Indigo Overture – Chapter Six

Rating:  Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – PG-13

 

The crisp little manager had introduced herself as Anya.  The introduction was as brief as the pleasantries, and the lot of them now sat in awkward silence on a row of barstools holding spreadsheets.  Not just spreadsheets, mind you; these were top notch.  There were indexes, charts, lists and all sorts of things Spike never expected to look through on a Sunday afternoon.  Especially in a place called The Cherry. 

 

Angel sat in the middle, with Oz and Willow on his left.  Buffy, Xander, and Spike flanked his right.  And flitting back and forth in front of them was Anya Jenkins, dressed in a navy skirt and a fitted pink shirt emblazoned with a silver butterfly.  She looked like a cross between a stock broker and a mall bunny, but all in all, the look worked for her.  From what he’d seen so far, Spike gathered she had a good head for business and a rack that was bordering on exceptional.

 

“You see, it’s quite simple.  The amount of your pay and the number of complimentary drinks are directly proportional to the number of tickets you sell,” Anya explained as she paced back and forth behind the bar, pausing to tilt her head and appraise the group, “And I think you should sell a lot of tickets,” her eyes flicked between Oz and Angel and Spike, “After all, you come bearing man candy!”

 

Willow pouted and looked up, “I’m not man candy.”

 

“Of course not,” Anya said, with a laugh, “You’re the pretty girl cherry on top of the boy sundae, silly.  The cherry for The Cherry,” she mused, obviously very pleased with her pun.  

 

“Now, there are certain proceeds that will go to the house, of course,” Anya went on, sliding her hand over her shoulder-length auburn hair.

 

Angel coughed quietly, looking up from his packet, “Proceeds?”

 

“Yes,” Anya nodded, walking over with a snappy nod, “Dressing room charges, sound board charges, various ticket marketing charges, and of course, water charges.”

 

“Water charges?” Xander squeaked, dropping his paper to the bar and staring at her like a circus clown trying to sell him a used car. 

 

Anya blinked at him blankly, “Well, yes.  For the water consumed by the band during your sets.  It’s all outlined on page three,” she finished, waving her pink nails airily.

 

The rustle of papers filled the air as everyone flipped dutifully to page three.  Everyone except Spike.  He leaned back in his barstool and lit a cigarette, letting his eyes drift to Buffy.  She looked sweet as a peach today.  Little blue halter top over a floral skirt that flowed around her knees.  While she scanned the page, she worried her bottom lip, her brows furrowing in concentration.

 

Xander sounded a half-snort, half-laugh, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

 

Anya just blinked and tilted her head quizzically at him.  Xander’s chin jutted and his right hand started gesturing wildly at the paper, “You’re going to charge us a dollar for each glass of water we drink?  How could you even know how much we have?  Do you have some sort of secret water tracking device?”

 

Anya gazed at him with a sweet smile, “I know there are twenty-four pretzel rods in that glass jar right in front of you, and there are seventy one bottles of Bud Light in the cooler beneath it.  I also know that the last four bands here consumed eleven, eight, and thirteen glasses of water respectively.”

 

Xander jerked his head left to eye the rest of the band for support.  Since they were all buried in charts and lists, he looked to Spike, who shrugged disinterestedly.  Then he leaned over the bar for emphasis.

 

“It’s water!  A liquid that can be obtained free of charge at drinking fountains and public bathrooms the world over!  How can it be worth a dollar?!”

 

Anya folded her hands in front of her and tipped her head thoughtfully, “You should be grateful that I give you a discount.  I charge normal patrons two dollars.”

 

“Maybe we’ll just bring our own water,” Xander challenged, crossing his arms and lifting his chin stubbornly.

 

Anya just laughed, bright eyes dancing high in her pink cheeks; then she placed her hand on his arm as her laughter turned to a sigh, “Bring your own,” she repeated, rolling her eyes as if she’d never heard anything funnier, “Like I’d let you do that instead of forcing you to drink, and more importantly pay for my water.” 

 

Xander just gaped as the manager spun on her strappy shoes and stepped back towards Oz and Willow, prattling on about prohibited stage antics that have been proven to reduce liquor sales, and Xander leaned in to Spike conspiratorially.

 

“That woman gives me a serious case of wiggins,” he said, his dark eyes following her efficient path behind the bar.

 

Spike exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching Xander’s head dip and bob as he his eyes stayed locked on Anya.  Spike cocked his head meaningfully to the brunette with a smirk, “She’s giving you a case of something alright.”

 

“I can not say nuh-uh enough,” Xander said, but even as he pushed away from the bar to lean back in his chair, his gaze still jittered with the manager’s every motion.

 

“So,” Anya concluded gleefully, “I think that clears everything up.  Any questions?”

 

Angel flipped back through his packet as Spike stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray.

 

“Um…” Angel started, and Anya smiled.

 

“Good.  Well, then, I have things to do, money to make.  So, thanks for coming.”

 

Spike guessed that Oz snickered.  He was too far away to be sure, but he did hear a muttered “Ow” that he guessed was a result of Willow elbowing him for the probable outburst.  The rest of the band sat still, waiting to see if Angel had anything to say.  But he just gaped at the pragmatic woman waiting before him.

 

Anya smiled even wider, “Again, thanks for coming.  Please leave now.”

 

The band stood, shuffling out with their little paper packets and a lot of blank stares at one another.  As they piled out of the bar into the sunshine, Spike trailed behind, pulling the door shut and stretching his arms over his head as he squinted into the sunshine. 

 

“Wow,” Willow said mildly, tucking the paperwork into her straw purse.

 

“I know!” Xander said, pacing back and forth in the small makeshift circle the band was forming on the sidewalk, “She was a maniac!  A complete fruitcake with those, those clicky heels!  And her flowcharts!  I mean, a dollar for water?!  That girl took a left off of Sane Lane and never looked back!”

 

“Well,” Spike said, lighting another cigarette, “I think it’s safe to assume he’s hot for her.”

 

“Ah,” Buffy and Willow said in unison while Angel and Oz cleared their throats and tried not to laugh.

 

“Do they not teach you words like ‘maniac’ and ‘fruitcake’ in the motherland?” Xander objected, interrupting his own rant. 

 

“Yeah, and they also taught me a look is worth a thousand words.  And I saw the look you planted on that maniac’s ass.”

 

Xander flushed and everyone else laughed.  It was a nice moment, Spike decided, standing there in the sunshine with laughter all around him.  Especially her laughter.  Buffy was toeing the sidewalk while she hid her laugh in the curve of her bare shoulder.  He briefly considered if it would be possible to make a career out of watching her laugh, studying all the subtle variances in the tilt of her head and the sparkle in her eyes.  Immediately thereafter, he thought about punching himself squarely in the teeth for entertaining such a poncey idea.

 

“Why don’t we get lunch?” Angel suggested, and Buffy bounced on the soles of her feet, interrupting him.

 

“Oooh, ooh!  Why don’t you come to our place and we’ll do the Full Monty!”

 

An image of Buffy straddling his lap in exotic dancer mode was materializing entirely too vividly in Spike’s mind thanks to her reference.  His jaw tensed as he responded.

 

“God knows you’re too pristine to even understand what that really means, so tell me, what does that mean in Valley Girl?”

 

“Hey, hey,” Xander said, “We all know what it means.”  Then his eyes clouded and he tilted his head, “Actually, I don’t, so I’m shutting up now.”

 

“I know what it means,” Buffy growled at Spike, crossing her arms, then adding with a sniff, “I saw the movie.”

 

Then her grin returned as she sidled up to Red, “It’s something Willow and I came up with.  Several varieties of ice cream and Chinese food,”

 

“And pizza toppings,” Willow added sagely.

 

“Sounds like my kind of party,” Xander said, rubbing his stomach.

 

Angel grinned, “Ah, harnessing your inner pigs?”

 

“Bad choice of words, dude,” Oz said, shaking his head.

 

Buffy and Willow frowned at Angel and he stepped back, eyes going wide, “Wait, no.  Not that.  Why did I say that?” 

 

Buffy arched one brow and crossed her arms, “Very good question.”

 

Oz and Xander were both watching in thin-lipped amusement, shrugging when Angel shot them a desperate cry for help.

 

“So, we should go,” Angel announced, nodding vigorously at the men in the group, and trying to keep his shoulders straight even though it was crystal clear that he was going down in flames.

 

“Oh, but you haven’t answered the question for the ladies,” Spike blinked, all mock seriousness.

 

“Hey, asshole, how about helping your fellow man out?” Angel prodded with a half-grin. 

 

“I’ll let you know when I see one, mate” Spike retorted, something earnest lingering just beneath the banter.

 

“Oh, come on,” Xander sighed, “You can have your little pissing and measuring contest at their apartment, where the rest of us can at least eat.”

 

“Hear hear!” Willow agreed, “I’m starving, so could we maybe finish this later?”

 

Spike broke Angel’s eye contact and lit a cigarette as they started the two-block walk to Oz’s van.

 

“No need,” Spike said to no one in particular, exhaling slowly while his eyes danced over the golden arch of Buffy’s calves as she walked.  “It was finished a long time ago.”

 

Angel let his long strides take him away from the nightmare he had created, the band still chuckling behind him.  Buffy’s stature had left her in the thick of them, which she seemed comfortable with.  She turned over her shoulder, her pink lips glinting in the sunshine.

 

“If this story involves some sort of drunken Oxford debauchery which resulted in any kind of bodily evaluation, I vote for silence.”

 

“I second,” Xander nodded, “Because rampant genital discussions?  Not good for the appetite, you know?”

 

“Depends on the genitals, mate,” Spike winked and Buffy whirled on her heel, her smile betraying her attempt at outrage.

 

“You’re disgusting,” she said, a hot blush creeping up her neck.

 

“Don’t let him fool you.  He’s a closet good-guy.” Willow giggled, bumping into Oz’s shoulder affectionately as she tilted her head at Spike.

 

“That’s right,” Spike agreed as they approached the van, “I’m a regular white hat, Buffy.”  Angel was already sitting in the back when Spike dodged in front of Buffy, turning to catch her in a mischievous stare, “Come to think of it, I just might measure up real nicely in lots of ways.”

 

“Baby, you didn’t need to serve us,” Angel said as Buffy set down two beers on the coffee table.

 

“It’s no problem,” she said, smiling at Angel and ignoring the blonde pinhead on his left.

 

“Yeah, thanks, Buffy,” said pinhead added, and she flashed him a thin-lipped smile that lasted a fraction of a second before she managed an escape to the kitchen. 

 

Why was he such a pervert?  All his measure up comments and tongue waggling was enough to make her nuts.  He even made her name sound like a dirty word.  Or a stripper name.  Yeah, that’s it.  And how wrong was that?  Because she did not have a stripper name.  Did she? 

 

Buffy huffed as she pulled down bowls and glanced out the window.  Neither of the delivery trucks she heard were pulling into the parking lot.  In the living room, Spike laughed, and Xander protested something that had happened on Soul Caliber. 

 

“Mind if I join you in the land of estrogen?” Willow asked, announcing her entrance to the kitchen.

 

Buffy spun around and rolled her eyes, “By all means.  Grab some spoons and I’ll get the ice cream.  It looks like were doing dessert first”

 

The door to the apartment opened and closed in quick succession, and Buffy eagerly bent her head around the entrance to the kitchen to glance in the living room.  Oz lifted his hand, acknowledging her presence from his perch on the sofa?

 

“Food?” she asked hopefully.

 

“No, liquor.”

 

“Liquor?” she asked, expression puzzled.

 

Oz nodded to the door as it swung open, revealing Spike with an armful of bottles.  Angel gave him a thumb off to the kitchen, so in he came, smelling faintly of smoke and whiskey and some crispy clean soap scent. 

 

“Where do you want them, luv?”

 

“Under the sink in the bin labeled garbage?” she chirped, getting a laugh from Willow.

 

“Ha bloody ha.  Alright, I’ll just scatter em about on the counter,” he said, and Buffy watched with a frown as he arranged a dozen bottles of liquor to the left of her ice cream bowls.  Then he turned, dusting his hands on his jeans.

 

“Alright, ladies, who’s first?” Spike asked, rubbing his hands together expectantly. 

 

“’Ew’ just doesn’t cover what I’m feeling here,” Buffy said with a grimace.

 

“Well, aren’t you the dirty one?” Spike said, doing that stupid tongue curling thing again before he continued, “But I’m talking about drinks.”

 

“Oh,” she said, turning to Willow, “Somehow ice cream and drinking doesn’t seem to go together in my mind.”

 

“That’s because you haven’t been drinking with Spike,” Willow said and the two of them shared a friendly laugh that made Buffy really want to be an insider on the joke.  Or at least some joke.  There was something great about secrets between friends.

 

“Atta girl, Red.  Now how can I take care of you?” he asked with a wink. 

 

“Well, since you’re asking I have a pile of laundry with your name all over it,” Willow grinned sweetly, then shook her head, “But really, I can’t.  I’ve got a class tomorrow.  Spring flu equals big bucks for substitute teachers.  And speaking of the world of work, how is your illustrious career treating you?”

 

“I watch reruns of Passions and eat blooming onions for a living.  So, I can’t complain.”

 

“You have a job?” Buffy asked dubiously, quickly trying to plaster a smile over the world of rude that came out with that statement.  Nice one, Buff.  Do you think he snatches old women’s purses for cash?

 

“Well, unlike Dudley Do-Gel out there, I don’t get a monthly trust check.”

 

“What do you do?” she said, eyeing him like an unidentified brown smudge on a new pair of sneakers.

 

“Lots of things,” he said, eyes narrowing, “For work I do security.  Graveyard shift three nights a week.”

 

“You work security,” she said, as incredulous as if he had claimed to be a nuclear physicist at NASA.

 

“Sure, pet,” he said, leaning in until she could see flecks of gray in his blue eyes, “Wouldn’t you trust your valuables with the likes of me?”

 

Something hot snaked up her spine, thanks to his tone; but she covered well, her eyes drifting to the window as she snorted away the very idea.

 

“Moving along to topics that don’t make me gag,” she said dismissively, turning pleading eyes to Willow, “Just tell me you aren’t abandoning me here with the likes of four icky boys.” Buffy begged.

 

“Three,” Willow said with an apologetic shrug, “I’m taking Oz with me, but I’m afraid the rest of them will be stuck with you after five.”

 

“Well it’s only lunch,” Buffy said, and Spike laughed.

 

“Not after I open this it isn’t,” he said with a wink, wandering out of the kitchen with four beers and four shots balanced in those long fingered hands of his.

 

She had no idea how right he was.  The hours that followed were a whirlwind of Chinese food, pizzas, bowls of ice cream, endless matches of Soul Caliber 2, and Mudslides.  Oh yes, there were Mudslides, and the Mudslides were good.

 

Buffy was bouncing on Angel’s lap, rattling her glass of ice at Spike’s ear.  He was sprawled on the floor with Xander, tapping furiously at one of two Playstation controllers.

 

“Not now,” he said, furiously clicking on his buttons as Xander lunged right and left with his own character.  He started squealing as Spike’s energy bar went down, down, down.

 

“He won’t get me a drink,” Buffy pouted at Angel, who blinked sleepily, pushing his own empty beer bottle across the coffee table.

 

“Mmm…” he said, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the couch.

 

“Are you tired?” she asked, then paused to blink around the living room, “Hey….where did Will and Oz go?”

 

“They went home hours ago, baby,” Angel said, eyes still closed.

 

“That’s right!” she said, slapping his leg with a grin as the final K.O. rumbled through their surround sound.

 

“Son of a bitch!” Spike shouted and Xander leapt to his feet with a roar.

 

“Victory is mine!” he cheered and Buffy cheered too.  For victory!  For justice!  For Christmas and puppies!  For Mudslides!

 

“Alright, alright, don’t burst anything celebrating.  I’ve got a drink to make, anyway,” Spike said, handing the controller to Angel.

 

“Ah, it appears Sleeping Broody has left our little party,” he said when Angel failed to respond to his offer.  Buffy squirmed around on Angel’s lap to find her boyfriend snoring softly against the couch.

 

“I’ll play for him,” she said, thrusting her glass into Spike’s hand, “You gimme a drink.  I’ll put him to bed.”

 

“You’ll play?” Xander said, with a look that was more patronizing than interested. 

 

“No, actually, I’ll wipe the floor with your asses,” she corrected, sloppily heading to her feet and tugging Angel up.

 

“Hm?” he asked sleepily, sitting up to rub his eyes.

 

“You tired, baby?” she asked, ruffling his hair.

 

Angel yawned and looked around, “Yeah, if you don’t mind I’m going to head to bed.”

 

“As long you don’t mind me embarrassing your friends when I kick their sorry asses,” she said brightly.

 

“Kick our asses,” Xander chuckled under his breath.

 

Angel stretched his arms and headed towards the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “She can kick my ass with Taki,” he said, “Sorry, Xan, you’re going down.”

 

“You play Taki?” he gulped, fearing the twin-bladed vixen that was his weakest opponent.

 

“Prepare yourself,” she said, plopping down on the floor Indian style, and flipping through the screens like the gaming expert that she secretly was. 

 

Spike reappeared halfway through the match, putting the drink down on the coffee table behind her.  Buffy threw a couple of impressive kicks, followed by a Shadow Ripper, then paused the game long enough to sling back a healthy drink of her Mudslide.

 

“Thank you,” she tossed back at Spike and he laughed as she returned to the game, throwing three back to back combos that landed Xander in the realm of the pitifully defeated.

 

“Tosser,” Spike breathed, shaking his head at Xander with a snort.

 

“Oh, sure, it’s all funny when you’re the drink man.  You sit down here.  The girl is not normal.  It must be some sort of drunken skill enhancement.”

 

“You should see me sober,” she smirked said as they geared up for match two.

 

The next thirty seconds brought on a series of punches, throws and special moves, the likes of which neither had seen.  When Xander’s character, Maxi, landed on the mat for good, Taki’s power bar hadn’t moved a smidgen.

 

“Jesus,” Spike said and Xander simply turned to her and gaped.

 

“And you’re better sober?” Xander asked.

 

“And better than that in an actual ring,” she said, with a proud nod.

 

“What?” Xander asked.

 

“She was in kickboxing,” Spike supplied and Buffy smiled, pleased he had remembered.

 

“Alright, my turn, pet,” he said, crouching down beside her on the floor, eager to get to business.  She was cracking her knuckles and rolling her neck and his competitive side was more than ready for the little firecracker’s challenge. 

 

“As much as I’d love to stay and enjoy your defeat, I’ve got to bail,” Xander said, picking himself up and gathering his keys and wallet from the table. 

 

“What?” Buffy whined, standing up and pouting towards him, “But it’s earrrrly!”

 

“No,” he said, grabbing her shoulders and planting a kiss on her forehead, “It’s so late it’s almost early again.  And I have a plumbing repair to take care of tomorrow morning.”

 

“You alright to drive?” Spike asked, as he finished off his tenth beer that evening.

 

“Yeah, I’ve been chugging water for an hour,” he said and when Buffy pouted more, he gave her a quick squeeze, “Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” he joked, “Just go and kick some serious ass.”

 

“Roger,” she said, giving him a sloppy salute as he wandered out the door.

 

“You ready?” Spike said and Buffy turned to him, leveling him with a challenging stare.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

Buffy landed back on the floor with a plop and Spike sidled up next to her.  She could still smell him, all smoky and liquory, and….well, soapy.  Good, clean soapy.

 

“You still going to try to play with Kilik?” she asked with barely shielded mockery.

 

“No, I’m going to kill you with Kilik,” he said flatly, face blank as the screen loaded. 

 

“You’re going to try,” she corrected, and the match began.

 

Back and forth they went, punches and kicks flying, buttons clicking like mad beneath their thumbs.  He tried to play it cool, but she knew it wouldn’t last.  It just wasn’t his style.  Apparently, it wasn’t hers either.  She was all fire and determination now, her eyes narrowed to slits, jaw tensed in concentration.  While she bit her lip and resorted to beating the buttons on her controller, he swerved left and right with his character, tossing out the occasional cussword while he jittered back and forth on the screen and the floor. 

 

The energy bars skated lower and lower for each of them, but Buffy knew she still had it.  She started her combo, but growled, when Spike’s came off a bit earlier, smacking her with a crisp finality.

 

“Crap!” she said, smacking his arm when he smirked.

 

“Nothing like the Rod of Doom,” he said and she rolled her eyes.

 

“You totally get off on that just because of the name,” she accused him, finger waggling a few inches in front of his face.

 

“You’re just pissed that I was faster.”

 

“Faster isn’t always a good thing,” she snapped, pursing her lips pointedly.

 

“Be careful, luv,” he said, voice ten shades of sexy.

 

“Wha?” she asked, feeling a bit disarmed.

 

“The match is starting.”

 

On and on it went, kicks and punches and special moves that knocked power meters down by thirds.  Ten matches later, they were tied.  Their thumbs were aching and their vocabularies were strained for inventive new ways to bitch one another out.  All in all, Buffy was having a great time.  As much as she hated to admit it, they really did have something in common.  They clearly both loved a bit of stiff competition.  And why did she have to think with the word “stiff”?

 

“Are you ready for another ass kicking?” she asked.

 

“I need a smoke to clear my head,” he said, waving at the dozen beer bottles and assorted shot glasses beside him.  Then he reached to the couch where he had discarded his coat.  She was waiting for him to put it on, but he didn’t.  He just slid the cigarettes and lighter from the pocket and started to stand up.

 

“Me too,” she agreed, bobbing her head and reaching for his arm when he stood.

 

“You started smoking, yeah?” he teased, pulling her to her feet and tugging her left, when her body stumbled right.

 

“No,” she said, heading for the door, “But that last Mudslide is making me slide.  I need air.”

 

She opened the door, stepping into the crisp quiet of night.  A few stars dotted the black expanse of sky above their parking lot.  Spike’s Zippo flicked open and she heard the crackle of paper as he inhaled.  Something about his face was fixating at that moment, the way the cherry from his cigarette illuminated the edges of his cheekbones, leaving the hollows beneath them in shadow.  He licked his lips and rolled his neck, catching her slack-mouthed stare.

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“Smoking is so gross,” she lied, heart pounding as she crossed her arms across her chest.  Wasn’t air supposed to help?  Because there was no head clearing happening.  She was losing herself in the smell of cigarettes and the sound of his voice which seemed to be getting both rougher and softer, if that was possible. 

 

“It’s a bad habit,” he admitted, then cocked his head at her, “But it’s damned sexy.”

 

“No it isn’t,” she croaked as he inhaled again, the tip of his cigarette making his eyes flicker dangerously. 

 

“It can be,” he said, and now his voice was like a tiger’s purr. 

 

She gave a really lame laugh, doing her best to look like she thought the idea of sexy smoking was completely ludicrous.  In reality, she was busy trying to find a way to stand that didn’t make her insides throb so badly.  Because smoking was looking sexy.  Really sexy.  It must have been the Mudslides.  Just how many of those damn things had she had anyways?

 

“Oh, it figures a bint like you would scoff at that,” he said with a rueful shake of his head.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she slurred, stumbling towards him with a hankering to pick a fight.

 

“Oh you know what it means,” he said, “You’re all pure and sweet.  All, ‘You’re such a bad boy!  I’d never smoke a cigarette.  Why, I wouldn’t even shotgun!” he smirked at her as he trailed off, his false high pitch returning to his normal tone, “Tell me that isn’t you.”

 

“Okay, I will!  But first, what’s a shotgun?” she asked, because she didn’t know, and she was way too drunk to play it off.

 

“It’s a smoking thing,” he sneered, turning back to the parking lot, “A very American smoking thing, but apparently you skipped that part of pop culture training.”

 

“What kind of a smoking thing?”

 

“The kind you don’t bloody understand unless you’ve done it,” he said a little sharply, and she noticed his next hit was terse and quick, the exhale much the same.

 

“Fine.  Show me,” she said, challenging him with a tipsy lift of her chin.

 

“I can’t show you,” he chuckled, shaking his head and looking away.

 

“Why not?” she pestered, “You said you can’t explain it.”

 

“Because!” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “You’d get all virtuous and freak out and sick our big brooding band leader on me for tainting you in some way.”

 

“Ew!” she said, “Does it involve some sort of sick undressing thing?  Will it leave a mark?”

 

“No,” he laughed, “It has nothing to do with clothes or marks.”

 

“Well, then it’s fine,” she said, her veins pumping with anticipation, “Do it.”

 

Spike turned to her slowly, so that the streetlight across the lot played eerie shadows across his face.  He was watching her, searching her for some weakness or lack of sincerity.  He leaned in, until her personal space was definitely invaded, his eyes hot and challenging.  And Drunk Buffy was always up for a challenge. 

 

“You ready to back down now, pet?” he purred, all whiskey and sex in the quiet black of night. 

 

Something in the back of her mind reminded her that this whole challenge thing was the very thing that made her not drink very often.  Drunk Buffy squashed that something between her thumb and forefinger and crossed her arms.

 

“Not a chance,” she said, returning his steely stare.

 

“It stays on this porch,” he commanded and she nodded in slow agreement, her limbs tingling and bones aching.  Which didn’t make sense, but right now, what did?

 

“Alright, close your eyes,” he said, and she obeyed his perfect sex-drenched voice, her eyelids drifting closed.  Her ears honed in on the sounds of the night, the distant hum of the streetlight and the hissing of Spike’s cigarette as he pulled a long, hard drag off of it.

 

There was a moment of silence.  Then she felt him, his hands palming either side of her face.  His fingertips slid to the nape of her neck and his thumbs stroked her cheeks.  Her knees went weak when he pulled his thumbs down, coaxing her mouth open.

 

She knew what to expect, didn’t she?  She had to.  Had to know now what she’d gotten herself into.  But in that split second before he moved in, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.  Couldn’t even get her heart to resume beating. 

 

It didn’t matter anyways, because before any of that occurred to her, his lips were on hers, open mouth to open mouth.  She inhaled automatically, and he released the smoke slowly, his fingers moving ever so slightly against the nape of her neck.  Buffy kept inhaling, feeling drunker and hotter than she ever remembered feeling before.  Her balance was failing her, and her hands lifted, palms grazing his denim-clad hips as he exhaled the last bits of smoke into her mouth.  As he pulled away, his tongue just barely grazed her lower lip and she shivered at the sensation.

 

She released the smoke, some remote part of her surprised that it didn’t make her cough.

 

“I gave it slow,” he said very quietly, and she slowly lifted her gaze to his eyes.  They were dark.  Heated with something that wasn’t included in his words.  Her expression questioned his comment and he continued, pulling his stare to the parking lot, “The smoke.  I gave it slow so you wouldn’t choke or cough.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Buffy felt him shift, and abruptly realized her palms were still on his jeans, “Oh!” she said again, jerking back and almost dropping in a pile.

 

He reached for her arms, catching her as she fell backwards, “Easy, killer.”

 

“I think I might get sick,” she said, a sudden wave of nausea rolling over her.

 

“Thanks ever so,” he said with a short laugh and she shook her head.

 

“Not that, it’s just…I feel,” she trailed off, because she couldn’t exactly go into how she felt, now could she?  ‘Gee Spike, thanks for educating me on Shotgunning and please pardon me while I go change my panties like the cheating ho-bag that I am’  Nope, that was not going to work.

 

“I should have known,” he said, laughing into the parking lot, “You’re all guilt ridden.”

 

His fingers waggled in mockery with his last words and she frowned at him, “No I’m not! It wasn’t a big deal.  Basically, just a gross handshake,” she said with a frown, “Why should I feel bad?”

 

Spike spun towards her, fury in his expression.  She bit her lip and watched the anger melt into something softer.  He tossed the cigarette away with a sigh and she felt a little panicked.  What just happened?  Did she do something horrible?  She didn’t mean it.  Yeah, she knew that.  But she had liked it.  She knew that too.

 

“Should I feel bad?” she asked, her voice a whispered plea in the silence.

 

There was one second of heat, one tiny fraction of time that seemed swollen with big unspoken things.  Everything about him turned gentle while he acknowledged her genuine concern.  But then his lips curved in a smirk and he shook his head, “Nah, nothing to it to feel bad about.  Just me being my usually lecherous self, yeah?”

 

“Just a dumb drunk thing?” she said, hopefully.

 

“Yeah,” he said, then stretched his arms over his head with a wink, “By no means my first.”

 

“But your first with me,” she said firmly, because for some reason that mattered.  It shouldn’t, but it did.

 

He paused then, watching her with a pensive gaze.  Then his face lit up with one of those crinkly-eyed smiles.  Which made her smile too.

 

“Yeah, my first with you,” he said softly.

 

“And now I’m all caught up on pop culture,” she said with a wobbly nod.

 

“And I guess we’re mates too,” he said, cracking his neck, “which is good, because I think I need to sleep on your sofa.”

 

“Sure, what are mates for?” she said, and they turned to walk inside.

 

“I still kicked your ass at the game, you know,” she said, bumping into his shoulder.

 

“In your dreams, Goldilocks,” he argued, bumping her back and shoving ahead of her in the door. 

 

And that was that.  Ten minutes later, Buffy was in the bathroom, teeth and face freshly scrubbed.  She stared in the mirror and touched her lips, a frisson briefly passing at the memory of Spike’s lips.  Beyond the bathroom, he rustled on the couch and she smiled. Because tonight she had been drunk and just a little bit wild.  Tonight she got her own inside joke.  A secret to mar her good girl image and make her feel like maybe she really was leaving Sunnydale and childhood behind.

 

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