Some nights are just like this: all about sitting and smoking and drinking and smiling. Even though his mind likes to be busy, Spike doesn't need the distraction of a book or a newspaper or a deck of cards: he's got a lot going on in there, and most of it? It's fucking great.Idly, as he sits and smokes and drinks and smiles, his fingers take a few
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Comments 52
"Better keep the bounty hunting job. You'd get nowhere as an architect."
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Spike rests the toe of his shoe on the chair to his left, pushing it back from the table. "I think this particular chair has your name on it, ma'am. Care to join one hell of a lousy architect for a drink?" Reaching behind him, his hand finds her arm. Yeah, just as warm as it was earlier; about halfway up her arm his hand meets a familiar piece of fabric. She's wearing one of the shirts he got on Outpost 12 from the oversolicitous salesman there in the menswear department.
Grinning to himself, he wonders if she's wearing anything else. Well, hell, of course she is: there's that whole no-naked-in-the-bar rule. But in his daydream she sure as hell isn't.
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She bends to kiss the side of his face, then sits in the chair he pushed away from the table, and swipes one of the cigarettes still out.
It's her first in over 24 hours and yeah, she's been counting. It's fucking hard to quit and while she's not going to bitch about it, she's not going to pretend it's otherwise.
And maybe she's wrong, but she's pretty sure Spike's not quite the chimney he was before the doctor visit, too.
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It's just now coming back, and it's all thanks to her.
Even if he is a lousy architect. "But lucky for you, I'm a hell of a pilot." He glances around the bar, then lowers his voice. "And I'm also really good with my hands. I heard a rumor to that effect, anyhow." He rests one of those really good hands on her thigh: her jeans are impossibly soft.
He's just kind of delighted by almost everything right now. He's not this easy every day.
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She tries to sneak up behind him intending to cover his eyes and say guess who. But it's Spike, he probably knows she's there. Still, ya gotta try everything once.
Sneak, Stella sneak!
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It's all instinct: in a flash, he's on his feet and his hands are around whoever's wrists and twisting them around and there, got you, you bastard, no one sneaks up on me and threatens me where I live and...
"Oh, fuck."
The very next thing he does is help Stella up off the floor. "Shit, Stella, I'm really sorry, but you shouldn't do that to me. I didn't hurt you, did I?"
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"I... damn, I'm real sorry, Stella. You didn't know. You didn't know. I'm a... I do martial arts. What you did? Kicked all my years of training into high gear, put me on alert. One of the first lessons is how not to let someone sneak up on you from behind. I... that side of me just took over."
Pulling out a chair, he motions for her to sit. "Fuck. I'm... I feel bad. Get you anything?"
Spike shakes his head: he hasn't had cause to use force here in a year and a half. Stella's lucky he didn't pull out his gun, start shooting, and ask questions later.
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