Indigo
Overture – Chapter Fifteen
Rating: Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – R
Spike woke up
buried in a mess of blonde hair that didn’t belong to him. He closed his eyes with a satisfied smile,
and soaked in the feel of the lithe, warm body curled against his.
Careful not to
disturb her, he slid his head back just far enough to get a lungful of air
without a mouthful of hair. He didn’t
know how or when they’d ended up nestled together like two spoons and didn’t
rightly care. Pondering the physics of
it could wait for a time that he didn’t have Buffy’s backside pressed against
him.
She snuffled
and wriggled her bottom against him. He
held his breath as other parts of him stirred to life. Buffy inhaled deeply, and he shifted to give
her a bit of room, brows raising when she clamped onto
him, trapping his arm in the valley between her breasts.
You’re even bossy unconscious.
Spike tried to
inch his burgeoning erection away from her.
It felt a bit like pulling two magnets apart, in that none of his parts
seemed inclined to leave hers.
Her legs
twitched, and this time he could feel that she was genuinely stirring. Spike pulled his hand as smoothly as he could
from between her breasts, allowing it to rest over her waist while her arms curled
in front of her. Her feet flexed as she
ground her ass against him again. He
damn near bit his tongue in half to hold back the resulting groan. In that instant, she went completely still
and he knew she was awake.
He schooled
his breathing to a slow, deep pattern while he stared at her hair and waited
for her next move. A vehicle rumbled
through the parking lot outside. Still no change. With
a “hell with it” roll of his eyes, Spike snuggled closer and made a big show of
waking up, complete with yawns and
flexing and a bit of roaming hand work that he hoped would slide as stretching.
He moved back
just enough to watch Buffy roll face down into the bed. She burrowed into the blankets like a
caterpillar in reverse, and he rolled to his side, propping his head in his
palm.
“Morning,
pet.”
“Mrrmph.”
Spike
snickered at her position, face down in the pillow, only her crazy curls
peeking above the covers. She lifted her
head and greeted him with a sleepy smile that he felt in places he wasn’t going
to be able to hide much longer.
“What time is
it?” she rumbled.
“
Spike scooted
back an extra couple of inches, offering her a mischievous wink, “Right, sorry
about that. Must have
been an unconscious thing.”
Because I would have shagged you into
next Tuesday had I been awake.
“The softer
side of sleep-walking?” she replied, dubiously.
They shared a
chuckle and Spike’s belly flipped when she scrunched her nose and let out a
kittenish yawn.
I could get used to this.
Spike took a
breath then remembered their Denny’s conversation. His smiled vanished instantly.
You’d do well to remember there’s nothing
here to get used to.
Buffy picked
at the lint on the blanket, finally adding, “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“Wasn’t a big
deal,” he remarked coolly, “Not one for blowing sunshine, are you, luv?”
Buffy looked
up from the blanket, clearly shocked by his change of mood, “That’s not what I
meant—it was just…”
She trailed
off and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, then gave him a look that
seemed a lot more enticing than he reckoned it should have. Abstaining from pounding her through the mattress
was turning into a feat of Herculean proportions and it was really beginning to
piss him off.
Spike leaned
in toward her, until he felt the little hitch in her breath. He tilted his head thoughtfully, “…a little too friendly?” he supplied.
She pressed
her lips together, “I don’t know. I
guess. Something.”
Decoding Buffy
Summers was a bit like reading Greek upside down. Coupled with the raging hard-on he was
nursing, Spike had neither the patience nor the inclination. He needed a quick shower or a long shag, and the latter wasn’t really an option, now was
it?
He threw back
the covers, “Very concise, luv. Now tell
me again why you don’t have a shiny college diploma in your keepsake box?”
Her eyes
glittered, but not unkindly, “Mind you this comes from the ex-Oxford scholar
turned drummer,” Buffy said, adding
finger quotes around the word, “who still has no day job.”
Spike made his
way out of bed and snatched last night’s jeans from the floor of his
closet. Not bothering with a shirt, he
turned to her, clucking his tongue, “At least I have a real job.”
“I’m a hot and
happening professional in the music industry, thank you,” she sniffed, chin
lifted haughtily.
“You’re an
over-glorified groupie,” he said and she gasped loudly. If he hadn’t seen the
laughter in her eyes, she might have had him with that. He cocked a brow in challenge and she waved
him off like an errant fly.
“Well, groupie
or not, I’m in charge of you, aren’t I?”
You have no bloody idea.
Spike leaned
against the door frame and enjoyed the sight of her, all sleep-rumpled and
pink-cheeked in his bed. He curled his
tongue behind a wicked smile, “Domineering little bird, aren’t you?”
Buffy rocketed
a pillow at him that he caught instinctively, still carefully keeping that
spare pair of jeans in her line of sight.
Wouldn’t do to have certain developments discovered.
“Ah, my proof
in point,” he said, tossing the pillow back at her. She tossed it aside and stretched like a cat,
a tangle of golden limbs wrapped up in a testament to punk’s finest. Spike decided a weaker man would have jumped
her, to hell with the inevitable ass kicking that would follow. As it stood, he wasn’t going to wager his own
control would hold out much longer.
“I’m going to
grab a quick shower,” he said decisively, turning to go.
“Wait,” she
said, sitting up, “Do you have a spare toothbrush?” she paused for a serious
nose wrinkle before adding, “Preferably a new one, as opposed to one you found
when you moved in or something.”
Spike
chuckled, “Yeah, I’ll put one on the sink.
I’ll leave the door cracked for you.”
Spike turned
before she could respond, but not before he caught her frown of confusion. No need to sully his reputation for total
shamelessness, yeah? She wants normal? This is as normal as it’s going to get. Besides, she looked good all perturbed in his
t-shirt. Reaching the bathroom, he
pulled a fresh toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet and dropped it on the
sink.
***
Hearing the
shower, Buffy flopped back onto the bed, eyes wide and fixed on the
ceiling.
“Can someone
please turn his sexy off?”
Her
half-hearted plea fell on the deaf ears of the ceiling. Buffy rolled her eyes irritably as she sat
back up and scooted over to catch her reflection in the mirror above Spike’s
sagging dresser. Oh, she looked
fabulous. Very chic, drowning in this
big black shirt with bits of smudged eyeliner that she’d missed last night and
hair that was officially Fangoria material.
Basically, she looked like a badly dressed raccoon that just spent an
hour in the dryer. Meanwhile, Spike woke
up looking like a slightly rumpled
Greek god. Life sucked so very much.
Except I had sex with said Greek god.
Buffy arched
an eyebrow pointedly at her reflection and clambered out of his big bed. She padded out of the bedroom and paused at
the bathroom door. So, what was she
supposed to do, just waltz right on in and start scrubbing her teeth? Was this or was this not the guy who tried
desperately to have the, “Nice sex, can I go now?” talk with her last
night? Now they were roomies? Sex-having roomies?
Maybe she
should knock. Was knocking appropriate
in a post-sex situation? And why the
hell should she care, since Mr.
I’m-totally-asleep-and-thus-any-copped-feels-must-be-forgiven sure didn’t
seem too pressed for modesty.
She toed the
carpet and crossed her arms, wondering if maybe she should have just let him
speak his piece in Denny’s. Because it
would have been easier last night, before she woke up tucked in his arms. Not to mention, before he turned into smirky,
flirty shirtless guy, which was so very ‘what the hell?’
Buffy’s eyes
narrowed as the distinct feeling of being played washed over her. She cast a scathing glance at the open crack
of door, watching the steam curl around the edges. She didn’t know what he was at, here; but, since
he was male and she was cute, certain things probably weren’t far from the
agenda.
With an
irritable huff, she shoved open the bathroom door and strolled in as if she
owned the place. A rush of steam
surrounded her as she stepped inside.
Buffy perfunctorily moved past the toilet and grabbed for the toothbrush
he’d left on the sink. The toothpaste
was sitting next to it. She glared at
the tube as if it was about to transform into a sting of condoms or the Karma
Sutra. With shaking hands, she ripped
open the toothbrush package and tossed it in the trash.
“I was
beginning to think you’d sworn off dental hygiene,” his voice came from the
shower.
Sure, like
he’s really talking about matters of the teeth with his stupid sexy voice all
oozing….well, sexiness. She squirted the
toothpaste on her toothbrush viciously, her reply a saccharine trill, “I just
didn’t want to compromise my eyesight so early in the morning.”
“Right,” he
said, sounding a little grouchy.
Good.
The water
turned off and she jumped as the towel from the rack beside her disappeared
into the shower. Buffy’s spine turned to
steel. She wrenched the water on and
commenced fierce tooth scrubbing.
“Sorry to
disappoint,” he continued, and to her complete horror she heard the scrape of
the shower curtain being pushed open and the damp padding of shower fresh feet
on the tile, “But it appears your eyes will be dealing with me after all.”
Crap.
She dared a
glance over her shoulder. Bad move. Spike was standing behind her in a
towel. A pitiful
little scrap of a towel that was
slung around his hips. There were
about four square miles of rippled bare skin not covered by it. When exactly had his body turned into
this? She’d sparred with him shirtless
countless times. Hell, she’d pinned him
to the ground! He’d pinned her! So how did she miss the fact that every square
inch of him was completely and totally…
Buffy
adamantly refused to fill in any of the blanks, and instead, turned to spit
noisily into the sink.
“Well, since
we’re not being shy,” he mused just before she felt the damp pressure of his
chest against her back. She held her
breath and fisted her free hand so tightly that her fingernails bit into her
palm. He rattled his toothbrush out of
the holder and retreated from her personal space. Shoving her brush back into her mouth, she
stiffly offered the tube of Colgate over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” he
said, and then they were both brushing, her, flushed crimson against the sink,
and him, standing so close that she was pretty sure her t-shirt was getting
wet. This was ridiculous. But what was she going to do, sit on the
toilet? Free floor space wasn’t exactly
abundant.
She spit again
and astutely ignored mental images of the little rivers of water that she had
seen running down the ridges of his abs.
Spike was not supposed to have ridges, and water was sure the hell not
supposed to run down them like some romance novel cover. Brushing complete, Buffy rinsed her toothbrush
with stalwart dedication, her gaze locked on the bristles until there wasn’t
even a hint of toothpaste left to remove.
She kept right on rinsing. Because she wasn’t about to look at him again unless she could find
something convenient to blame her actions on.
“Since you’re
done, let me scoot in,” he mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste, and then
his hand was pushing at her waist and she nearly tripped over the toilet in her
efforts to get out of his way and away from his long, warm fingers. Cheerfully bright plastic wand still locked
in her grip, she watched her feet while Spike finished
up and placed his toothbrush back in the holder.
You could leave, you know.
Buffy blew her
hair out of her eyes guiltily and reached past him to set her toothbrush on the
sink before she turned for the door.
“Didn’t you
want to take a shower, luv?” he asked, his voice a thread of silk.
Unbelievable.
Buffy’s eyes narrowed dangerously and she paused, crossing her arms over
his ugly shirt. Which she suddenly and
acutely realized was the only thing between her and complete nudity. There were two layers between them. Two layers so insignificant that she probably
couldn’t make a respectable sweater out of both of them. And she doubted very much that the fact had
escaped Mr. Smooth-talky Guy.
Buffy whirled
around, eyes blazing accusation, “Alright, enough of the innuendo, buddy. I’m on to you!”
“On to what?”
he said sharply, recapping his deodorant and dropping it on the sink.
She marched
forward and poked him in the center of the chest, “You know what I’m talking
about! You’re up to something!”
“Well, I beg
your bloody pardon,” he said, “But I figured it would be expected. I do remember someone pleading this whole ‘let’s be friends’ case. Not even an hour after said someone shagged
my brains out in the front of my car!”
Buffy gasped
loudly, then lowered her voice to a hiss, “Well, I only said that because you
were giving me the silent treatment.
But, I see that gig is up, now that your ploy for one last hurrah has
failed.”
“A
last hurrah?” he shouted.
Right, well,
she didn’t exactly mean that, but it sure looked like it was working. Spike was definitely flustered. He plowed his hands through his messy curls
and paced the microscopic walk between the toilet and the bathtub before
laughing, “Are you completely off
your trolley? First of all, there was no
sodding silent treatment, and if you could bear to part with your ego for a
moment, you might consider the possibility that I wasn’t plotting for another
go at you!”
“Oh! So, you think I’m bad in bed!”
“That’s not
what I meant and you know it! I meant I
wasn’t scheming for another piece of your tail this morning.”
Buffy ignored
the guilty pang at ever implying as much, and snorted, “Right, and that’s why
you were all curled up behind me this morning, with your hand between my
boobs.”
“Well, I
wasn’t the one pushing my ass into you with little sexy sound effects,” he
snapped back, blue eyes smoldering nearly black with anger.
He thinks my sounds are sexy?
Buffy shook
her head fiercely to ignore the totally inappropriate silent question, jabbing
a shaking finger at him instead, “Well, you’ve been walking around half naked
all morning!”
“Hello!” he
yelled, pointing behind him, “Shower! Do
you typically take yours with clothing on?”
“I typically
take them alone and with the door closed and locked!” she said with a roll of
her eyes.
“Brilliant,”
Spike barked, “So you made it perfectly clear last night that you wanted
everything to be as it was before, but apparently I need to cross my t’s and
dot my i’s a little differently, don’t
I? Perhaps you could draw up a contract
so we’re clear!”
“I never said
I wanted it to be the same!”
“Didn’t you?”
he said, moving closer, his cheeks flushed, “Didn’t you tell me in no uncertain
terms that you wanted to be friends?”
“I thought you
weren’t going to talk to me anymore.”
“Yeah, so you
said, which is further proof that you are completely batshit
insane!”
“You did it
before!” she said.
“A
bit different, innit? Were you or were you not dating Angel at that
time?”
Buffy dropped
her eyes and Spike sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. She crossed her arms and warded off a shiver.
“Well, okay,
but I’m not now,” she said, finding herself surprised by the words.
He dropped his
hands from his face, offering her a look that made her knees buckle. She’d never find a word for that look. A rainbow of emotion played through it; hope,
fear, longing and a thousand other feelings that didn’t even have names. His head tilted and he stepped forward, his
fingertips moving to rest on her waist.
“No, you’re
not,” he said, “So, now what, Buffy?”
Her insides
melted into goo at the sound of her name.
Oh boy.
She started to
talk, really she did. She opened her
mouth and sucked in air a couple of times, but it was really hard to think of
words with his hands all soft and warm on her waist and his eyes watching her
so intently.
“I..” she started, trailing off instantly, and holding her
breath when he leaned so close she could see the flecks of gray in his
eyes.
“You?” he
prodded, and he still had that look in his eyes, and there really wasn’t
anything else she could do, so she kissed him.
And, oh, he kissed her back.
His fingers
curled into the fabric at her sides while her hands moved up his arms, palms
smoothing the beads of water left from the shower. His mouth was soft and warm and when his
minty fresh tongue flicked against the seal of their lips, a trail of fire
blazed through her veins. Her hands
tangled in his hair as the kiss deepened, lips and tongues moving in a rhythm
that raced and surged like her own pulse.
Spike backed
her into the sink, and she pulled away for air, gasping when his bare stomach
pressed against her. He was kissing her
neck now, a blend of teeth and tongue that mixed like hot and cold on her
skin. She tugged hard on his hair,
rewarded by his hungry growl and smoky eyes before he kissed her again.
A distant
knocking buzzed in Buffy’s mind, or maybe it was her pounding heart. Hard to tell with his tongue doing that, and
ooh, he was picking her up again. God,
she loved it when he did that. Her legs locked around his waist
automatically and he groaned long and hard into their kiss.
The knocking
returned, sharp and urgent, and not even a little like
the ragged gallop of her pulse. Spike
pulled away from her lips with a frustrated growl and set her down on the
sink.
After a few
seconds of panting, he gritted out, “I’m going to go get rid of this wanker.”
Buffy nodded,
and added a little breathlessly, “I think maybe I should take a shower. One of the cold variety.”
“Won’t
do any good. I’ll
just heat you back up,” he said with a smirk, snatching his jeans from the
toilet seat. Looking regretful, he
added, “I’ll bring you something to wear.”
Unable to stop
herself, Buffy grabbed his hand and hauled him back for a quick kiss. He responded eagerly, their tongues mingling
familiarly until the wretched knocking resumed.
“Or maybe I
won’t,” Spike corrected as he left, closing the door behind him.
****
“If someone
isn’t dead, they’re going to be,” he growled as he yanked on his jeans and
slung his towel around his neck. He
headed for the door, hearing the shower start behind him.
Halfway there,
the lock tumbled and Spike froze in mid-motion, his hands still working the
buttons on his fly. His mind raced
furiously to catalog who the hell had keys to his flat. He figured it out about the same time that
Angel sauntered into the living room.
Gobsmacked,
Spike gawked as the brunette shook his head and lifted a hand, as if to plead
for silence. He looked rough, unshaven
and wrinkled. He might have smelled bad
if Spike cared to get close enough to check.
Which he bloody well did not.
“Hey. Before you say anything, just let me get this
out,” Angel said, running a hand through his entirely unkempt, but still
bizarrely upright hair. “I’ve been up
all night. I tried to call, but you
didn’t answer.”
Spike tensed
as a vision of Buffy climaxing in the front seat of the De Soto materialized in
his mind. “I turned it off,” he said,
walking forward, “Look, now is not…”
“I know,”
Angel said, waving off Spike’s gesture and stepping far enough into the living
room to lean against the back of the couch, “I know you don’t want to hear
it. And I don’t blame you for that,
because I probably occupy two-thirds of the slots on your shit-list right
now. But I had to come. There’s just a lot I need to say, and most of
it probably needs to be said to you.”
“It can wait,”
Spike said tersely, pushing closer to Angel and gesturing at the door.
“No, it
can’t!” Angel said, “It always waits, Spike!
I waited two years too long already.”
He paused then, eyes scanning the table as he sighed. Spike glanced at the surface warily. Keys, cell phone, an empty soda can, nothing special.
Nothing of hers.
“I should have
told you a year ago,” Angel continued, still gazing at, or maybe through the
table, “Hell, I should have told you as soon as it happened, but the truth
is…well, I don’t even really know what the truth is.”
He paused,
looking a little mystified as he met Spike’s eyes, “You know, this all sounded
a lot better in my head on the way over.”
“Tell you
what,” he replied with a scowl, aiming at this point to push him back to the
doorway if he didn’t shove off, “Think it over until it sounds good and
then…” he paused, then tipped his chin
thoughtfully, “No. Sod that. Don’t come back then, either.”
“I think we need to talk about this, Spike,”
Angel said, walking toward the table and running his hand over the back of a
chair. A chair that he’d once owned,
Spike noted irritably.
“And I don’t!”
he said, jaw ticking as the shower shut off.
He walked toward Angel until he let go of the chair and took a step
back, “Trust me here. This is not the right time.”
The distant
rattle of the shower curtain brought Angel’s eyes to the bathroom door. The fog of confusion visibly lifted and his
eyes brightened in abrupt realization. A
conspiratorial smile lit his features, “Ohhh,” he whispered, “Well, looks like
I wasn’t the only one up all night, eh?”
He punched
Spike lightly on the arm and simpered quietly, “In that case, we probably
should talk about this later.”
Spike nodded
and jerked his head in the direction of the entryway. Angel offered a half-hearted laugh as he
finally started loping in the right direction.
Spike all but threw one of the chairs at him when he turned around
again, still whispering like an overgrown church mouse, “You are still speaking
to me, right? Because
that will be helpful with the whole talking later bit.”
Spike opened
his mouth to respond when he heard the bathroom door swung open.
“Where are the clothes you promised? And are you hungry, because I could really go
for….” Buffy padded into the living room, and Spike pinched his eyes shut and
heard something that sounded like a hairbrush hit the ground as she finished
flatly, “…pancakes.”
He opened his
eyes and noticed that Angel had noticeably paled. Beneath a brow so furrowed that Spike could
have set a drink on it, his mouth opened and closed six or seven times. No sound came out. His eyes traveled slowly from the floor to a
spot Spike guessed to be Buffy’s face.
The mix of anguish and fury in Angel’s stare hardened into something
sinister as he watched her.
“Nice shirt,”
he said icily, “Not
really your style, though.”
“Watch
yourself,” Spike warned, in a voice loud enough to be heard, but low enough to
be deadly.
“Just let him
finish,” Buffy said, her words trembling.
Angel laughed
bitterly, and jerked his eyes to Spike then back to her, “Let me finish
what? Finish waiting for someone to tell
me that this isn’t what it looks like?”
Spike bit down
a mix of emotions as Angel pressed his hand against the wall, knuckles
bone-white from the pressure. He
couldn’t seem to focus on anything, shifting from Buffy to the table, to Spike,
and back again.
“Angel…” Buffy
started, voice torn as she struggled for something to say. Apparently finding nothing, she lapsed into
silence.
The brunette
choked on something that might have been a laugh in a different time and place,
“I thought so.”
He shook his
head, and turned away from the table, walking halfway into the entry before he
turned back, his form hidden in shadow, “You know, for once in your life,
you’re right, Spike. This is obviously a
bad time.”
And just like
that, he turned around, leaving them alone with the resounding slam of the door
to mark his exit.
“Bloody hell,”
Spike whispered. “I’m sorry, luv. I forgot he had a key.” He let a few seconds tick by like hours
before he turned to face her. It could
have been worse. She could have been
crying. Hell, she could have run after
him, so this was definitely not the worst possibility. But it wasn’t good, either. She looked miserable, arms crossed over her
chest, wet hair clinging to her frowning face.
Buffy blinked
and offered a wry smirk, “Another stunning example of why I believe it’s safer
to see the glass half-empty.”
Spike chuffed
quietly, and joined her when she moved to lean against the back of the
couch.
“What can I
do, luv?”
“Time warp
back to not giving Angel a key” she said, blowing out a long sigh and rubbing
her temples.
“I wish,” he
said, wishing a lot of things. She
dropped her hand to the hem of the t-shirt and picked idly at its frayed
edge.
Spike frowned
and fastened the top button of his jeans, “Look, I’m not sure what you want me
to do here, pet.”
“Nothing,” she
said, then catching his eyes, her expression softened,
“I mean nothing with Angel. We’re not
together anymore. Remember?”
He returned
her fading smile, “Yeah, for a whole two weeks, right?”
Buffy rolled
her shoulders, “I know. Doesn’t exactly
simple it up, does it?”
After
hesitating, he reached for her neck and softly kneaded the tense flesh at the
base of her skull. She closed her eyes
and relaxed beneath his touch, offering him a smile when he retracted his
fingers.
“I guess I
should probably go home,” she said, “Get some Buffy-sized clothes. Call into my boss about the show last night…”
“Think a
little about you want, maybe?” he offered quietly, keeping his expression
blank.
Her eyes
clouded and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth before responding,
“Yeah, maybe I should. But what if I
don’t find an answer?”
It cut like a
knife, but it was the truth, and he respected that. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to fight for it,
though. One look at those kiss-bruised
lips was all the motivation he needed.
“What if you
do?”
She flushed
and grinned broadly, her eyes pulling away from him. She continued, opting for a falsely bright
tone, “And nowhere near that note, what about you? What do you have going on today?”
Spike
shrugged, “A jolly bag of thrills. Got a trip to the bank to make and a pile of laundry to be washed.”
“Sounds
deliciously domestic,” Buffy said wistfully, “Do you think you could drop me
home on your way?”
“Yeah,” he
said, “Let me get you those sweats I promised.”
She didn’t add
anything else to the conversation, so he headed to the bedroom to retrieve the
clothes. When he returned, he offered
her folded club-wear in addition to the sweats.
Buffy made her way to the bathroom and Spike sunk down on his couch,
dropping his face into his hands with a sigh.
What’d you expect, mate? Puppies and sunshine?
With a bitter
laugh, he got up and located his duster.
He retrieved his keys and slid his coat on, flipping lights off
throughout the apartment. When the
bathroom door opened, she was dressed in his clothes, looking a little
surprised at his readiness and a lot hot in his Buzzcocks shirt.
“Oh, are we
leaving right now?”
Spike
frowned. Sussing this girl out was going
to be the death of him, “Did you want to wait for a bit?”
Buffy started
awkwardly, then shook her head, “No, no, I should get
out of your hair.”
Spike flipped
the keys around in his hand, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, pet.”
“I should go,”
she said, offering her most determined expression.
The tension
returned with a vengeance and Spike struggled hard against laughing out loud at
the absurdity of the changes that had taken place in the last hour. With a half-nod, he gestured her forward and
followed her out of the apartment. He
had planned on getting her shoes from the car, but the daft girl was already
half way down the sidewalk when he finished locking the door.
He opened her
door and she mumbled an awkward thank you.
After about twelve blocks of stifling silence, he flipped on the radio
and coasted until he found something that didn’t sound like a commercial. Brilliant. Now they had the tinny warble of music
layered on top of the stifling silence.
The whole damn ride was unbearable, him stealing glances at her, her
alternating between staring at her hands and watching the scenery blur past the
passenger window. Far
cry from the girl moaning into his mouth in the bathroom, yeah?
At long last,
he pulled into
“Well,” Buffy
said, then took a breath, “Thanks for the ride, Spike.”
She picked up
her clothes from the seat between them and the faintest hint of her perfume
invaded his senses. His mouth opened
before he could stop himself, “So this is it, then?”
When she
finally looked up, they just stared at each other, that same endless quiet
stretching between them.
“No,” she
said, bridging the gap with a single word that gave him a hell of a lot more
hope than it should have. She dropped
her gaze and shook her head, “I don’t know what it is. But it isn’t over.”
She was moving
for the door again when he reached for her, taking her hand in his and
smoothing his thumb over her knuckles before he released her, “If you need
anything,” he smirked, “you know, a t-shirt or some pancakes or whatnot…”
“Yeah,” she
said, not quite managing to hide her smile as she opened the door.
“I do my
washing at the apartment complex,” he said with a shrug, “There’s a building by
the pool.”
“I’ll keep it
in mind,” she said, and stepped out of the car.
Cordelia
pulled into The Cherry and parked her Beamer next to a sedan with vanity
plates. Wrinkling her nose at the
HVNSENT, she rolled her eyes and slid her sunglasses on top of her head.
“Sure, buddy,”
she said to the missing driver, “You’re clearly God’s gift, evidenced by your
being at this hell hole.”
With a rueful
look at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she added, “Then again, I’m here.”
Gathering some
paperwork on the passenger seat, Cordy tucked
everything into her leather bag and stepped out of the car. Her lips formed an amused ‘O’ when she
noticed the freshly busted window and solid denting on the driver’s door of
Mrs. or Mr. Heaven Sent. Too bad she
wouldn’t be here to witness the fallout from that mess.
Cordy
paused at the door to take a quick assessment of her appearance in the single
tiny pane of glass that graced the otherwise windowless building. Hair up, lips glossed, and it being all of
She squinted
as she stepped into the darkness. An
overhead light illuminated the register and Anya, who was huddled at the far
end of the bar. Cordelia headed toward
her, but she didn’t look up from the receipt she was reading until Cordy set her bag on the counter.
“Hey, Anya,”
she said, “I’m guessing that’s not a grocery list.”
“Hello and
no,” she chirped, offering Cordelia a bright smile, “It’s a long and profitable
receipt. Last night I increased my price
on draft beer by a dollar. People at
concerts will pay almost anything for a lukewarm plastic cup of fermented
barley, so why shouldn’t I benefit?”
Cordelia
nodded, “Which is completely fascinating trivia to people who care about that
sort of thing, I’m sure.”
“Yes, it is,
isn’t it?” Anya beamed, “I’m thinking next time I’ll instate special event
pricing on all drinks. And I’ll be setting out free bowls of pretzels. Now, I know that sounds like crazy talk, but the extra
salt consumption will keep them drinking all night!”
“I’m really not one of those people,”
Cordelia said, smiling brightly, “You know, the ones who care.”
“Oh,” Anya
said, deflating briefly, “What do you want, then?”
“I’m here to
drop off the check for your portion of the ticket sales.”
“Why didn’t
you say so?” she said, dropping her receipt on the register and reaching out
eagerly for her cut. Cordelia handed her
the payment.
“Count
yourself lucky that I’m even here. If I
hadn’t been determined to check out the newest issue of Vanity Fair, which my
newsstand is out of, I wouldn’t be all the way over here for this check.”
“I would have
been here,” Anya breezed, “I always open at
Cordelia
frowned, “Is it always this dead?”
“Usually,”
Anya shrugged, “But the early hours lure in the pathetic and depressed
types. They’re always good for big tabs
and bigger tipping.”
“The
chronically drunk tip well?” Cordy asked.
Anya blinked,
“Of course. If they had anything
worthwhile to spend their money on, they wouldn’t be here, now would they?”
Cordelia
tilted her head contemplatively, “An eerie, yet sensible kind of logic.”
“Take Angel,”
she continued absently, ignoring Cordelia’s head jerk as she followed Anya’s
gesture toward the opposite end of the bar, “He’s tipping ten or twenty a drink
today. He must be an emotional
wasteland!”
“How long has
he been here?” Cordelia asked, brows knitting in worry as she took in his
slumped figure in the darkness. She had
to squint to even make him out. No
wonder she hadn’t seen him before.
“Oh, he was waiting when I got here,” Anya
said, “Now, excuse me, but I need to finish my bookkeeping.”
Cordelia
barely heard her, she was already making her way to
Angel’s end of the bar. She cleared her
throat, and he barely offered her a flick of the eyes in greeting. She rolled her eyes at his slouched figure, chin in hand, half empty glass of something vile
sitting on the bar in front of him.
Minding her Jimmy Choo’s, she took a seat on the stool next to him.
“It looks like
you’re well on your way to an alcohol induced coma, so I’ll take it the car out
front is yours.”
He nodded
vaguely, and graveled out, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks,”
she said, eyeing Angel’s glass with contempt, “I’m aiming to avoid cirrhosis of
the liver until I’m at least thirty.”
She crossed
her legs and he took another drink, “So, before I even begin to berate you for
your ridiculous license plate, what happened to your car? And don’t bother telling me a crazed groupie
threw herself at you as you were driving away.”
After a sad
laugh, he responded, “I don’t know. As
soon as I get done wrapping up the worst day of my life, I’ll look into that.”
“My God,”
Cordelia teased, brows lifting, “You might actually be even more wrapped up in
your personal drama than usual today.”
The look he
flashed would have withered a houseplant, and Cordy’s smile faded, “Okay, we’re
not just talking about personal property damage, are we?”
“No.”
A long sigh
later, she spun on her stool, knees knocking against his leg as she faced him,
“Alright, let’s hear it. But, first,
please realize that I had an extremely important threesome scheduled with
myself, my
Angel snorted
and took another drink. She finally took
a good look at him now that her eyes had adjusted. From his scuffed shoes to his wrinkled shirt,
he was a mess. His hair looked like it
hadn’t seen a styling product in months and she was pretty sure those pants
were a repeat from the night before. She
grimaced.
“You know,
you’re looking an awful lot like something my cat barfed up, and that’s not
exactly the look I go for in a lunch date.”
Angel
continued his mournful, silent vigil over his drink. Cordelia dropped her purse on the bar and
waited a little longer. After allowing a
few more seconds for brooding, she reached for his chin and pulled him gently
toward her until he met her eyes, “Hey, come on. It’s just me.
So, what gives?”
He looked away
and she released him, crossing her arms on the bar while she waited.
“She slept
with him.” He let it out with a slow
breath, as if he’d uncovered Jimmy Hoffa.
Cordelia
blinked, “She whatted who?”
Angel turned
in his stool, shifting his legs out of her way, “Buffy! As in
my girlfriend? She slept with
Spike!”
“You mean
Buffy, your ex-girlfriend,” Cordelia
corrected with a tight smile.
“That’s not
the point,” he said, reaching for his glass again.
“You’re
implying that there actually is a point?
I thought this was the worst day of your life,” Cordelia shook her head, “You do
understand the concept of breaking up, right Angel? It doesn’t typically involve a screening
process for your ex’s future conquests.”
“I know that.”
He lifted the
glass to his lips and she swatted at his hand, “Would you put that down
already? Ugh. You smell like a Jimmy Buffet song.”
He shoved the
glass away, “Look, just forget it, Cordy. I’m not really in the mood for company. I need to be alone.”
She nodded
very slowly, “Sure thing. So, should I
crown you the Queen of Melodrama now, or will there be a talent competition?”
“Will you just
lay off?” he barked, “She had sex with Spike! I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to be
wigged.”
“Wigged,
yes. Binge drinking and committing personal
hygiene suicide? Well, I think you’re
taking it a bit too far, Mister.”
She dipped her
head to catch his eyes, her tone softening with her expression, “Look, I know
it can’t be easy to watch your ex-girlfriend tramp around with the drummer of
your band.”
“Your concern
is touching,” he scoffed.
Cordelia
scowled, “I’m trying to be gentle
here. I know this isn’t easy on
you. But your long-suffering routine is
really over the top. I mean, what is it
with you? Did you think she was the
great love of your life?”
His expression
was an answer in and of itself, “It scares me that you actually believe that
crap, Angel.”
“I thought we
were forever,” he groused.
“And I thought
acid washed jeans were a neat idea for about ten minutes,” she said with a
shrug, “We all have our moments of weakness.”
“It wasn’t
weakness,” Angel protested, “She loved me.
It was real.”
“Well she’s really moving on. What bothers you more, the fact that she’s
moving on, or the fact that she’s moving on with him?” Cordelia said.
“I don’t
know,” he said sullenly.
“Well,
whatever it is, snap out of it!”
“Snap out of
it?” he squawked, “You have no idea what I’m going through here! You have no idea how this feels. I can’t just snap out of this!”
She stood up
abruptly, jerking his arm until he joined her.
“Yes, you
can! I realize it’s a foreign concept,
MacArthur, but you can start by getting out of this cave and out into the
daylight. You know, where the normal
people live.”
“I’d rather be
here,” he argued.
“And I’d
rather be admiring Jude’s shirtless body, yet here I am, getting ready to drive
your drunk ass home so you can take a shower and get
into some freshly dry-cleaned clothes, for God’s sake.”
“I really
don’t like you very much right now.”
“Your image
will thank me later,” she said, jerking her head toward the door.
“Sounds like everything went well, Buffy. Well enough that we might have to up your
responsibility a little if you want to stick with this band.”
“Not a
problem, sir,” she said.
“Tully,” he
corrected.
“Sorry, Tully,”
she reaffirmed, switching the handset to her other ear, “I’m all about the
responsibility. A
regular responsibility junkie.”
“Good,” he
chuckled, “Well, just be here at
“No red?”
“Makes
me think of too many hair bands from the eighties.”
“Gotcha,” she
smiled, “No red, and I’ll see you on Monday.”
She clicked
the off button on the cordless phone before laying it on the coffee table. Her eyes flicked to the digital clock on the
Still
no sign of
Buffy tilted
her head and smiled at her reflection in the glass of the entertainment
center. Yep, she was accomplishment
girl. Good outfit. Good hair.
Good phone call about the job, which made the possibility of getting her
own place possible, so double good on that one.
Good make-out session in Spike’s
bathroom this morning.
Buffy dropped
her gaze and rubbed her palms over her quickly flushing cheeks.
The door
rattled and
“Hey,” she
said, getting up and divesting Oz of his bags so he could return to the van,
“I’ll take it you’ve replenished our supply of trail mix and Cheetos.”
Oz nodded at
the door, “And partook of strategically placed, and rather tasty, sausage bits
at the end of aisle four.”
“That’s why we
go on Saturdays,”
Buffy and
Willow started emptying bags and filling cabinets, shifting aside so Oz could
dump the final few bags on the countertops.
With his job
done, he kissed
“Okay.”
The second the
door clicked shut behind him, Buffy was pinned by her friend’s eager stare,
“So, tell me what happened last night, because honestly you look much too cute
for someone who just pulled an all-nighter.”
Buffy smiled,
and kept moving while
Not so much.
“The window was bashed in, and the door was all
dented. It was like someone took a tire
iron to it. I mean, I think. They always say that in the movies, but it
doesn’t matter, it was awful! I have
never seen Angel so mad!”
“I’ll bet I
have,” Buffy quietly interrupted, settling a case of soda into the fridge.
“I know, it sounds
crazy,” Buffy said, then ran her hands through her hair, “Actually it is a
little crazy.”
She leaned
against the counter to dish, “Last night when Spike went to get me a drink, he
ran into Drusilla at the bar.”
“The Drusilla?”
“And let me
tell you, that girl is not playing with a full deck. I think she’s got a couple of fours and twos,
and that’s about it.”
“No!”
“Oh,
yeah. Hence, Spike beating the crap out of Angel’s
car and me chasing him through the parking lot and refusing to get out of his
car. So, we drove around for awhile.”
She trailed off and
“Let’s just
say that’s where the ‘wow’ part happened.
And then we went back to his apartment and crashed.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” Buffy
smirked, “That was sort of Angel’s reaction.”
She frowned, “Actually it was less ‘wow’, and more yelling and running
out of the room. Pretty
much your worst nightmare.”
“Oh, Buffy,”
Buffy
shrugged, “It’s fine.”
At
“Do you really
think that’s possible?”
a—”
“—You know, let’s not,” Buffy muttered quickly, forcing a
smile. “This is not a love triangle, or any other shape for that matter. It’s just…” she trailed off lamely.
“It’s okay,
Buff,”
Buffy nodded
and reached for another bag of groceries, “Eventually, I will.”
“Hey, if
you’re not up to any more figuring, Oz and I are going to head over to Manic
Manny’s Mini Golf and Fun.”
Buffy grinned,
but shook her head, “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”
She wasn’t in
the mood to tag along today. She had
enough to think about without watching Oz and
“Are you
sure?”
“Manic Manny’s
is on the south side, right?” Buffy asked automatically.
“Yeah,
why?”
“I…uh…” a bit
flustered, Buffy clasped her hands together and rushed, “Do you think you
guys would be willing to drop me somewhere?”
Indigo
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