fic: this is not an exit (part 1); spike/buffy (rock band au)
title: This is not an exit (part 1)
fandom/pairing: Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Buffy/Spike
rating: PG-13 (this part)
words: 8430
setting: goes wildly AU before the end of “Anne”
summary: In which Buffy and Spike meet again in L.A., form a rock band, flirt, fight, make up, and make out.
a/n: I wouldn't normally post this as a WIP, but my posting day kind of snuck up on me before I had a chance to finish the whole thing. More parts coming soon! Written for seasonal-spuffy.
*
Buffy hears him before she sees him -- the lilting tones of his accent, the barely contained sneer of disdain, the incredibly outdated British slang. William the Bloody, it seems, is in Los Angeles.
Why he’s also in the diner she’s been working at for the last two and a half years, Buffy doesn’t know, but she sure as hell doesn’t care.
Stake first, ask questions later, that’s her plan.
Or, at least, that is her plan, until she realizes that she doesn’t actually have a stake on her.
So instead: “What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, stalking up to his table.
Spike seems legitimately surprised for about half a second before he leans back in the booth, smirking at her in his Spikey way. He looks the same as he did back in Sunnydale: same sallow skin, same lame-ass leather duster, same bleached-blond Billy Idol-wannabe hair.
“Was feeling a bit peckish is all,” he tells her, all obnoxious British nonchalance. There’s a menu and a half-empty cup of black coffee on the table in front of him. “Thought I might stop in for a bite.”
“Well, there’s nothing for you to bite here, so: Get. Out.”
He tilts his head and looks down at the laminated menu on the table in front of him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “The eggs benedict do look delightful.”
“You’re a vampire,” she tells him, her voice a little louder than is technically necessary. She’s clenching her teeth so hard that she already can feel a headache coming on. “You eat blood.”
People around them are starting to stare, the table next to them giving her a wary look, like she’s the crazy one, not the blood-sucking psychopath lounging at the booth next to them. From over by the cash register, Mitch is watching her with the same look he gave her last year when she had to take out a Raxnor demon in the middle of the lunch rush, like maybe he could easily replace her with someone who didn't decapitate their clientele.
“Calm down, Bu--,” Spike stops short as he glances at her nametag. When he looks back up at her, it seems like he’s trying not to laugh. “Or, I’m sorry. Anne, is it?”
Buffy feels her cheeks get hot, which is ridiculous. Who cares what Spike thinks? He’s a jerk and he’s going to be a big pile of dust soon anyway, so. Screw him. “Shut up.”
His smirk turns into a grin, and ugh. She’s going to stake him right now, even if it means she gets fired. She’s sick of waitressing at this hellhole anyway.
She wonders if she could do it with her little half pencil, just shove it right through his stupid, tight black t-shirt and *poof* -- no more Spike. It’s probably not long enough to actually reach his cold, dead heart, but it couldn’t hurt to try.
But before she gets a chance to find out, he reaches into his ugly leather coat and pulls out a twenty. He tosses it on the table and slithers out of the booth, his arm brushing dangerously close to hers as he does.
“See you around,” he says. “Anne.”
*
The next time Buffy sees Spike, it’s a week later and he’s coming out of a dive bar on Sunset, just after midnight.
She’s a few blocks away and only recognizes him because of his ridiculous hair and stupid coat. He’s got something slung over his shoulder, a bag that looks like it might be a guitar case, which of course makes no sense. It’s probably full of tools for, like, evil and nefarious deeds and stuff.
He doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything, but it’s still pretty early and she doesn’t have anywhere she needs to be, so she decides to follow him. After all, it’ll probably only be about five minutes before he does something evil, and then she can stake him in good conscience and get on with her life.
She palms Mr. Pointy and starts trailing him, telling herself she’ll dust him at the first sign of trouble. No fuss, no muss, no Spike.
The only problem is, Spike doesn’t actually seem to be doing anything evil. He mostly just seems to be walking around, chain smoking and occasionally taking long pulls from a flask he keeps tucked away in his jacket.
She wonders if public intoxication is a stake-worthy offense, but decides it probably isn’t. Mostly because then she’d have to stake half the humans walking around too, and that could get messy.
Buffy stays with him until dawn, but other than him staking a few vamps out in Little Tokyo (which is totally weird, by the way -- since when does Spike stake the bad guys?) there’s no actual biting or evil-doing afoot.
He finally ends up ducking into an apartment building in Westlake, right as the sun starts to rise, and Buffy sighs, annoyed, feeling like she’s wasted her entire night.
*
The next night Spike’s back at the diner, sitting in a booth in her section and ordering cup after cup of coffee.
He’s alone -- again -- which strikes Buffy as more than a little strange. She can maybe count on one hand the number of times she ran into him back in Sunnydale without his skanky girlfriend, and yet she’s nowhere to be seen.
It’s hard to believe Sunnydale’s own undead Sid and Nancy wouldn’t work out, but she wonders if maybe the two of them actually broke up for good after that last horrible night in Sunnydale.
It’s a weirdly depressing thought, for some reason.
And, wow, is she really contemplating Spike’s love life? And feeling bad for him that Drusilla probably dumped him? God, there is something seriously wrong with her lately.
*
He shows up alone again the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, until it becomes just another part of Buffy’s day.
She follows him a couple of times after work, mostly out of curiosity even as she tells herself it's out of duty. Apart from a few skirmishes with demons, he never attacks anyone, and he's always back at the diner the next night, watching her while she serves coffee and makes small talk with customers.
Every night, she tells herself she’s going to stake him, and every night, he walks away right at the end of her shift, non-dusty and as annoying as ever.
*
“You have to leave,” she tells him. It’s five minutes past closing, and he’s the only person rude enough to stay while she and Mitch clean up.
“Pull up a booth, Slayer,” he says instead of being a normal, polite person and getting the hell out. He keeps looking down at a piece of paper on the fake wood table in front of him, sighing and shaking his head.
Buffy spares a quick glance around to make sure Mitch isn't in sight and then sits across from Spike -- not because he told her to, but because she’s tired and her feet hurt so badly that sitting next to him doesn’t make her want to kill herself. He doesn’t say anything else after she sits down, just keeps staring at that dumb piece of paper.
“What’s wrong?” she finally asks, annoyed. Not that she cares or anything, just. It’s obnoxious, him ignoring her like this, especially when he’s rudely delaying her from her exciting plans of refilling sugar containers and napkin dispensers.
“Can you actually play the drums?” he says.
“Huh?” It takes her a second before she remembers their short-lived cover story for her mom back in Sunnydale. It feels like a million years ago. “Yeah, a little. Why?”
He seems to consider this for a second, and then slides the paper he’s looking at across the table. It’s a band flyer, advertising a show tomorrow at someplace called The Smell for something called The Vamps.
“Yeah,” she says. “So?”
“Got a show tomorrow night, and I’m down a drummer,” he says, like this is a perfectly normal conversation and not the weirdest thing she’s ever heard. “What do you say, Slayer? Help a fellow out?”
“You’re in a band?” she asks, instead of answering because, holy crap. What?
“Yeah,” Spike says. “Or was, until my sodding drummer quit. Wanker.”
“A band?” she repeats, incredulous.
“Yeah. So?”
“Like, a band band?” She tamps down a surge of hysterical laughter. “With music and songs and…a band?”
“Yes, you daft bint, a band. What of it?”
Buffy bites down on her lower lip to keep herself from laughing. “What do you do in the band?”
“I sing,” he shrugs, like this is the most normal thing in the world. An evil master vampire singing lead in a crappy California garage band. “And play some guitar.”
And that’s it, she cracks up. Just, the image of Spike up onstage, strumming a guitar and crooning into a microphone -- it’s just…it’s too much. Spike makes this noise -- part sigh, part growl -- and starts to slide out of the booth.
“Wait,” Buffy says, getting herself under control. “Just, come on. You in a band. You’ve gotta admit that’s --“ he raises his eyebrows and looks at her expectantly, “-- way weird.”
“Yeah, well. Seems like the whole rock star gig’s up for now. Band can’t work without a drummer, and seeing as how you’re being a right bitch about it…”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” she tells him, and what the hell is she saying? Is she seriously about to join a band with Spike?
It’s not that she wants to help him out -- it’s definitely not that -- but it doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. It’d be something different than spending her Friday night sitting alone in her apartment, watching reruns of I Love Lucy and sharpening her stakes. Plus, she could keep an eye on him, make sure he isn't getting up to anything too evil. Not that he seems like he's even been doing anything evil lately, but still. She figures might as well consider it for a few minutes before she shoots him down. Which she’s going to do, obviously, because anything else would be insane.
But Spike isn’t waiting around for any considering, as apparently her hedging is as good as a yes to him. “You’re not gonna regret this, Slayer,” he tells her, reaching across the table and plucking the order-taking pencil out of her hand. He flips over the flyer and scribbles down an address on the back. “Be here tomorrow at sundown, yeah?”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Buffy says. This whole thing is moving a little too fast for her. She just found out about whole Spike-has-a-band thing about thirty seconds ago and now she’s agreed to be his drummer? She has no idea what she’s doing. “We need to lay some ground rules first.”
Spike sighs heavily, sprawling back into the booth across from her and gesturing for her to go on.
“First of all, no killing, biting, or otherwise engaging in evil activity at any time.” He rolls his eyes and she continues: “You bite, I stake, comprende?”
“I’m not going to start snacking on the crowd, Summers. Just going to play some music, and then we can go our separate ways.”
She narrows her eyes at him, but he seems sincere, so she goes on. “Second of all, I definitely still hate you. I’m only doing this because I’m bored and it seems like it might be somewhat interesting, got it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Spike says, waving his hand dismissively. “No evil, still filled with seething hatred. Got it. See you tomorrow, yeah?”
He starts to slide out of the booth again, and Buffy feels a sudden surge of panic.
“Hold on,” she says, reaching out and snagging him by the arm. The leather of his jacket is weirdly soft. “Don’t I need to, you know, practice? Or at least know what songs to play? Or, like, get some drums?”
Spike shakes his head but doesn't pull away. “We’ll go over it all at sound check. Just show up there tomorrow. Sundown. Don’t be late.”
*
On the way home to her apartment that night, Buffy tries really hard not to think too much about the whole doing Spike a favor thing. She must be losing her mind. There’s no other explanation.
It’s not that she actually likes Spike or that she suddenly thinks they’re friends, but there is something about him that’s disturbingly comforting. It’s almost like being around him reminds her of home, somehow, makes her feel less alone. Which is completely messed up, she knows, but still.
Buffy sighs and scrubs a hand across her face. The truth is, she gave home up almost three years ago, and hanging out with Spike of all people isn’t going to make it any better.
Whatever. It’s only one night, like he said. They’ll play the show, go their separate ways, and things will go back to normal, Spike and Sunnydale both out of her life forever.
*
Turns out, Spike mostly just plays old school punk, which shouldn’t exactly come as a surprise, all things considered. Even though it’s totally lame, it does mean that it only takes Buffy about an hour to perfect the two basic beats she needs to play all of the songs in the set list, so it’s not the worst thing ever.
It also turns out that she and Spike are the entire band, which is super-weird. She was expecting a couple other of people at the very least -- maybe someone playing the bass or the keyboards or…something -- but it’s just the two of them.
They mostly avoid each other between sound check and the show, which is just fine with Buffy. The only thing weirder than spending her night doing Spike a favor would be spending her night chatting with him like they’re best friends or something.
He’s dressed more or less like he always is: black boots, black jeans, black shirt, black coat. Although, somehow, the black nail polish and eyeliner thing looks way less ridiculous when he’s got a guitar slung across his chest.
Right before they go onstage, Spike slides his coat off, and he’s got safety pins hooked through the holes in his shirt and the sleeves have been ripped off. Buffy’s never actually seen him without the coat, she realizes, and she can’t help but notice how nice his arms are, smooth and lean and well muscled.
Huh. Spike’s not horrible looking, apparently?
Buffy blinks. Wow, now that is a completely disturbing thought.
The night just keeps getting weirder when Buffy realizes he also has a nice voice, kind of low and husky and rich.
The first few songs they play exactly how Spike taught her to play, but then during their cover of “Lust for Life,” he changes the tempo up on her a little bit, speeding up the chorus so that it’s even more frenetic.
It only takes Buffy a second to course-correct, and when she does, he looks back at her and gives his this half-smile, the tip of his tongue peaking out from between his teeth. Buffy rolls her eyes and he laughs, and then she’s smiling back at him before she can stop herself.
By the time they’re done with their set, she’s feeling kind of stoked, almost as good as she does after a good slay, everything feeling electric and bright and alive.
Apparently, Spike’s feeling the same way because he grins at her backstage and punches her playfully on the shoulder. “You really are hell on the old skins, you know that Summers?”
She feels herself blush and is going to say something nice -- compliment him on his voice, maybe, tell him she didn’t realize he could actually sound good -- but then he opens his mouth and destroys the half-second of semi-affection she was feeling towards him.
“Although maybe next time lose the school marm outfit,” he says. “At least attempt to look a bit sexy. You are a rock star now, remember?”
“Hey! I look sexy!” she says.
Spike smirks and raises an eyebrow, the one with the scar running through it. Ugh, he really is terrible.
“I look plenty sexy!”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in an almost-smile, like he finds her completely ridiculous, and he reaches up to tug on one of her braids. Jerk.
“You’re wearing khaki pants and a cardigan, pet.”
“So?” She resists the urge to look down at what she’s wearing, which, to be perfectly honest, she knows is ridiculous. She just hasn’t had time to stock her wardrobe for the whole punk scene, is all.
“So,” he repeats, stepping closer to her, getting right into her personal space. “Khaki can never be sexy.”
“Yes, it can,” she says, lamely. He smiles at that and inches even closer to her. For some reason, she doesn’t shove him away, just lets him move close to her, close enough so that she can see exactly how blue his eyes really are, the kohl black eyeliner making them even brighter. Her heart feels like it’s beating too fast.
She stares at him for a few beats before she realizes what she’s doing and who she’s with, and she takes three quick steps backward, moving so fast she trips on the amp behind her and falls into the wall.
“Careful there, Slayer,” Spike says, reaching over to help her to steady her. He sounds a little like he’s laughing at her.
His hands are strangely warm, which she figures has maybe something to do with the microphone or the guitar or something. Either way, it’s incredibly disconcerting. Buffy blinks at him and tries to get her bearings.
He’s still smiling a little, his expression gentle in the dimness of the backstage lights and even though he’s let go of her hand, Buffy’s skin feels like it’s tingling everywhere he touched her.
*
That’s going to be it, of course, like they both agreed. But then Spike’s back at the diner the night after their show, and Buffy finds herself almost happy to see him.
Or, okay, maybe happy is waaaaay too strong of a word. More like, not completely displeased to see him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, flipping over his mug and pouring him a cup of coffee. After all, just because she’s not repulsed at the sight of him doesn’t mean she needs to be polite.
“And a fair good evening to you too as well, Slayer,” he drawls. She rolls her eyes, and he smirks. “Up for another show?”
Buffy’s going to say no -- she really, really is -- but instead what comes out is: “Sure.”
Spike looks surprised, but he recovers quickly. “Yeah, right then. This Friday at The Echo. You in?”
Buffy is in, but Spike tells her that they actually need to get some practice in before the show. Which is how she finds herself at his apartment in an especially rundown part of Westlake, right after her shift on Wednesday evening.
Spike told her to get there around nine, but she shows up an hour early, hoping that because it’s after sundown, he’ll be awake. Hopefully, they can practice for an hour -- maybe two if Spike doesn’t drive her too insane -- and then she’ll still have practically the whole night for patrol.
It’s a good plan, Buffy thinks, at least until she gets to his crappy basement apartment and spends almost ten minutes pounding on his door.
By the time he finally opens it, Buffy’s in full-on, ready-to-stake, angry Slayer mode. But then Spike’s standing in front of her, shirtless, his hair wet, and a towel slung over his shoulder, and, suddenly, she can’t think straight.
“Christ, Slayer,” he says, standing there all smooth white skin and slightly curling hair. “No need to beat down the door.”
Buffy blinks at him.
She realizes that she’s gawking, but she can’t manage to make herself stop. Once, when she was in middle school, her school took a field trip to the Getty Museum and they had all of these ancient marble statues of, like, Roman gods. Shirtless Spike looks a lot one of those.
“Um,” she finally says. It’s just that there’s a drop of water snaking its way down Spike’s chest and down to the smooth skin of his stomach, and she can’t seem to focus on anything but that right now for some reason. “I, uh...um...I'm sorry?”
He gives her a weird look, like he can’t believe she’s apologizing to him (neither can she actually, but well…it would be really helpful if he would just put on a freaking shirt is all), and then opens the door for her to come inside.
Spike’s still got that marble statue thing happening, so Buffy focuses on scoping out his place rather than on his whole no-shirt situation. There's a drum kit in the corner by the kitchen area and a guitar leaning up against the wall next to the TV, but other than that it’s a standard, crappy studio. Disturbingly like her own place, actually.
She’s not sure what she was expecting -- lots of pillar candles and a red velvet sofa or something -- but his couch is an ugly light blue and there’s nary a candle to be seen. It’s actually kind of disappointing, to tell you the truth.
There's a stack of papers on the end table, something that looks like song lyrics, and she busies herself looking at those for a while. They're actually not terrible, some of them even have music scribbled alongside the words, and Buffy vaguely wonders when Spike got so artistic. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Spike snag a gray shirt off the back of the couch and pull it over his head, covering himself up. Thank god.
He makes his way into the little kitchen area and grabs two beers out of the fridge, handing her one and settling down on the couch.
“What are you doing?” she asks, taking the beer without really thinking about it. His fingers brush hers, his skin warm compared to the cold glass of the bottle. “I thought we were going to practice.”
“We are,” he tells her, rummaging around in the couch cushions until he pulls out the TV remote. “But you’re early and I’ve got plans.”
He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and starts flicking through the channels, until he finally lands on the one he’s been surfing for. Buffy looks at the TV and rolls her eyes so hard it hurts her head a little.
“Your plans are watching Dawson’s Creek?” she demands. God, he is such a weirdo.
“Joey just slept with that moron Dawson again,” he tells her, shaking his head and settling back against the couch. “Don’t see why she’s so hung up on him, the daft cow.”
Buffy stares at him for a few beats, waiting for her to tell her he’s joking, but, nope. He’s apparently serious, and it looks like this is what they’re doing for the next hour. Awesome.
She sighs and sits back next to him, taking a long pull of her beer. Dawson’s Creek it is.
It might not actually be terrible; she used to watch this show with Willow and Xander back in Sunnydale, so she’ll at least have an idea of what’s going on. Or, at least, she thinks she will.
But by the end of the first commercial break, she’s already sort of lost. The last time she watched this show, everyone was in high school, but now Dawson’s in California and Joey’s in New York and no one seems the same as they were before, and it’s just kind of confusing?
Luckily, Spike fills her in on all of it, providing her with some unasked-for commentary about all of the main characters. Apparently, Dawson’s a megalomaniacal asshole, Pacey’s a blind idiot, and Joey’s a fickle moron. Which fits pretty well with what Buffy remembers, actually, so. Maybe she isn’t completely lost after all.
After another twenty minutes, they’re both on their second beers and Buffy can’t stop sneaking glances at Spike every couple of minutes. His hair has finally dried, sticking up in little tufts all over his head, and Buffy keeps catching the stark whiteness of it out of the corner of her eye. He looks strangly normal like this, sitting on his second-hand couch, drinking a beer, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table.
She’s not as caught up in the antics happening in Capeside as Spike seems to be, and she finds herself distracted from the show, thinking thoughts about him that she wouldn’t normally think. Thoughts about how nice he looks without a shirt on, and how nice his voice sounds when he sings, and how he’s even kind of sweet sometimes. At least when he’s not being a huge pain in her ass, that is.
Plus, Spike seems different these days, like he’s softer somehow than he was back in Sunnydale, less of a jerk. He’s still somewhat of a jerk, of course, but it’s just. She doesn't know. He's definitely not quite as horrible as he used to be.
Buffy takes another pull of her beer and wonders what it would have been like if they had met like two normal people -- not mortal enemies trying to destroy each other -- just regular people who spend their nights off drinking beer and watching cheesy prime time soaps. Probably she would still hate him because, let’s be honest, he is pretty terrible, but. She doesn’t know. Maybe not. Maybe they could have been friends.
By the time the show’s over, Buffy’s finished her second beer and she’s feeling pretty good, kind of light and happy and weirdly affectionate towards Spike. She wonders again where Drusilla is, and she figures now is as good a time as any to find out.
Spike’s strumming out the first few chords of a Clash song when she looks over at him and asks, “So what happened to Drusilla?”
He stops playing, his fingers stilling on the strings, but he doesn’t answer right away, just shrugs and looks away. Buffy resists the urge to roll her eyes or say something else, just sits and waits to see if he’ll answer her.
After a couple of seconds, he starts strumming again, just a couple of chords, something that she doesn’t recognize, something slow and sad.
“She left me,” he finally tells her.
“Why?” Buffy can’t stop looking at his fingers for some reason. They’re long and thin and strangely graceful.
“Thought I’d gone soft,” he says, glancing up at her. He looks oddly vulnerable in his thin gray t-shirt, his hair still mussed from the shower. There are dark circles under his eyes. “After the deal with you.”
“Oh.” Buffy doesn’t know what to else say to that, even if part of her wants to apologize, which is insane. Besides, it makes her feel better, somehow, knowing that she’s not the only one who lost something (everything) that night.
Spike doesn’t say anything else, and the silence of the apartment starts to seem terrible and sort of lonely. So Buffy goes over to the drum kit and starts tapping out the beat for “Come as You Are," which was one of the songs Spike seemed weirdly into that first night when he first showed her what to play.
He gives her a sideways smile as he joins in, playing the first few chords and singing the opening lines, his voice kind of quiet and sad.
*
By their show that Friday, Buffy has some more rock-star-appropriate clothes -- black leather pants, white silk tank top -- the result of a fashion district mini-spree that afternoon.
Not that she bought them because of anything Spike said, of course; it’s more than she’s needed to go shopping for forever and the money from their first show needed to go somewhere, and she just feels like she has more energy lately for some reason.
When she finds Spike backstage, he’s putting on eyeliner, a strangely impressive task without a mirror.
“Hey,” she says, watching with fascination as he puts on the make-up. It looks perfect, the lines straight and even and not smudged at all.
“Hello there, Slayer.” He caps the eyeliner and looks her up and down, nodding a little in what looks suspiciously like approval. “Glad to see you’ve decided to play the part this time.”
Buffy rolls her eyes, and he takes a step closer to her. He keeps getting right in her personal space these days, and she keeps not shoving him away for some reason.
“What are you doing?” she asks nervously, edging away from him a little.
He doesn’t answer, just uncaps the eyeliner pencil and moves his hand like he’s going to put it on her.
“Ew, Spike. Gross,” she says, trying to duck away from him. “That’s unsanitary.”
He rolls his eyes. “Vampire, remember? ‘M not gonna give you anything.”
Buffy narrows her eyes, but stops trying to move away from him. When the point of the pencil touches her eyelid, she only flinches a little.
“Oi,” he says, his voice low and intimate. He cups her chin in his hand, holding her head steady. His hands are surprisingly soft, but she can feel where his fingers are calloused from playing the guitar. “Keep still unless you want to lose one of those pretty green eyes of yours.”
She watches him as he applies the make-up and, for some reason, she can’t stop looking at his mouth. He’s concentrating, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his teeth, and he smells disconcertingly normal, like cigarettes and soap and boy. The dim light backstage catches the hollows of his cheekbones, and his face is all sharp lines and bone-white skin and ice-blue eyes. For one brief, insane moment, she wonders what he would do if she closed the half-inch of space between them, pressed her lips against his and kissed him.
Up this close, Buffy can feel his breath against her cheek, cool and unnecessary. It’s weird, his whole breathing like a normal person thing, and she wonders if he does it by habit, or if it's something he trained himself to do.
Maybe it’s easier to get close enough to drain some innocent victim the more human you seem.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing with her.
Oh god, what is she doing? Letting Spike put make-up on her? Thinking about kissing him? Is she insane? What is she even doing here?
She suddenly shoves him, hard enough so that he stumbles back and lands on his ass.
“What the fuck, Slayer?” He sounds pissed, but also kind of hurt, which is ridiculous.
“Stay away from me,” she says.
He looks bewildered. “Are you barmy?”
“Don’t pretend we’re friends, Spike,” she tells him, hating herself for feeling bad for him, sitting on the dirty floor backstage, the stupid eyeliner still clutched in his left hand. “Just. Don’t.”
He stares at her for a couple of seconds, his face hard. She can see the muscles in his jaw twitching and she tightens her fist around her drumsticks, figuring they’ll do just fine for makeshift stakes if he makes a move. They stare at each other for a few beats, and then the stage lights come on and the crowd starts clapping and yelling.
“Right,” he says, pushing to his feet in one quick, graceful motion. He tosses the make-up to the ground and grabs his guitar, slinging it over his shoulder as he stalks past her towards the stage. “That’s our cue.”
*
The show goes really well -- amazingly well, actually -- which Buffy definitely doesn’t expect. She figures they’ll be off-tune and out-of-sync thanks to their fight before the show, but it’s like the opposite happens, and they’re getting out all their rage with each other through the music.
Spike doesn’t look at her once during the show, and she spends the entire night pounding on the drums like they’re his stupid, sallow, not-at-all attractive face. But by the time they finish with their set, the crowd is really into it and Buffy feels almost as amazing as she does when she takes out an entire nest of vamps.
“So, Slayer,” Spike says. They’re backstage again and he's grinning at her, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He’s acting like things are totally normal, like the last time they talked she didn’t insult him and shove him to the ground. God, he is such a psycho. “Wanna go kill something?”
“Jesus, Spike,” she says, horrified. “I’m not going to help you kill someone.”
Spike rolls his eyes so hard it looks like he pulls something. “I meant a demon or some such, moron.”
“You want to help me patrol?”
He shrugs and looks away. “Humans aren’t much of a challenge, you know? But demons,” he looks back at her and smiles. “A spot of demon violence really gets the blood pumping.”
“Your blood doesn’t pump.”
“Come on, Slayer,” he groans. “What do you say? Up for a bit of the rough and tumble?”
She should say no, but she’s still feeling pretty keyed up from the show and there’s a nest of Grathnar demons out near MacArthur Park that she’s had her eye on, and it’d be nice to have some back up to be totally honest.
*
The drive to the park is awkward -- it’s the first time Buffy’s been in Spike’s car, and it feels kind of claustrophobic and weirdly intimate, the windows painted with streaky black paint that blocks out the outside world, so it feels like it’s just the two of them on the road.
Spike turns on the radio, horrible British punk music blaring from the speakers.
She's going to tell him to turn it down, but decides against it, but only because the thought of making small talk with him right now is just about the worst thing she can imagine.
Luckily, the traffic downtown is almost nonexistent -- apparently 2:30 in the morning the only time the city’s not a complete gridlock -- so they make it to the park in record time.
*
The Grathnar are asleep when they get there, which is pretty much the only reason Buffy and Spike manage to make it out alive. They take out the first six in short order, but then three of them back Buffy into a corner, trapping her while Spike’s dealing with a particularly ugly one up near the front of the nest.
At first, Buffy’s not worried, but then the handle on her axe snaps, and they manage to get the upper hand while she tries to readjust. They're way faster than she realized, a blur of slime and scales and teeth.
She scrambles backwards, trying to get at the demons with the broken axe, but they’re gaining ground on her, boxing her in on all sides.
Spike’s nowhere to be seen, of course. Oh god, why the hell did she ever think she could actually trust him on something like this?
She’s pretty sure that’s it for her, but then Spike’s suddenly there, a blur of black leaping on the lead demon’s back. He’s changed into vamp face, his eyes glowing yellow in the darkness, and the look of feral violence on his face actually makes Buffy feel better somehow.
He sinks his fangs into the Grathnar’s neck, and it lets out an animalistic howl, distracting the other two demons so that Buffy can take them out with her broken axe without too much trouble.
When she looks back over at Spike, he's holding the Grathnar's decapitated head in one hand, his other hand wrecked and swollen and bleeding.
*
On the way home, Spike keeps his injured hand cradled in his lap, driving one handed, his jaw clenched hard enough that she can see the muscles twitching in his face. He doesn’t bother with the music this time, and Buffy tries to convince herself that she’s not worried about him.
By the time they get to her apartment, his hand has turned a nasty greenish color, dark red blood oozing from the cuts.
“You going to be okay?” she asks, telling herself that she doesn’t actually care. It’s just that if his hand is permanently messed up, that definitely won’t be good for the whole band thing.
“Fine,” he says through clenched teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping away.
The bite looks like it’s getting worse, and Buffy knows it’s going to be pretty much impossible for him to actually clean it and bandage it by himself. She sighs.
“Come on,” she says, not really sure what she’s doing. This is probably a huge mistake, but whatever. Mistakes seem to be her stock-in-trade these days, so she figures she might as well go with it. “I’ll help you get it cleaned up.”
Spike gives her a look, like he doesn’t quite trust her, but he turns off the ignition and gets out of the car without saying anything. His hand must really hurt.
He stands right outside her door even after she’s inside, looking nervous and unsure. It takes her a second to figure out that he’s waiting for her to invite him inside, even though she’s pretty sure that the invitation from the car should be enough to get rid of any magic vamp barriers.
“Come in, Spike.”
Spike tilts his head a little and crosses the threshold of her apartment, and the look on his face makes her heart stutter in her chest.
Once he’s in there, they both stare at each other for a few beats, the whole being alone in her apartment thing actually sinking in. Buffy feels like she should maybe be freaking out, feeling threatened or on the look-out for some Spikey trick, but mostly she feels tired and also kind of bad that he hurt his guitar-playing hand helping her tonight.
She leads him over to the couch and he sits down, perched on the edge like he’s going to run at any moment. She grabs some bandages out of the drawer on the coffee table and tries not to think about how they're alone in the dim silence of her living room. She next to him, her leg pressed against his and reaches for his hand. His skin is hot and dry, the Grathnar bite jagged and painful looking.
When she swipes an alcohol pad over the wound, Spike only flinches a little, swallowing hard and then turning his head to survey her apartment.
On the end table next to him, there’s a picture of her and Xander and Willow, their heads pressed together to all fit in the shot, the three of them smiling in the bright afternoon sunlight. Spike stares at the picture for what seems like a very long time.
“When do you think you’ll go back, then?” he finally asks. He’s turned back to look at her and is watching her carefully, his head tilted to the side, his eyes soft.
She focuses on finishing up with his hand, pressing the last piece of tape into place. It's still a little swollen, but Buffy thinks he'll be okay.
“I went back once,” she tells him. “About a year ago. They were…they seemed…happy, I think. Going to school, getting jobs, living their lives.”
“On the Hellmouth?”
“I guess it seems less Hellmouth-y when you’re not hanging with the Slayer,” Buffy shrugs and looks down at her own hands. They’re demon-bite free, but her nail polish is way more chipped than Spike’s, which is depressing. She really needs a manicure.
“It’s their loss, you know.” His voice is soft and comforting, like he actually cares about her and her stupid life choices.
His hip is pressing against hers and she leans into him without quite meaning to. He smells like demon blood and soap, and she doesn’t pull away when he turns towards her and ghosts one cool hand across her cheek.
The apartment is silent and Spike is close enough to her that she can feel his cool, unnecessary breath against her throat. Her heart is racing like crazy, and every nerve is her body is screaming at her to pull away, but she doesn’t, even though she knows that this would be the perfect time for him to take her out -- to bite her or snap her neck. He’s killed Slayers before, she knows. Two of them. There’s nothing stopping him from claiming her as his third.
He kisses her instead, his bandaged hand cupped against the back of her neck, the other reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He tastes like whiskey and tobacco, and his mouth is cool against hers. His lips are soft and dry and, for the first couple of seconds, it’s about as chaste a kiss as Buffy’s ever had, like Spike's even less sure of what he's doing than she is. But then he’s opening his mouth under hers, tracing her lower lip with his tongue, and before she really registers what she’s doing, Buffy’s straddling his lap, one knee other either side of his thighs.
Spike tightens his hand on the back of her neck and kisses her like she’s the only thing in the world, like nothing else matters.
When she bites on his lower lip, he growls, this noise that makes her stomach flip and her heart race, and she rocks against him, not even caring how desperate she might seem. No one's kissed her like this since -- well. It's just been a really long time.
Spike slides his hand under her shirt, his cold, clever fingers stroking the sensitive skin of right below her ribcage. She can feel him against her leg, hard and insistent through the rough denim of his jeans, and she should tell him to stop -- she should stop -- but then he cups her breast, brushing his thumb over her nipple, and she gasps and kisses him harder.
After a couple of seconds, Spike shifts, moving so that they're lying down. Buffy's back is against the couch and he's on top of her, the weight of him both comforting and terrifying all at once.
Somehow, being with him like this, it's like nothing else in the world matters -- not the fact that her friends have moved on without her, or that she's all alone, or that this is probably the biggest mistake she's ever made.
She's spent the past three years alone and sad and feeling like everything was cold and terrible and gray. But right now, pressed against Spike, her body feels like it's on fire, and there are these bright flashes of light behind her closed eyelids, fireworks sparking in the darkness.
He's making this kind of low humming noise in the back of his throat and the feel of his skin against hers is making her shiver. She hasn't felt this alive since forever -- since Sunnydale -- and she just wants him so much, no matter how wrong or terrible or screwed up it is.
She’s reaching down to unzip his jeans when an ambulance goes by, right outside her window, the siren blaring so loud that she jumps, pulling away from Spike, and suddenly, it's like whatever spell she's been under for the past few minutes breaks and oh god, oh god. What is she doing?
Spike is still on top of her, one hand fisted in her hair and the other under her shirt, and it takes Buffy a second to get her bearings. Spike’s mouth is still open, his lips wet and swollen, his unnecessary breath coming in gasps. Buffy’s heart feels like it’s beating so fast it might explode.
“Um,” she says. The room's dark except for the fading flashes from the ambulance lights. In the darkness, Spike's features turn red then white then red again.
“I should..." She stops because her voice sounds weird, all soft and rough. She swallows hard and tries again. "I mean, we should...I mean. You should -- you should go.”
“Yeah,” he says, sitting back and scrubbing his good hand across his face. He sounds resigned and more than a little sad, which is something she can’t actually process right now. “Yeah, Slayer. I know.”
*
After Spike leaves, Buffy jumps in the shower and has a panic attack.
She waits for the water to get as hot as possible and then tries to work through what a disaster she’s gotten herself into.
The easy answer would be to stake Spike, of course. He’s a vampire, she’s the Slayer. The whole staking thing is pretty much how these things are supposed to go, after all.
But. He did just save her life. It would probably be really terrible of her to dust someone who risked his life to save her, right?
Plus, he seems like he’s been way less homicidal lately, and it seems unfair to dust him when he’s trying to be so good.
She grabs the shampoo and starts lathering, trying to think of a way out of this whole mess.
Since she can’t stake him, it’s probably best to just never see him again.
The only problem with that, Buffy realizes, is that spending time with him over the last couple of weeks has been nice. Amazingly nice, actually. It’s the first time since she got to L.A. that her life hasn’t been a gaping black hole of despair. Which is insane she knows -- because it’s Spike -- but, well. There you have it.
Plus, she does really like doing the whole band thing with him. And they are getting a lot better at it -- they already have another two shows booked for next week. It would really suck to have to give that up, to have to go back to spending all her weekends either covering shifts for the other waitresses or watching television alone. It doesn't seem fair that even after she's given up her whole life and all of her friends and everyone she loves to be the Slayer, now she has to give up the one thing in her life that isn't completely horrible.
She takes a deep breath and turns her face up into the spray of water, trying to figure out what she’s supposed to do.
Okay, she tells herself, closing her eyes and leaning back into the water to rinse her hair. Fine. Easy. She can for sure hang out with Spike sometimes and not make out with him. That’s totally not going to be an issue.
Except for how it might be because every time she’s near him, she feels kind of warm all over, her skin buzzing and alive. And the look he gave her tonight when she asked him to leave means he probably feels the same way.
And okay, yeah, Spike is ridiculously attractive -- all lean and well-muscled and sharp lines and bright blue eyes -- she’s given up the battle of denying it to herself. He’s also weirdly polite and bizarrely nice, at least when he’s not insulting her or being a huge pain in the ass.
But. He is a vampire. An evil, soulless monster, and he can’t be nice or attractive or kissable. He just -- he can’t. That’s not how these things work.
Ugh, why does everything in her life always have to be so complicated? Buffy runs a hand through her hair and leans her forehead against the cool tiles of the wall.
Tonight was just weird because of the slayage, she decides. She’s always a little revved up after a good slay, all hopped up on adrenaline and violence.
Just, no more slaying with Spike is probably a good idea.
Which is definitely doable. She's spent the last two years doing the slaying thing solo, so it's not like she needs a buddy or anything. And, really, Spike would probably just slow her down because she'd have to spend at least half of her time making sure he wasn't doing something evil.
Okay. Good. No slaying, no making out, and everything will go back to semi-normal.
Buffy turns off the water and steps out of the shower, feeling pretty confident that she’s got this whole Spike thing figured out.
After all, how hard can not making out with Spike be?
*
Part 2 coming soon!
fandom/pairing: Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Buffy/Spike
rating: PG-13 (this part)
words: 8430
setting: goes wildly AU before the end of “Anne”
summary: In which Buffy and Spike meet again in L.A., form a rock band, flirt, fight, make up, and make out.
a/n: I wouldn't normally post this as a WIP, but my posting day kind of snuck up on me before I had a chance to finish the whole thing. More parts coming soon! Written for seasonal-spuffy.
*
Buffy hears him before she sees him -- the lilting tones of his accent, the barely contained sneer of disdain, the incredibly outdated British slang. William the Bloody, it seems, is in Los Angeles.
Why he’s also in the diner she’s been working at for the last two and a half years, Buffy doesn’t know, but she sure as hell doesn’t care.
Stake first, ask questions later, that’s her plan.
Or, at least, that is her plan, until she realizes that she doesn’t actually have a stake on her.
So instead: “What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, stalking up to his table.
Spike seems legitimately surprised for about half a second before he leans back in the booth, smirking at her in his Spikey way. He looks the same as he did back in Sunnydale: same sallow skin, same lame-ass leather duster, same bleached-blond Billy Idol-wannabe hair.
“Was feeling a bit peckish is all,” he tells her, all obnoxious British nonchalance. There’s a menu and a half-empty cup of black coffee on the table in front of him. “Thought I might stop in for a bite.”
“Well, there’s nothing for you to bite here, so: Get. Out.”
He tilts his head and looks down at the laminated menu on the table in front of him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “The eggs benedict do look delightful.”
“You’re a vampire,” she tells him, her voice a little louder than is technically necessary. She’s clenching her teeth so hard that she already can feel a headache coming on. “You eat blood.”
People around them are starting to stare, the table next to them giving her a wary look, like she’s the crazy one, not the blood-sucking psychopath lounging at the booth next to them. From over by the cash register, Mitch is watching her with the same look he gave her last year when she had to take out a Raxnor demon in the middle of the lunch rush, like maybe he could easily replace her with someone who didn't decapitate their clientele.
“Calm down, Bu--,” Spike stops short as he glances at her nametag. When he looks back up at her, it seems like he’s trying not to laugh. “Or, I’m sorry. Anne, is it?”
Buffy feels her cheeks get hot, which is ridiculous. Who cares what Spike thinks? He’s a jerk and he’s going to be a big pile of dust soon anyway, so. Screw him. “Shut up.”
His smirk turns into a grin, and ugh. She’s going to stake him right now, even if it means she gets fired. She’s sick of waitressing at this hellhole anyway.
She wonders if she could do it with her little half pencil, just shove it right through his stupid, tight black t-shirt and *poof* -- no more Spike. It’s probably not long enough to actually reach his cold, dead heart, but it couldn’t hurt to try.
But before she gets a chance to find out, he reaches into his ugly leather coat and pulls out a twenty. He tosses it on the table and slithers out of the booth, his arm brushing dangerously close to hers as he does.
“See you around,” he says. “Anne.”
*
The next time Buffy sees Spike, it’s a week later and he’s coming out of a dive bar on Sunset, just after midnight.
She’s a few blocks away and only recognizes him because of his ridiculous hair and stupid coat. He’s got something slung over his shoulder, a bag that looks like it might be a guitar case, which of course makes no sense. It’s probably full of tools for, like, evil and nefarious deeds and stuff.
He doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything, but it’s still pretty early and she doesn’t have anywhere she needs to be, so she decides to follow him. After all, it’ll probably only be about five minutes before he does something evil, and then she can stake him in good conscience and get on with her life.
She palms Mr. Pointy and starts trailing him, telling herself she’ll dust him at the first sign of trouble. No fuss, no muss, no Spike.
The only problem is, Spike doesn’t actually seem to be doing anything evil. He mostly just seems to be walking around, chain smoking and occasionally taking long pulls from a flask he keeps tucked away in his jacket.
She wonders if public intoxication is a stake-worthy offense, but decides it probably isn’t. Mostly because then she’d have to stake half the humans walking around too, and that could get messy.
Buffy stays with him until dawn, but other than him staking a few vamps out in Little Tokyo (which is totally weird, by the way -- since when does Spike stake the bad guys?) there’s no actual biting or evil-doing afoot.
He finally ends up ducking into an apartment building in Westlake, right as the sun starts to rise, and Buffy sighs, annoyed, feeling like she’s wasted her entire night.
*
The next night Spike’s back at the diner, sitting in a booth in her section and ordering cup after cup of coffee.
He’s alone -- again -- which strikes Buffy as more than a little strange. She can maybe count on one hand the number of times she ran into him back in Sunnydale without his skanky girlfriend, and yet she’s nowhere to be seen.
It’s hard to believe Sunnydale’s own undead Sid and Nancy wouldn’t work out, but she wonders if maybe the two of them actually broke up for good after that last horrible night in Sunnydale.
It’s a weirdly depressing thought, for some reason.
And, wow, is she really contemplating Spike’s love life? And feeling bad for him that Drusilla probably dumped him? God, there is something seriously wrong with her lately.
*
He shows up alone again the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, until it becomes just another part of Buffy’s day.
She follows him a couple of times after work, mostly out of curiosity even as she tells herself it's out of duty. Apart from a few skirmishes with demons, he never attacks anyone, and he's always back at the diner the next night, watching her while she serves coffee and makes small talk with customers.
Every night, she tells herself she’s going to stake him, and every night, he walks away right at the end of her shift, non-dusty and as annoying as ever.
*
“You have to leave,” she tells him. It’s five minutes past closing, and he’s the only person rude enough to stay while she and Mitch clean up.
“Pull up a booth, Slayer,” he says instead of being a normal, polite person and getting the hell out. He keeps looking down at a piece of paper on the fake wood table in front of him, sighing and shaking his head.
Buffy spares a quick glance around to make sure Mitch isn't in sight and then sits across from Spike -- not because he told her to, but because she’s tired and her feet hurt so badly that sitting next to him doesn’t make her want to kill herself. He doesn’t say anything else after she sits down, just keeps staring at that dumb piece of paper.
“What’s wrong?” she finally asks, annoyed. Not that she cares or anything, just. It’s obnoxious, him ignoring her like this, especially when he’s rudely delaying her from her exciting plans of refilling sugar containers and napkin dispensers.
“Can you actually play the drums?” he says.
“Huh?” It takes her a second before she remembers their short-lived cover story for her mom back in Sunnydale. It feels like a million years ago. “Yeah, a little. Why?”
He seems to consider this for a second, and then slides the paper he’s looking at across the table. It’s a band flyer, advertising a show tomorrow at someplace called The Smell for something called The Vamps.
“Yeah,” she says. “So?”
“Got a show tomorrow night, and I’m down a drummer,” he says, like this is a perfectly normal conversation and not the weirdest thing she’s ever heard. “What do you say, Slayer? Help a fellow out?”
“You’re in a band?” she asks, instead of answering because, holy crap. What?
“Yeah,” Spike says. “Or was, until my sodding drummer quit. Wanker.”
“A band?” she repeats, incredulous.
“Yeah. So?”
“Like, a band band?” She tamps down a surge of hysterical laughter. “With music and songs and…a band?”
“Yes, you daft bint, a band. What of it?”
Buffy bites down on her lower lip to keep herself from laughing. “What do you do in the band?”
“I sing,” he shrugs, like this is the most normal thing in the world. An evil master vampire singing lead in a crappy California garage band. “And play some guitar.”
And that’s it, she cracks up. Just, the image of Spike up onstage, strumming a guitar and crooning into a microphone -- it’s just…it’s too much. Spike makes this noise -- part sigh, part growl -- and starts to slide out of the booth.
“Wait,” Buffy says, getting herself under control. “Just, come on. You in a band. You’ve gotta admit that’s --“ he raises his eyebrows and looks at her expectantly, “-- way weird.”
“Yeah, well. Seems like the whole rock star gig’s up for now. Band can’t work without a drummer, and seeing as how you’re being a right bitch about it…”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” she tells him, and what the hell is she saying? Is she seriously about to join a band with Spike?
It’s not that she wants to help him out -- it’s definitely not that -- but it doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. It’d be something different than spending her Friday night sitting alone in her apartment, watching reruns of I Love Lucy and sharpening her stakes. Plus, she could keep an eye on him, make sure he isn't getting up to anything too evil. Not that he seems like he's even been doing anything evil lately, but still. She figures might as well consider it for a few minutes before she shoots him down. Which she’s going to do, obviously, because anything else would be insane.
But Spike isn’t waiting around for any considering, as apparently her hedging is as good as a yes to him. “You’re not gonna regret this, Slayer,” he tells her, reaching across the table and plucking the order-taking pencil out of her hand. He flips over the flyer and scribbles down an address on the back. “Be here tomorrow at sundown, yeah?”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Buffy says. This whole thing is moving a little too fast for her. She just found out about whole Spike-has-a-band thing about thirty seconds ago and now she’s agreed to be his drummer? She has no idea what she’s doing. “We need to lay some ground rules first.”
Spike sighs heavily, sprawling back into the booth across from her and gesturing for her to go on.
“First of all, no killing, biting, or otherwise engaging in evil activity at any time.” He rolls his eyes and she continues: “You bite, I stake, comprende?”
“I’m not going to start snacking on the crowd, Summers. Just going to play some music, and then we can go our separate ways.”
She narrows her eyes at him, but he seems sincere, so she goes on. “Second of all, I definitely still hate you. I’m only doing this because I’m bored and it seems like it might be somewhat interesting, got it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Spike says, waving his hand dismissively. “No evil, still filled with seething hatred. Got it. See you tomorrow, yeah?”
He starts to slide out of the booth again, and Buffy feels a sudden surge of panic.
“Hold on,” she says, reaching out and snagging him by the arm. The leather of his jacket is weirdly soft. “Don’t I need to, you know, practice? Or at least know what songs to play? Or, like, get some drums?”
Spike shakes his head but doesn't pull away. “We’ll go over it all at sound check. Just show up there tomorrow. Sundown. Don’t be late.”
*
On the way home to her apartment that night, Buffy tries really hard not to think too much about the whole doing Spike a favor thing. She must be losing her mind. There’s no other explanation.
It’s not that she actually likes Spike or that she suddenly thinks they’re friends, but there is something about him that’s disturbingly comforting. It’s almost like being around him reminds her of home, somehow, makes her feel less alone. Which is completely messed up, she knows, but still.
Buffy sighs and scrubs a hand across her face. The truth is, she gave home up almost three years ago, and hanging out with Spike of all people isn’t going to make it any better.
Whatever. It’s only one night, like he said. They’ll play the show, go their separate ways, and things will go back to normal, Spike and Sunnydale both out of her life forever.
*
Turns out, Spike mostly just plays old school punk, which shouldn’t exactly come as a surprise, all things considered. Even though it’s totally lame, it does mean that it only takes Buffy about an hour to perfect the two basic beats she needs to play all of the songs in the set list, so it’s not the worst thing ever.
It also turns out that she and Spike are the entire band, which is super-weird. She was expecting a couple other of people at the very least -- maybe someone playing the bass or the keyboards or…something -- but it’s just the two of them.
They mostly avoid each other between sound check and the show, which is just fine with Buffy. The only thing weirder than spending her night doing Spike a favor would be spending her night chatting with him like they’re best friends or something.
He’s dressed more or less like he always is: black boots, black jeans, black shirt, black coat. Although, somehow, the black nail polish and eyeliner thing looks way less ridiculous when he’s got a guitar slung across his chest.
Right before they go onstage, Spike slides his coat off, and he’s got safety pins hooked through the holes in his shirt and the sleeves have been ripped off. Buffy’s never actually seen him without the coat, she realizes, and she can’t help but notice how nice his arms are, smooth and lean and well muscled.
Huh. Spike’s not horrible looking, apparently?
Buffy blinks. Wow, now that is a completely disturbing thought.
The night just keeps getting weirder when Buffy realizes he also has a nice voice, kind of low and husky and rich.
The first few songs they play exactly how Spike taught her to play, but then during their cover of “Lust for Life,” he changes the tempo up on her a little bit, speeding up the chorus so that it’s even more frenetic.
It only takes Buffy a second to course-correct, and when she does, he looks back at her and gives his this half-smile, the tip of his tongue peaking out from between his teeth. Buffy rolls her eyes and he laughs, and then she’s smiling back at him before she can stop herself.
By the time they’re done with their set, she’s feeling kind of stoked, almost as good as she does after a good slay, everything feeling electric and bright and alive.
Apparently, Spike’s feeling the same way because he grins at her backstage and punches her playfully on the shoulder. “You really are hell on the old skins, you know that Summers?”
She feels herself blush and is going to say something nice -- compliment him on his voice, maybe, tell him she didn’t realize he could actually sound good -- but then he opens his mouth and destroys the half-second of semi-affection she was feeling towards him.
“Although maybe next time lose the school marm outfit,” he says. “At least attempt to look a bit sexy. You are a rock star now, remember?”
“Hey! I look sexy!” she says.
Spike smirks and raises an eyebrow, the one with the scar running through it. Ugh, he really is terrible.
“I look plenty sexy!”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in an almost-smile, like he finds her completely ridiculous, and he reaches up to tug on one of her braids. Jerk.
“You’re wearing khaki pants and a cardigan, pet.”
“So?” She resists the urge to look down at what she’s wearing, which, to be perfectly honest, she knows is ridiculous. She just hasn’t had time to stock her wardrobe for the whole punk scene, is all.
“So,” he repeats, stepping closer to her, getting right into her personal space. “Khaki can never be sexy.”
“Yes, it can,” she says, lamely. He smiles at that and inches even closer to her. For some reason, she doesn’t shove him away, just lets him move close to her, close enough so that she can see exactly how blue his eyes really are, the kohl black eyeliner making them even brighter. Her heart feels like it’s beating too fast.
She stares at him for a few beats before she realizes what she’s doing and who she’s with, and she takes three quick steps backward, moving so fast she trips on the amp behind her and falls into the wall.
“Careful there, Slayer,” Spike says, reaching over to help her to steady her. He sounds a little like he’s laughing at her.
His hands are strangely warm, which she figures has maybe something to do with the microphone or the guitar or something. Either way, it’s incredibly disconcerting. Buffy blinks at him and tries to get her bearings.
He’s still smiling a little, his expression gentle in the dimness of the backstage lights and even though he’s let go of her hand, Buffy’s skin feels like it’s tingling everywhere he touched her.
*
That’s going to be it, of course, like they both agreed. But then Spike’s back at the diner the night after their show, and Buffy finds herself almost happy to see him.
Or, okay, maybe happy is waaaaay too strong of a word. More like, not completely displeased to see him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, flipping over his mug and pouring him a cup of coffee. After all, just because she’s not repulsed at the sight of him doesn’t mean she needs to be polite.
“And a fair good evening to you too as well, Slayer,” he drawls. She rolls her eyes, and he smirks. “Up for another show?”
Buffy’s going to say no -- she really, really is -- but instead what comes out is: “Sure.”
Spike looks surprised, but he recovers quickly. “Yeah, right then. This Friday at The Echo. You in?”
Buffy is in, but Spike tells her that they actually need to get some practice in before the show. Which is how she finds herself at his apartment in an especially rundown part of Westlake, right after her shift on Wednesday evening.
Spike told her to get there around nine, but she shows up an hour early, hoping that because it’s after sundown, he’ll be awake. Hopefully, they can practice for an hour -- maybe two if Spike doesn’t drive her too insane -- and then she’ll still have practically the whole night for patrol.
It’s a good plan, Buffy thinks, at least until she gets to his crappy basement apartment and spends almost ten minutes pounding on his door.
By the time he finally opens it, Buffy’s in full-on, ready-to-stake, angry Slayer mode. But then Spike’s standing in front of her, shirtless, his hair wet, and a towel slung over his shoulder, and, suddenly, she can’t think straight.
“Christ, Slayer,” he says, standing there all smooth white skin and slightly curling hair. “No need to beat down the door.”
Buffy blinks at him.
She realizes that she’s gawking, but she can’t manage to make herself stop. Once, when she was in middle school, her school took a field trip to the Getty Museum and they had all of these ancient marble statues of, like, Roman gods. Shirtless Spike looks a lot one of those.
“Um,” she finally says. It’s just that there’s a drop of water snaking its way down Spike’s chest and down to the smooth skin of his stomach, and she can’t seem to focus on anything but that right now for some reason. “I, uh...um...I'm sorry?”
He gives her a weird look, like he can’t believe she’s apologizing to him (neither can she actually, but well…it would be really helpful if he would just put on a freaking shirt is all), and then opens the door for her to come inside.
Spike’s still got that marble statue thing happening, so Buffy focuses on scoping out his place rather than on his whole no-shirt situation. There's a drum kit in the corner by the kitchen area and a guitar leaning up against the wall next to the TV, but other than that it’s a standard, crappy studio. Disturbingly like her own place, actually.
She’s not sure what she was expecting -- lots of pillar candles and a red velvet sofa or something -- but his couch is an ugly light blue and there’s nary a candle to be seen. It’s actually kind of disappointing, to tell you the truth.
There's a stack of papers on the end table, something that looks like song lyrics, and she busies herself looking at those for a while. They're actually not terrible, some of them even have music scribbled alongside the words, and Buffy vaguely wonders when Spike got so artistic. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Spike snag a gray shirt off the back of the couch and pull it over his head, covering himself up. Thank god.
He makes his way into the little kitchen area and grabs two beers out of the fridge, handing her one and settling down on the couch.
“What are you doing?” she asks, taking the beer without really thinking about it. His fingers brush hers, his skin warm compared to the cold glass of the bottle. “I thought we were going to practice.”
“We are,” he tells her, rummaging around in the couch cushions until he pulls out the TV remote. “But you’re early and I’ve got plans.”
He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and starts flicking through the channels, until he finally lands on the one he’s been surfing for. Buffy looks at the TV and rolls her eyes so hard it hurts her head a little.
“Your plans are watching Dawson’s Creek?” she demands. God, he is such a weirdo.
“Joey just slept with that moron Dawson again,” he tells her, shaking his head and settling back against the couch. “Don’t see why she’s so hung up on him, the daft cow.”
Buffy stares at him for a few beats, waiting for her to tell her he’s joking, but, nope. He’s apparently serious, and it looks like this is what they’re doing for the next hour. Awesome.
She sighs and sits back next to him, taking a long pull of her beer. Dawson’s Creek it is.
It might not actually be terrible; she used to watch this show with Willow and Xander back in Sunnydale, so she’ll at least have an idea of what’s going on. Or, at least, she thinks she will.
But by the end of the first commercial break, she’s already sort of lost. The last time she watched this show, everyone was in high school, but now Dawson’s in California and Joey’s in New York and no one seems the same as they were before, and it’s just kind of confusing?
Luckily, Spike fills her in on all of it, providing her with some unasked-for commentary about all of the main characters. Apparently, Dawson’s a megalomaniacal asshole, Pacey’s a blind idiot, and Joey’s a fickle moron. Which fits pretty well with what Buffy remembers, actually, so. Maybe she isn’t completely lost after all.
After another twenty minutes, they’re both on their second beers and Buffy can’t stop sneaking glances at Spike every couple of minutes. His hair has finally dried, sticking up in little tufts all over his head, and Buffy keeps catching the stark whiteness of it out of the corner of her eye. He looks strangly normal like this, sitting on his second-hand couch, drinking a beer, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table.
She’s not as caught up in the antics happening in Capeside as Spike seems to be, and she finds herself distracted from the show, thinking thoughts about him that she wouldn’t normally think. Thoughts about how nice he looks without a shirt on, and how nice his voice sounds when he sings, and how he’s even kind of sweet sometimes. At least when he’s not being a huge pain in her ass, that is.
Plus, Spike seems different these days, like he’s softer somehow than he was back in Sunnydale, less of a jerk. He’s still somewhat of a jerk, of course, but it’s just. She doesn't know. He's definitely not quite as horrible as he used to be.
Buffy takes another pull of her beer and wonders what it would have been like if they had met like two normal people -- not mortal enemies trying to destroy each other -- just regular people who spend their nights off drinking beer and watching cheesy prime time soaps. Probably she would still hate him because, let’s be honest, he is pretty terrible, but. She doesn’t know. Maybe not. Maybe they could have been friends.
By the time the show’s over, Buffy’s finished her second beer and she’s feeling pretty good, kind of light and happy and weirdly affectionate towards Spike. She wonders again where Drusilla is, and she figures now is as good a time as any to find out.
Spike’s strumming out the first few chords of a Clash song when she looks over at him and asks, “So what happened to Drusilla?”
He stops playing, his fingers stilling on the strings, but he doesn’t answer right away, just shrugs and looks away. Buffy resists the urge to roll her eyes or say something else, just sits and waits to see if he’ll answer her.
After a couple of seconds, he starts strumming again, just a couple of chords, something that she doesn’t recognize, something slow and sad.
“She left me,” he finally tells her.
“Why?” Buffy can’t stop looking at his fingers for some reason. They’re long and thin and strangely graceful.
“Thought I’d gone soft,” he says, glancing up at her. He looks oddly vulnerable in his thin gray t-shirt, his hair still mussed from the shower. There are dark circles under his eyes. “After the deal with you.”
“Oh.” Buffy doesn’t know what to else say to that, even if part of her wants to apologize, which is insane. Besides, it makes her feel better, somehow, knowing that she’s not the only one who lost something (everything) that night.
Spike doesn’t say anything else, and the silence of the apartment starts to seem terrible and sort of lonely. So Buffy goes over to the drum kit and starts tapping out the beat for “Come as You Are," which was one of the songs Spike seemed weirdly into that first night when he first showed her what to play.
He gives her a sideways smile as he joins in, playing the first few chords and singing the opening lines, his voice kind of quiet and sad.
*
By their show that Friday, Buffy has some more rock-star-appropriate clothes -- black leather pants, white silk tank top -- the result of a fashion district mini-spree that afternoon.
Not that she bought them because of anything Spike said, of course; it’s more than she’s needed to go shopping for forever and the money from their first show needed to go somewhere, and she just feels like she has more energy lately for some reason.
When she finds Spike backstage, he’s putting on eyeliner, a strangely impressive task without a mirror.
“Hey,” she says, watching with fascination as he puts on the make-up. It looks perfect, the lines straight and even and not smudged at all.
“Hello there, Slayer.” He caps the eyeliner and looks her up and down, nodding a little in what looks suspiciously like approval. “Glad to see you’ve decided to play the part this time.”
Buffy rolls her eyes, and he takes a step closer to her. He keeps getting right in her personal space these days, and she keeps not shoving him away for some reason.
“What are you doing?” she asks nervously, edging away from him a little.
He doesn’t answer, just uncaps the eyeliner pencil and moves his hand like he’s going to put it on her.
“Ew, Spike. Gross,” she says, trying to duck away from him. “That’s unsanitary.”
He rolls his eyes. “Vampire, remember? ‘M not gonna give you anything.”
Buffy narrows her eyes, but stops trying to move away from him. When the point of the pencil touches her eyelid, she only flinches a little.
“Oi,” he says, his voice low and intimate. He cups her chin in his hand, holding her head steady. His hands are surprisingly soft, but she can feel where his fingers are calloused from playing the guitar. “Keep still unless you want to lose one of those pretty green eyes of yours.”
She watches him as he applies the make-up and, for some reason, she can’t stop looking at his mouth. He’s concentrating, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his teeth, and he smells disconcertingly normal, like cigarettes and soap and boy. The dim light backstage catches the hollows of his cheekbones, and his face is all sharp lines and bone-white skin and ice-blue eyes. For one brief, insane moment, she wonders what he would do if she closed the half-inch of space between them, pressed her lips against his and kissed him.
Up this close, Buffy can feel his breath against her cheek, cool and unnecessary. It’s weird, his whole breathing like a normal person thing, and she wonders if he does it by habit, or if it's something he trained himself to do.
Maybe it’s easier to get close enough to drain some innocent victim the more human you seem.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing with her.
Oh god, what is she doing? Letting Spike put make-up on her? Thinking about kissing him? Is she insane? What is she even doing here?
She suddenly shoves him, hard enough so that he stumbles back and lands on his ass.
“What the fuck, Slayer?” He sounds pissed, but also kind of hurt, which is ridiculous.
“Stay away from me,” she says.
He looks bewildered. “Are you barmy?”
“Don’t pretend we’re friends, Spike,” she tells him, hating herself for feeling bad for him, sitting on the dirty floor backstage, the stupid eyeliner still clutched in his left hand. “Just. Don’t.”
He stares at her for a couple of seconds, his face hard. She can see the muscles in his jaw twitching and she tightens her fist around her drumsticks, figuring they’ll do just fine for makeshift stakes if he makes a move. They stare at each other for a few beats, and then the stage lights come on and the crowd starts clapping and yelling.
“Right,” he says, pushing to his feet in one quick, graceful motion. He tosses the make-up to the ground and grabs his guitar, slinging it over his shoulder as he stalks past her towards the stage. “That’s our cue.”
*
The show goes really well -- amazingly well, actually -- which Buffy definitely doesn’t expect. She figures they’ll be off-tune and out-of-sync thanks to their fight before the show, but it’s like the opposite happens, and they’re getting out all their rage with each other through the music.
Spike doesn’t look at her once during the show, and she spends the entire night pounding on the drums like they’re his stupid, sallow, not-at-all attractive face. But by the time they finish with their set, the crowd is really into it and Buffy feels almost as amazing as she does when she takes out an entire nest of vamps.
“So, Slayer,” Spike says. They’re backstage again and he's grinning at her, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He’s acting like things are totally normal, like the last time they talked she didn’t insult him and shove him to the ground. God, he is such a psycho. “Wanna go kill something?”
“Jesus, Spike,” she says, horrified. “I’m not going to help you kill someone.”
Spike rolls his eyes so hard it looks like he pulls something. “I meant a demon or some such, moron.”
“You want to help me patrol?”
He shrugs and looks away. “Humans aren’t much of a challenge, you know? But demons,” he looks back at her and smiles. “A spot of demon violence really gets the blood pumping.”
“Your blood doesn’t pump.”
“Come on, Slayer,” he groans. “What do you say? Up for a bit of the rough and tumble?”
She should say no, but she’s still feeling pretty keyed up from the show and there’s a nest of Grathnar demons out near MacArthur Park that she’s had her eye on, and it’d be nice to have some back up to be totally honest.
*
The drive to the park is awkward -- it’s the first time Buffy’s been in Spike’s car, and it feels kind of claustrophobic and weirdly intimate, the windows painted with streaky black paint that blocks out the outside world, so it feels like it’s just the two of them on the road.
Spike turns on the radio, horrible British punk music blaring from the speakers.
She's going to tell him to turn it down, but decides against it, but only because the thought of making small talk with him right now is just about the worst thing she can imagine.
Luckily, the traffic downtown is almost nonexistent -- apparently 2:30 in the morning the only time the city’s not a complete gridlock -- so they make it to the park in record time.
*
The Grathnar are asleep when they get there, which is pretty much the only reason Buffy and Spike manage to make it out alive. They take out the first six in short order, but then three of them back Buffy into a corner, trapping her while Spike’s dealing with a particularly ugly one up near the front of the nest.
At first, Buffy’s not worried, but then the handle on her axe snaps, and they manage to get the upper hand while she tries to readjust. They're way faster than she realized, a blur of slime and scales and teeth.
She scrambles backwards, trying to get at the demons with the broken axe, but they’re gaining ground on her, boxing her in on all sides.
Spike’s nowhere to be seen, of course. Oh god, why the hell did she ever think she could actually trust him on something like this?
She’s pretty sure that’s it for her, but then Spike’s suddenly there, a blur of black leaping on the lead demon’s back. He’s changed into vamp face, his eyes glowing yellow in the darkness, and the look of feral violence on his face actually makes Buffy feel better somehow.
He sinks his fangs into the Grathnar’s neck, and it lets out an animalistic howl, distracting the other two demons so that Buffy can take them out with her broken axe without too much trouble.
When she looks back over at Spike, he's holding the Grathnar's decapitated head in one hand, his other hand wrecked and swollen and bleeding.
*
On the way home, Spike keeps his injured hand cradled in his lap, driving one handed, his jaw clenched hard enough that she can see the muscles twitching in his face. He doesn’t bother with the music this time, and Buffy tries to convince herself that she’s not worried about him.
By the time they get to her apartment, his hand has turned a nasty greenish color, dark red blood oozing from the cuts.
“You going to be okay?” she asks, telling herself that she doesn’t actually care. It’s just that if his hand is permanently messed up, that definitely won’t be good for the whole band thing.
“Fine,” he says through clenched teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping away.
The bite looks like it’s getting worse, and Buffy knows it’s going to be pretty much impossible for him to actually clean it and bandage it by himself. She sighs.
“Come on,” she says, not really sure what she’s doing. This is probably a huge mistake, but whatever. Mistakes seem to be her stock-in-trade these days, so she figures she might as well go with it. “I’ll help you get it cleaned up.”
Spike gives her a look, like he doesn’t quite trust her, but he turns off the ignition and gets out of the car without saying anything. His hand must really hurt.
He stands right outside her door even after she’s inside, looking nervous and unsure. It takes her a second to figure out that he’s waiting for her to invite him inside, even though she’s pretty sure that the invitation from the car should be enough to get rid of any magic vamp barriers.
“Come in, Spike.”
Spike tilts his head a little and crosses the threshold of her apartment, and the look on his face makes her heart stutter in her chest.
Once he’s in there, they both stare at each other for a few beats, the whole being alone in her apartment thing actually sinking in. Buffy feels like she should maybe be freaking out, feeling threatened or on the look-out for some Spikey trick, but mostly she feels tired and also kind of bad that he hurt his guitar-playing hand helping her tonight.
She leads him over to the couch and he sits down, perched on the edge like he’s going to run at any moment. She grabs some bandages out of the drawer on the coffee table and tries not to think about how they're alone in the dim silence of her living room. She next to him, her leg pressed against his and reaches for his hand. His skin is hot and dry, the Grathnar bite jagged and painful looking.
When she swipes an alcohol pad over the wound, Spike only flinches a little, swallowing hard and then turning his head to survey her apartment.
On the end table next to him, there’s a picture of her and Xander and Willow, their heads pressed together to all fit in the shot, the three of them smiling in the bright afternoon sunlight. Spike stares at the picture for what seems like a very long time.
“When do you think you’ll go back, then?” he finally asks. He’s turned back to look at her and is watching her carefully, his head tilted to the side, his eyes soft.
She focuses on finishing up with his hand, pressing the last piece of tape into place. It's still a little swollen, but Buffy thinks he'll be okay.
“I went back once,” she tells him. “About a year ago. They were…they seemed…happy, I think. Going to school, getting jobs, living their lives.”
“On the Hellmouth?”
“I guess it seems less Hellmouth-y when you’re not hanging with the Slayer,” Buffy shrugs and looks down at her own hands. They’re demon-bite free, but her nail polish is way more chipped than Spike’s, which is depressing. She really needs a manicure.
“It’s their loss, you know.” His voice is soft and comforting, like he actually cares about her and her stupid life choices.
His hip is pressing against hers and she leans into him without quite meaning to. He smells like demon blood and soap, and she doesn’t pull away when he turns towards her and ghosts one cool hand across her cheek.
The apartment is silent and Spike is close enough to her that she can feel his cool, unnecessary breath against her throat. Her heart is racing like crazy, and every nerve is her body is screaming at her to pull away, but she doesn’t, even though she knows that this would be the perfect time for him to take her out -- to bite her or snap her neck. He’s killed Slayers before, she knows. Two of them. There’s nothing stopping him from claiming her as his third.
He kisses her instead, his bandaged hand cupped against the back of her neck, the other reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He tastes like whiskey and tobacco, and his mouth is cool against hers. His lips are soft and dry and, for the first couple of seconds, it’s about as chaste a kiss as Buffy’s ever had, like Spike's even less sure of what he's doing than she is. But then he’s opening his mouth under hers, tracing her lower lip with his tongue, and before she really registers what she’s doing, Buffy’s straddling his lap, one knee other either side of his thighs.
Spike tightens his hand on the back of her neck and kisses her like she’s the only thing in the world, like nothing else matters.
When she bites on his lower lip, he growls, this noise that makes her stomach flip and her heart race, and she rocks against him, not even caring how desperate she might seem. No one's kissed her like this since -- well. It's just been a really long time.
Spike slides his hand under her shirt, his cold, clever fingers stroking the sensitive skin of right below her ribcage. She can feel him against her leg, hard and insistent through the rough denim of his jeans, and she should tell him to stop -- she should stop -- but then he cups her breast, brushing his thumb over her nipple, and she gasps and kisses him harder.
After a couple of seconds, Spike shifts, moving so that they're lying down. Buffy's back is against the couch and he's on top of her, the weight of him both comforting and terrifying all at once.
Somehow, being with him like this, it's like nothing else in the world matters -- not the fact that her friends have moved on without her, or that she's all alone, or that this is probably the biggest mistake she's ever made.
She's spent the past three years alone and sad and feeling like everything was cold and terrible and gray. But right now, pressed against Spike, her body feels like it's on fire, and there are these bright flashes of light behind her closed eyelids, fireworks sparking in the darkness.
He's making this kind of low humming noise in the back of his throat and the feel of his skin against hers is making her shiver. She hasn't felt this alive since forever -- since Sunnydale -- and she just wants him so much, no matter how wrong or terrible or screwed up it is.
She’s reaching down to unzip his jeans when an ambulance goes by, right outside her window, the siren blaring so loud that she jumps, pulling away from Spike, and suddenly, it's like whatever spell she's been under for the past few minutes breaks and oh god, oh god. What is she doing?
Spike is still on top of her, one hand fisted in her hair and the other under her shirt, and it takes Buffy a second to get her bearings. Spike’s mouth is still open, his lips wet and swollen, his unnecessary breath coming in gasps. Buffy’s heart feels like it’s beating so fast it might explode.
“Um,” she says. The room's dark except for the fading flashes from the ambulance lights. In the darkness, Spike's features turn red then white then red again.
“I should..." She stops because her voice sounds weird, all soft and rough. She swallows hard and tries again. "I mean, we should...I mean. You should -- you should go.”
“Yeah,” he says, sitting back and scrubbing his good hand across his face. He sounds resigned and more than a little sad, which is something she can’t actually process right now. “Yeah, Slayer. I know.”
*
After Spike leaves, Buffy jumps in the shower and has a panic attack.
She waits for the water to get as hot as possible and then tries to work through what a disaster she’s gotten herself into.
The easy answer would be to stake Spike, of course. He’s a vampire, she’s the Slayer. The whole staking thing is pretty much how these things are supposed to go, after all.
But. He did just save her life. It would probably be really terrible of her to dust someone who risked his life to save her, right?
Plus, he seems like he’s been way less homicidal lately, and it seems unfair to dust him when he’s trying to be so good.
She grabs the shampoo and starts lathering, trying to think of a way out of this whole mess.
Since she can’t stake him, it’s probably best to just never see him again.
The only problem with that, Buffy realizes, is that spending time with him over the last couple of weeks has been nice. Amazingly nice, actually. It’s the first time since she got to L.A. that her life hasn’t been a gaping black hole of despair. Which is insane she knows -- because it’s Spike -- but, well. There you have it.
Plus, she does really like doing the whole band thing with him. And they are getting a lot better at it -- they already have another two shows booked for next week. It would really suck to have to give that up, to have to go back to spending all her weekends either covering shifts for the other waitresses or watching television alone. It doesn't seem fair that even after she's given up her whole life and all of her friends and everyone she loves to be the Slayer, now she has to give up the one thing in her life that isn't completely horrible.
She takes a deep breath and turns her face up into the spray of water, trying to figure out what she’s supposed to do.
Okay, she tells herself, closing her eyes and leaning back into the water to rinse her hair. Fine. Easy. She can for sure hang out with Spike sometimes and not make out with him. That’s totally not going to be an issue.
Except for how it might be because every time she’s near him, she feels kind of warm all over, her skin buzzing and alive. And the look he gave her tonight when she asked him to leave means he probably feels the same way.
And okay, yeah, Spike is ridiculously attractive -- all lean and well-muscled and sharp lines and bright blue eyes -- she’s given up the battle of denying it to herself. He’s also weirdly polite and bizarrely nice, at least when he’s not insulting her or being a huge pain in the ass.
But. He is a vampire. An evil, soulless monster, and he can’t be nice or attractive or kissable. He just -- he can’t. That’s not how these things work.
Ugh, why does everything in her life always have to be so complicated? Buffy runs a hand through her hair and leans her forehead against the cool tiles of the wall.
Tonight was just weird because of the slayage, she decides. She’s always a little revved up after a good slay, all hopped up on adrenaline and violence.
Just, no more slaying with Spike is probably a good idea.
Which is definitely doable. She's spent the last two years doing the slaying thing solo, so it's not like she needs a buddy or anything. And, really, Spike would probably just slow her down because she'd have to spend at least half of her time making sure he wasn't doing something evil.
Okay. Good. No slaying, no making out, and everything will go back to semi-normal.
Buffy turns off the water and steps out of the shower, feeling pretty confident that she’s got this whole Spike thing figured out.
After all, how hard can not making out with Spike be?
*
Part 2 coming soon!