
with a thoughtful purse of her lips, “You actually don’t look awful.”
“Thanks ever so,”
he scowled and she met his gaze guiltily.
“You look
nice…ish,” she said, dropping her eyes and her hands at once. Then she turned to the sink to wash her hands.
“You’re ready,”
she said, still bent over the faucet, which left her ass about ten inches from
his face. The girl had no idea, but she
was playing with fire there.
Spike’s jaw
tightened as his eyes traced the curves of her tanned thighs. When she straightened and reached for a
paper towel, he stood up abruptly, bumping into the side of the stall and
clenching his fists. She was too damn
close, and he needed to stop looking at her.
He twisted around her to take a look at the damage to his hair. Beneath a black scrawl that promised a good
time if one called such and such, he could see that all that work was for
naught. His hair was a mass of curly
platinum spikes. Completely unruly. He liked it much better slicked back.
“I like this much
better,” she said, “it makes your eyes stand out.”
Then again, maybe
he could stand a change.
Shit. He really needed a shag.
“Right,” he said,
knowing if he didn’t get out of that bathroom immediately, there was a serious
possibility of leaning her back over that sink, and hand-washing would not be
on the agenda, “So, we’re ready for the pictures?” he said, feeling the
telltale heat of a flush on his neck.
“Yep,” she nodded,
and they danced around in a difficult and awkward attempt at leaving the bathroom
without bumping into one another.
Spike was
practically growling by the time he reached the rest of the band.
“Nice Spikes,
Spike,” Willow said with an appreciative grin, “Isn’t his hair cool?” she said
nudging Oz, “I told you Buffy knew what she was doing.”
“No more
Brylcream,” he mused supportively as he looked over Spike’s tense posture.
“Oh, shut your
holes,” Spike growled. He was so wound
up he felt like a Volkswagen was sitting on his shoulders. Just two hours and a
punching bag would make it all better, he mused. Because after ten years in tae kwon do, there
wasn’t much that a spot of violence couldn’t fix.
He really needed
to think about a way to not think about Angel’s girlfriend. She was just a girl, yeah? Nothing special about her. He didn’t even like her, especially not her
bouncy hair that smelled faintly of lavender.
Or her funny little nose. Or the
way she painted her toenails bright red, even though her fingernails were
usually pink.
Oh, yeah…this is working
out real nicely.
“Bloody hell,” he
said, clenching his fists until his knuckles cracked.
“Why so grumpy?”
“I’m fine. Just need a drink,” Spike hissed back and Oz
snorted sarcastically, giving Spike the impression that he very much doubted a
drink would fix it.
“Got something to
say, bass boy?” Spike snarked, yanking the drumsticks offered by the
photographer’s assistant.
“Guys! Let’s just
get this over with, okay?” Angel said from behind them before Oz could
answer. At the photographer’s
instruction they all got nice and cozy.
Mr. “I’m too sexy for myself” Angel moved front and center, crouching
like some sort of superhero, ready to pounce.
Oz stayed on
“Um, Spike,” the
photographer started, moving his glasses up on his nose, “Move in a little
closer to Willow, okay?”
Spike moved in and
The camera flashed
and Spike was grateful for its temporary blinding affect. It meant he couldn’t focus entirely on their
wardrobe manager, who was sipping her Diet Coke, smiling and whispering on the
sideline with Xander.
“It’s like my own
little ménage a tois,”
“Must be something
in the water.” Oz stated flatly and Spike did not miss his smirk.
Yeah, he
definitely had to do something about this.
Fast.
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