Indigo Overture – Chapter Eleven

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

 

The warehouse was stifling.  Buffy fanned herself with her clipboard and tried to look interested in the band.  Which was a Herculean feat, really, since they had spent the better part of the last twenty minutes perfecting the first ten bars of one song. 

 

“Hold it, hold it!” Angel interrupted for the sixth time, the music grinding to a halt behind him.

 

He turned around and crossed his arms at the keyboards.  Willow reached for a bottle of water with a sigh.

 

“Will, what’s wrong with your sound?”

 

“Um, well, there isn’t any right now, so I can’t really tell you,” she said grumpily as she pushed a damp strand of hair behind her ear and proceeded to take a healthy chug from her bottle.

 

“I’m working on it, Cochese,” Xander added impatiently, toying with a wire at the base of her set, “There’s a short somewhere.”

 

“What is up with everybody today?” he asked, glaring at the group. 

 

Xander stood up, his t-shirt sporting liberal sweat stains, “Well, if you must know, Iceman, the rest of us normal people are sweating our asses off in here.”

 

Buffy blew out a sigh as Angel turned sideways to Oz, his expression contemplative, “Yeah, it is a little warm,” he mused.

 

“Yeah, just a touch,” Oz joked sarcastically, wiping his own brow.

 

From where she was currently wilting, Buffy eyed Angel with contempt as he unstrapped his guitar and set it in its stand.  Could he at least sport a few token beads of perspiration to confirm that he was indeed human?

 

“What’s up with the AC?” Angel asked Xander, as he dropped a coil of wire near Angel’s mike.

 

“Like everything else in the building, it’s broken.  Naturally, it decided to become broken the same time Los Angeles confused late April with the dog days of August.”  Xander moved back on the stage, plopping down in front of the drum set, “And before you ask, I already called about the parts.  They’ll be in next Tuesday, which, taste the irony if you will, is the same day the weatherman predicts this freakish heat wave will end.”

 

Buffy plucked her soggy tank top away from her skin and considered moving to Alaska.

 

Just freaking perfect.

 

 

“All I know is it’s too hot to be fiddling with the sound stuff,” Xander complained. 

 

Spike stood up from his stool and leaned over the drums.  “Try beating on these for a few minutes and then tell me about hot,” he said and Xander curled his lip sympathetically.

 

Enter the biggest turd of all to top off the pile.

 

Buffy stole a quick glance at the drummer, who did look more miserable than the rest of them.  Unlike Angel, Spike didn’t possess superhuman heat resistance.  His face was flushed and damp, his forehead framed by a few unruly flaxen curls.  She could see that his black shirt was soaked.  Soaked enough to cling to every sculpted inch of his torso.  She narrowed her eyes, her already present irritation with him intensified by the fact that he was managing to make sweaty and gross look kind of hot. 

 

“Maybe we should just call it quits for today,” Willow suggested, slumping onto her stool.

 

“Not possible,” Angel said, lifting his chin defiantly, “Our gig at The Cherry is less than two weeks away and we haven’t even nailed down our first set.”

 

“Well, unless you’re planning on hooking us up to some intravenous fluids, I don’t think we’re going to nail it today, mate,” Spike argued.

 

Angel had just opened his mouth to protest when the lights went out.  Buffy breathed a sigh of relief and silently thanked the building’s designers for their crappy wiring plan.

 

“Ahhh,” Xander sighed, and Buffy heard him dusting off his pants in the gloom, “I believe the electrical gods have spoken.”

 

While the band stumbled their way off the stage, Buffy padded to the door.  Fortunately, she knew the place well enough to find her way to the exit.  When she pushed the door open, the air outside was only marginally cooler.  At this point, though, anything was better than sitting inside.

 

The rest of the band trickled out of the warehouse, congregating in a loose circle at the bottom of the stairs.  Thankfully, Spike was keeping his usual distance, smoking one of his nasty cigarettes at the top of the stairs.  Willow pressed a cold bottle of water into Buffy’s hand as she passed.  Buffy flashed her a grateful smile, twisting off the cap immediately. 

 

“I am so very much about the great outdoors right now,” Xander said, tilting back his head as a half-hearted breeze stirred the air.

 

“I think I’m all about faulty wiring and overburdened power grids,” Willow said brightly, taking Oz’s hand with a smile.

 

Angel barely nodded, still sulky about the short-lived practice.  Though how he could consider a two-hour sentence in a windowless sauna short, was beyond Buffy’s comprehension. 

 

To her relief, Xander stepped up to Angel with a clipboard.

 

“Alright, boss man, let’s you and me at least finalize the current song line-up.”

 

“I can barely see it,” Angel said, squinting at the list, “Let’s move over to the light.”

 

The two made their way to the streetlight while the rest of the band stared blankly at one another. 

 

“Oh!” Willow said, “Since practice is over early, and I can not say Yay enough about that, why don’t we go out and celebrate Buffy’s new job,”

 

Oz nodded casually, “Sounds good to me.”

 

Buffy frowned uncertainly.  Celebrating didn’t sound so bad, but tomorrow was Mother’s Day.  She and Angel were going to be driving to Sunnydale so she could pay her respects, and somehow going with a hangover didn’t feel right. Besides, she’d definitely need to do some serious scrubbing before she’d be interested in going dancing or anything. 

 

Willow grinned wide, “I think it’d be fun!  We could get that amazing queso dip at Chili’s,” she said to Buffy, then turned her head to Spike at the top of the stairs, “And of course we could all laugh at Spike when he has to go outside to smoke and misses out on his share of the jalapeño poppers.” 

 

Buffy’s blood went cold at the mention of the British invasion.  Now she was really sure she didn’t want to go.  She cast a wary glance at Spike who was leaned against the railing.  He smirked nastily at her, as if he’d been waiting for her look all along.

 

“Not sure I can make it, Red,” Spike said with a disappointed smile, but when his eyes grazed Buffy again, his sincerity vanished.

 

“Come on, Spike,” Willow protested, “You’re not going to pass up on an event that will doubtlessly include nachos and profuse alcohol consumption.”

 

Buffy watched Spike pause, and wondered if he was reconsidering.  Her stomach was already churning at the thought of being across from him at one of those tiny tables, or worse, smooshed in beside him at a booth. Rather than give him a chance to change his mind, she chimed in, “You know, maybe it isn’t such a good time, and Spike doesn’t have to go if he’s busy.”

 

“Of course he has to go,” Willow said, looking amused, “He’s kind of like our red-headed stepchild.  Only blonde.  Oh, and British.”

 

“You heard her,” Spike said flatly, “You lot go have a riot without me.”

 

Without another word he ground out his cigarette on the railing and went back into the warehouse.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Willow whispered with an uncertain frown at Oz.

 

He squeezed her hand with a wink and a shake of his head as Angel and Xander finally finished their list matching and rejoined the conversation.

 

“What did we miss?” Xander asked as Angel stepped closer to Buffy, sliding his arm around her waist.

 

“Well,” Willow said, less excited than before, “We were thinking about taking Buffy out to celebrate.”

 

“But I really think next Friday would work better,” Buffy interjected, “With tomorrow being Mother’s Day and all.”

 

“Yeah,” Angel added, “I’m headed home tonight.  Big brunch with the family tomorrow for Mom’s Day.”

 

Buffy felt a flash of angry heat run from her cheeks to her ears at his words.  She turned to him, gaping incredulously.

 

“Okay, well I guess Friday would be good for us,” Willow said with a hesitant look at Buffy. 

 

Somewhere beyond the fog of fury that was swallowing her, Buffy heard Xander and Oz mumble an agreement of sorts as well.  Ignoring them completely, she finally found her voice and spoke, her words for Angel alone,  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

 

“What do you mean, baby?” Angel said, shifting nervously on his feet while he smiled tightly at her.

 

Xander caught the fire peeking through the slits of Buffy’s eyes and backed away, “On that note, I’ll be going.”

 

“Uh, we’re going to bail too, guys,” Oz said,  nodding to them awkwardly.  As they passed, Willow frowned sadly at Buffy, squeezing her arm sympathetically. 

 

“We had plans tomorrow, Angel.  You do remember Sunnydale, don’t you?  Where my mom was buried less than a year ago?!”

 

Angel’s eyes darkened and his smile faded as soon as the others were out of earshot, “Calm down, Buffy.  Let’s talk about this at home.”

 

“No, let’s not.  Let’s talk about it right now!” Buffy exploded, “Please tell me this is some sort of sick joke.  Please tell me you did not forget!”

 

Spike had the door half open when he heard the shouting.  He let it close most of the way, leaving just enough space so that he could peer down on the unhappy couple.  He smirked spitefully at the spectacle below. 

 

Oh, look, America’s Sweethearts are in a little tiff.

 

“Buffy, I didn’t forget,” Angel snapped, “Mom just called this morning, and I told her we had plans but that we could reschedule.”

 

“Reschedule?!” she protested, “This is my first Mother’s Day without her!  How could you do this to me?!”

 

“Buffy,” he said sternly, “Calm down.  I know this means a lot to you, and it’s important to me too.  I already cleared my schedule for Monday; we can go then.”

 

Angel reached for her, but she recoiled with a bitter laugh, “So, your family takes precedence again.  Just like that.”

 

“Jesus, Buffy!” he said, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration, “Why does everything have to be an issue with you?  There are people depending on me to be there tomorrow.  It’s not like anyone is waiting for you in Sunnydale.”

 

Any amusement Spike was getting out of their little spat ended with that sentence.  Or more aptly, with the expression that it left on Buffy’s face.  She looked like she’d been slapped, her brows wrinkled, lips parted in shock.  They just stood there eyeing each other down with something akin to disgust before Buffy finally whirled away, angrily tossing her bottle of water in a nearby trash can before marching in a direction that had nothing to do with home. 

 

“Buffy,” Angel called after her, “Would you please stop with the dramatics and get in the car?”

 

Buffy turned back, her blonde hair flying around her shoulders, “No, I won’t!”

 

“It’s getting dark, Buff,” he reasoned, “We can talk about this tomorrow.”

 

“No, we can’t,” she said evenly, “Tomorrow,  I’m going to be in Sunnydale,  like I planned.  Tonight, Angel,” her chin trembled, but her eyes were steely as she finished, “Well, tonight I just need to be away from you.”

 

Angel lifted his hands in exasperation as he watched her march into the darkness.  As the click of her heels faded, he turned and got into his car.  Spike opened the door wider and shook his head as Angel’s sedan drove away.

 

Spike lit another cigarette and left the warehouse, letting the door slam shut behind him.  He checked the automatic lock and pounded down the stairs, his gaze pulled one last time to search for a sliver of blonde hair still bobbing down the ever-darkening sidewalk.

 

“Not my problem,” he said, marching purposefully towards his car.  Stupid chit deserved what she got for wandering about the city alone.  So what if it was dark and full of all sorts of untold nasties.

 

Of course, if she did go and get herself killed, he’d probably have to go to a wake or something.  Buy a sodding suit, listen to some old bag butcher church hymns and all that rot.  He sure the hell didn’t want to do that.

 

With a defeated sigh, Spike spun back to the direction Buffy had gone, sprinting a block and a half so he wouldn’t lose sight of her.  Once he had her in his sights, he hung back, wondering if she had any idea where she was headed. 

 

He tried to keep his distance, but realized it wouldn’t have mattered if he was three feet behind her.  She was totally distracted, wiping her eyes with her fingers, then dropping her hands to her sides and shaking her head in disbelief.  She was so wrapped up in her misery that she didn’t notice the cars that slowed as they passed. 

 

Spike, however, did.  Noticed that, and noticed the wankers inside leering at the blonde’s smooth bronzed thighs.  Not that he blamed them.  A little hard to miss, since she was wearing cut-offs that were probably illegal in ten states. 

 

He tossed his cigarette and wondered how far they’d make it before he’d end up in some sidewalk brawl, to defend Buffy’s honor.  He didn’t even want to be following the little brat, let alone wind up scrapping on the streets for her. 

 

When she turned onto a quiet residential street, he heaved a sigh of relief, then shook his head in consternation.  Where the bloody hell was she going?  Sunset was over, and now a inky blackness was settling in the sky.  Half a block later, a large iron grate appeared to her right, announcing the boundary of an expansive cemetery.

 

She paused, glancing at the gate and the gardens past it thoughtfully.

 

“I’d wager a pretty penny we’re going in,” he breathed to himself.  A few steps later, Buffy paused at the gate, and Spike melted into the edge of the fence he had just reached.  Her profile looked angelic beneath the streetlight, her head tilting in slow consideration.

 

 

 

Buffy pushed the gate tentatively and eased her way through as it groaned open.  Spike arched his brows, both impressed and unsettled that she had the stones to go in a graveyard alone at night. 

 

He lit another cigarette as he entered the cemetery, gazing up the hill where Buffy had disappeared.  The grass and trees were dotted by gray markers of loss and all around him darkness prevailed.  It was an easy place to stay hidden, so Spike followed her more closely now, his footsteps silent in the soft grass.  He wove through the graves and shadows, all the while watching her stroll the unlit gravel paths that separated the graves into sections. 

 

Buffy moved towards a large fountain in the center of the cemetery, and Spike crushed his cigarette beneath his boot, moving to a cluster of trees where he could see her more clearly.  She was focused on the fountain, her arms crossed over her chest, moonlight dancing over her features.  He crouched down in the cover of the trees, waiting for her next move.

 

After awhile, she walked around the fountain.  An enormous series of sculpted figures dominated the center of the round fountain, obscuring her quickly from his view.  Spike crept closer when he was reasonably sure she was staying on the other side.  He walked over the gravel with feline stealth, cocking his head and closing his eyes to focus on her footsteps.  He placed her as being directly across from him, and best he could tell, she was pacing.  After a few minutes, he heard her slouch onto a bench, and allowed himself to do the same on his side of the fountain.

 

He glanced up at the fountain and sighed quietly.  His mum would have loved this, the big round fountain with all its angels and harps and what not.  She was always carrying on about angels watching down on them from heaven.  She really believed it.  And because it was almost Mother’s Day in these parts, he wasn’t going to argue with her, or her memory. 

 

“I can’t wait to see how you turn out, William.”

 

His mother’s voice echoed in his memory and he smiled ruefully.  Maybe it’s better that you don’t know, Mum. 

 

He was pretty sure she wouldn’t be too pleased at the man he’d become.  And he knew damn well she’d be fit to be tied over how he’d gotten this way.

 

Buffy seemed to be settled for the moment, so Spike entertained the memories, the dark and winding road that had changed him.  Funny how a single phone message can change your whole life, isn’t it?

 

He still remembered being irritated about it.  Even now, three years later, the same arguments stirred in his mind.  He should have known.  Mum often sent care packages, packets of tea and ginger biscuits, just mum stuff.  But, cryptic phone messages requesting him home?  Never. 

 

He remembered that exams were fast approaching, and with a wince he’d felt to many times to recall, he also remembered that when he had boarded the train that Friday evening, he swore it had better be something serious or he’d be well and truly pissed.

 

Don’t wish it was so serious now, do you?

 

Spike bit down the guilt, the old demons that no amount of time seemed to vanquish..  He knew it was said and done.  There was no going back, but God, he still wished he could.  Wished he had visited her on her birthday instead of sending flowers.  Wished he had gone home every holiday, called every weekend.  Hell, sometimes he wished he’d never left home at all.  But he had, and there was no changing that now. 

 

Even if he could change it, it wouldn’t bring her back and it wouldn’t have made it better.  Because you don’t get to prepare when your mum is dying.  It just happens.  On Wednesday, she’s stepping out of her nightly bath when she passes out cold at the sink, blood spurting from her nose; and on Friday her only son gets to find out not only that it happened, but worse yet, why the doctors suspect it did. 

 

“But, there’s a chance,” he had argued optimistically, his voice fierce and his eyes refusing to see the dark circles beneath her eyes.

 

“Yes, there’s a chance,” she had said, stroking his hand calmly, “But, you know I’m not one for wagering, William.”

 

There was something in her tone that told him she already knew there wasn’t anything worth wagering on.  It was a calm acceptance of the inevitable.  An acceptance he refused to share.  He wrenched his hand away, burned as much by her sad smile as he was by the pale slip of a woman who seemed to have abruptly taken the place of his mother.

 

“Don’t look at me like that, Mum,” he had snapped, shifting his weight on the folding chair that a nurse had set beside her bed..

 

“I know,” she had said, nodding at the conflict of fury and anguish battling in his stare, “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Don’t!” he pleaded, clutching at her hand when she reached for him.

 

She pressed her cool lips to his palm then, speaking so gently he wondered if he were the one who was sick, “William, go.  Go and bring Drusilla home.”

 

He had shaken his head, but her grip tightened and she continued firmly, “Listen to me, I don’t want you to do this alone.  Bring her home to be with you.”

 

Spike jerked his attention to the present, alarmed by the silence that greeted him.  At last he heard the shuffle of her feet, then the plink of something hitting the water.  His brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what she was doing.  Another little splash met his ears and he nodded his head.  She was tossing coins into the water.

 

He relaxed on the bench, and let the memories wash back over him. 

 

He should have never left his mum’s side to begin with; but Dru hadn’t answered the phone and it wasn’t the time to not mind his mum, now was it?  So, he’d bitten his lip the whole way back to London, because it couldn’t be real, she couldn’t really be dying until Dru could hear it and piece him back together with her rambling nonsense and her silky hands. 

                                                        

But when he reached the door to his bedroom in London, those silky hands were already busy with someone else’s piece.  He could still feel his hand on the knob, but something wasn’t right, distracted or not, he wasn’t so daft to miss the noise.  The slap of bodies and squeak of bedsprings groaned in time to Drusilla’s moans.  As the truth trickled through the door, his heart fell through his feet. 

 

He had stood there a minute, maybe more, so many things rushing through his mind that he felt like a moth in a typhoon.  At last, he viciously wrenched his fingers from the handle, stumbling out of the flat with his breath burning like fire in his lungs. 

 

He slammed doors as he ran; first the door to the flat, then the front door of the building.  All the while, he fought the tears that choked him and the terrible scream he knew was waiting to come out.  Out, out he ran, away from the cursed building and into the chilling fingers of London fog.  Not more than a block from his door, he had slumped on the stairs of a church, his legs giving way, until he crumbled onto the cement steps, shivering in the cold while his tears ran like rivers down his face.

 

He had taken the train to London for comfort.  He took the same train back home, more broken than ever.  And three weeks later, in the house he’d grown up in, he held his mother’s hand as she slipped away forever.

 

The next four days blurred past him.  There was a wake.  There was a funeral.  There was a grave, much like the ones he had walked past tonight.  Of course, three years ago, he hadn’t had time to lounge in the cemetery.  He had shaken hands, mumbled polite ‘thank yous’ and nodded at an endless stream of condolences.  It was non-stop around the clock chaos; death on auto-pilot.  And as fast as it began, it ended, leaving him alone again.  Alone at home.  Except, it wasn’t home anymore.

 

He sat at their kitchen table, picking at the runner that she’d crocheted, and looking at the crossword puzzle that she’d never finish.  With every creak of the house, he turned, half expecting her to shuffle into the kitchen and chide him for being up at all hours of the night.  Then he’d remember, and he’d be left with the cruel reality and unnerving silence.  A silence that stretched on forever, unbroken by the whistle of her kettle or the creak of her oven door. 

 

“I miss you.”

 

Spike’s head shot up, briefly wondering if it was really Buffy who had spoken or if it was he had said the words himself.  A snuffle on the other side of the fountain assured him that it was her.

 

“Why can’t you be here to tell me what to do?” she pleaded and Spike clenched his jaw as her cry tugged at a wound so long buried he was shocked at the tenderness that still surrounded it.

 

He knew what it was like to have the floor ripped from beneath your feet.  His mother was his compass; and Drusilla was his North Star.  Without them, the world tilted into something wholly unfamiliar and unwanted.

 

He wondered briefly why he had ever gone back to London.  Without Drusilla, the city held little for him, and without mum school lost all appeal.  Getting a job with no experience and half an education was a joke at best, but still he had returned.  Same train.  Same man.  Less one mother and one heart.  Somehow on the train ride back, that part of him had disappeared.  Now, a hollow place remained.  He felt like a dead thing walking among the living.

 

He bleached his hair his first night back.  Started smoking the next week, and by a month out he was nicking liquor and cigarettes and a little cash here and there for food.  He should have known it wouldn’t last.  Should have known it would all come crashing down sooner or later.

 

In fact, it came sooner.  It was a Thursday night, of all things.  A steamy evening after a bright and balmy day that had cheered the city’s spirits.  That night he had taken it a step further.  Pissed out of his mind, he had pushed his way into a wager.  A single game of eight ball.  If Spike won, he’d get his opponent’s leather duster.  If he lost, he’d pay the guy two hundred pounds.  Spike sure as hell didn’t have the cash, but God, he really wanted that coat.

 

Eight shots later, Spike pocketed the eight ball and claimed his prize.  Too bad his barrel-chested adversary, and what seemed to be half of the pub, decided Spike had cheated his way to victory. 

 

Common sense and self-preservation screamed at him to walk away.  Since Spike was in the mood for neither, he launched himself into a fight with four men that were easily twice his size.  He landed a few sloppy blows, and received more than he landed.  It was already going less than well when the biggest one pulled a knife.  Spike should have been afraid, but he wasn’t.  At the gleam of metal, he only clenched his fists tighter, ready for a fight to the end.  Before it could come, his guardian Angel arrived, hauling him out of the fight by the collar of his shirt.

 

With his eyes rolling as much as his stomach, Spike watched from the floor, wondering how quickly Angel would die.  True to form, Angel never even threw a punch.  He tossed out a lot of smooth words, and even more crisp bills, but when he dragged Spike out of the bar, he hadn’t so much as a hair out of place. 

 

He’d thrust the coat into Spike’s hands and tossed him in the passenger seat of his car.  His self-appointed savior, determined to whisk him away from the fight, from Drusilla, and then from London altogether. 

 

Spike heard Buffy sniff again, the noise bringing him abruptly back to the here and now. 

No sense in playing hide and seek anymore.  He stood up, moving around the fountain, tugged by the strangled little sob that reached his ears. 

 

He walked around the stone lip of the water pool, beneath the faces of the angels fixed above.  Divine creatures watching over him with their moss-covered wings and soulful eyes. 

 

Speaking of divine creatures.

 

Spike gave her a cursory glance before quietly announcing his presence.

 

“Buffy,” he greeted softly.

 

She startled, sucking in a gasp of air as she turned to him, her emerald eyes rimmed and her cheeks flushed and sticky with her tears.  He came undone right there, looking at her tear-stained face, so tender and beautiful despite all that pain.  God knows he wanted to be mad, wanted to hold on to that anger he’d had festering for a few weeks now, but he couldn’t.

 

She opened her mouth, a question in her eyes that never made it to her lips.  Spike sighed as he approached her, sitting down on the other side of her bench wordlessly.  Her fingers worried at the hem of her denim shorts and his hands gripped the bench on either side of his thighs.

 

They sat there for several minutes, the symphony of crickets and traffic humming around them.  Night was rushing along, but they were still, sitting in the companionable quiet of those who have known loss.

 

Buffy tried to speak, her voice a shiver of breath he could barely pick up, “My mom.  It was almost a year ago.”

 

“Yeah,” he said, and they nodded together, her at some unseen thing on the horizon, him at the gravel between his feet while he tapped his lighter against the stone seat.

 

“Three years for me,” he said, and she turned to him, a blanket platitude ready on her lips.  He gave her a sad smile, and she matched it, choosing silence over unnecessary sympathies.  Funny how the language of grief has so very little to do with words. 

 

Buffy broke down again, and Spike inched a little closer, struggling to keep his hands still and his heart firmly inside the sleeve of his shirt, thank you.  At last, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose noisily, casting Spike a bleary, red-eyed look.

 

“Sorry,” she said, and of its own volition, his left hand escaped his control, feathering over her hair in a whisper of a caress that barely connected with the silken strands.

 

“Don’t be,” he said, dropping his hand awkwardly and avoiding her wondering stare.

 

After a few more eye dabs and nose wipes, she said again, “I wanted to pay my respects, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, not wanting to explain just how much he did know about that.

 

“But I guess this will do,” she said, “It’s the thought that counts, not the place.”

 

Spike nodded, drawing a trench in the gravel with his boot.  She stood to leave, mumbling a farewell of sorts, when he leapt to his feet, acting before he could think. 

 

“I could take you,” he offered, eyes soft and voice surprisingly serious considering the fact that that little humdinger of an offer hadn’t even been mulled over for half a minute. 

 

He watched her expression in all its phases.  First came disbelief, then surprise at the sincerity she was finding in his expression. 

 

Yeah, pet, it’s shocking the shit out of me, too.

 

Next came the automatic refusal, her chin drifting down in a polite, but firm decline.  But just as her mouth opened to release it, her eyes changed, softened just a little.  And what she said next surprised him as much as his offer.

 

“You do realize it’s the middle of the night,” she said and he shrugged.

 

“Yeah, kinda nice, innit?  Quiet and all.”

 

A smile played at the edges of her lips and she tilted her head, “You’re serious?”

 

“Not often,” he teased, then smiled, “But, yes, right now I am.”

 

Buffy chuckled, her expression warm, “Okay.  I guess we’re taking a road trip, then.”

 

The walk to his car and the first part of their trek to Sunnydale was silent.  Buffy sat with her knees pressed together while Spike drove, his attention drifting from the road to the way she nibbled her bottom lip pensively. 

 

“South here?” he asked as they reached the highway ramp.

 

“Yeah,” she said, nostrils flaring in revulsion as she kicked away a McDonalds bag she was positive had been on the floor the time they had driven to the mall.  In the conundrum of what Spike did with his time, she could safely rule out car cleaning for at least the past couple of years.

 

The electronic chirp of the Looney Tunes theme song played and Buffy tensed as she reached for her cell phone.  Maybe it was just Willow.  The caller ID flashed her home phone number and Buffy scowled, tossing her phone back into her purse with a huff.

 

“Uh…do you need to call Angel or anything?” Spike asked, cringing inwardly at having to mention it but not wanting to cause her any more stress than she’d already had tonight.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Spike noticed the hardening of her expression as she shook her head, “No, I’m flying solo tonight.”

 

“Well, not completely solo since I’m here,” he said, wishing very much that he would develop some ability to spontaneously staple his lips shut when drivel like that threatened to escape.

 

She turned to face him, her hands relaxing in her lap.  Spike tightened one hand on the wheel and reached to fiddle with the radio nervously.  Would someone please save him from the poetry-spouting pillock that so frequently took control of his mouth?

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said and he met her eyes briefly, instinctively returning the smile she offered.

 

“So, do you still listen to that icky punk?” she said with a trace of teasing in her tone.

 

Spike snuffed and abandoned the radio, relaxing into his seat, “It’s better than selling my soul to the likes of Justin Timberlake.”

 

“Justin Timberlake is hot,” Buffy defended primly.

 

“Justin Timberlake is still in grammar school,” Spike retorted.

 

“Ha ha,” she deadpanned, “Very funny.”

 

“I thought so,” he said, pulling a cigarette out of the pack on the seat.  Buffy rolled her eyes at him, leaning forward to fiddle with the radio.  She flipped through a dozen stations at breakneck speed while he pulled out a cigarette and wrestled in his jeans pocket for his lighter.  She was still busy flipping when he realized it wasn’t in there.

 

“Well, hell,” he complained with the cigarette pressed between his lips.

 

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, quickly leaning back from the radio as if he’d slapped her hand.

 

Spike changed lanes, “No,” he said, tossing her a confused frown before digging through the empty bottles and crumpled bags around him, “You’re fine.  I can’t find my bleedin’ lighter.”

 

Buffy’s eyes widened as the trash flew, “With the state your car is in, you’re lucky you can find the steering wheel.”

 

“Be nice,” he warned, “Or I’ll make you drive.”

 

“That would be a mistake of life threatening proportions,” she said.  “Is there one in the glove box?” she offered helpfully, reaching for the compartment even as Spike’s eyes went wide with alarm.

 

“Nothing but junk in there, pet, and trust me it’s not a good¾”

 

Spike’s words were cut off as Buffy finally wriggled the latch open and the glove box door popped open spraying an amazing assortment of items into her lap. 

 

“¾idea,” he finished with a rueful smile.

 

Buffy fished through several chewing gum wrappers and empty cigarette boxes, finally selecting and dangling a strip of condoms in front of her while pursing her lips at him accusingly.

 

Spike shrugged, nonplussed by the prophylactic display, “A bloke’s gotta be safe these days.”

 

“Wait a minute,” she said, scrutinizing the package, “TheyFit?  You have custom-made condoms?  I just read about these in one of my magazines.”  Buffy turned the package over squinting in the glove box light, “So do they print the size right on them?”

 

“Oi!  Gimme those!” he barked, snatching the condoms from her hand as the car swerved left.

 

“You’re a pig,” she said tossing an empty coffee cup at him with a laugh.

 

He laughed too, and chucked the condoms back at her, laughing harder when she beamed him square in the nose with a wadded up gum wrapper.  God, he’d missed this.  Spike dared another quick glance at her before turning back to the road, his throat a little tight at the sight of her, the easy grin a beautiful contradiction to her still swollen eyes.  God, he’d missed her.

 

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