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The last time she’d stepped inside the Bronze felt like an age ago. There’d been a fair bit of bruising between then and now. At least three major battles, an enchanted varsity jacket and a possible house haunting ago. Before ancient evils, terrifying uber-vamps, and prophetic dreams. Sometime around the start of a new school year, and a new career that had come as a surprise, courtesy of a secret son of a former Slayer.
She was sure she’d had bangs, too . And certainly far less bodies inhabiting her house at any given moment. Potential slayers and friends and sisters and enemies and not-significant others...it was a lot of stress on a girl’s household budget and enough to give The Chosen One turned general a persistent migraine.
So yeah, Bronze-ing it. Because an adult beverage (or four) was necessary. And normally she’d extend the invitation to her best friends, but the need for the quiet time was a great one. No thinking, no strategizing, no big living room speeches, and no seriously powerful Wicca slipping into her thinky thoughts. Easier then, to give a half-hearted explanation about late-night patrol, tucking a stake into the inner pocket of her jacket and making sure her simple jeans and t-shirt wasn’t too dressy (though her ankle boots were the only exception to style, but they were also pretty comfy and wouldn’t pinch during her short walk downtown).
The band onstage was loud, and the crowd was surprisingly thin for a Friday night, especially given the hour and compared to her last club night out excursion (at least this one wouldn’t end with a kick to the shin by a lovesick and slightly deranged cheerleader). The lack of crowd was curious, but Buffy couldn’t complain. It’d gotten her a drink almost immediately once she climbed atop a barstool, and the rum in her diet coke was strong and most welcome. It’d only take three to get her good and toasty, and since she was her own designated walker, she fully intended to pace herself, listen to the music and hope like hell it would ease the weight that had settled on her chest since the first Bringer had busted through her living room window.
Lithe fingers twirled the skinny straw in her tall glass, occasionally stabbing at the lime wedge stuck among the ice cubes in between sips that slowly morphed into heavy slurps the longer she sat on her stool. The second glass was stronger than the first and if she didn’t know any better, she’d swear the bartender was a demon. Or at the very least dabbled in the dark drinking arts, because the concoction was a magic one, able to shrink her thoughts to a quiet background buzz.
She was considering signaling he of the heavy-handed pour to inquire about his possibly demon-y background when she felt it; a tingle at the base of her neck. Because of course; after all, it was still Sunnydale and she was still her. The Slayer. All Chosen-y and always on damn duty. The sigh she exhaled was long and heavy, and she turned, attempting to slide off her stool and instead found herself slamming into the very creature of the night responsible for said tingles (and a few others of the past-tense variety).
“Spike?” Buffy looked up, her gaze puzzled and her tone edging on sharp, if only because she’d been fairly startled by his sudden appearance. “Were you following me?”
Spike pursed his lips, cut-glass cheekbones more pronounced by the slight frown. “Came in for a think and a drink. Got a Slayer vibe. Found a Slayer.” He side-stepped and slipped onto the stool next to hers. “Didn’t know you were here til now.”
“Oh.” Buffy pushed up and swung back around, reaching for her drink. “I think I needed the same. Well, not so much with the think.”
He signaled for the bartender, and ordered himself a shot of Maker’s Mark and a beer, letting his gaze drift to Buffy’s sweating glass. “Thought you’d be out on patrol.”
“No need. It’s quiet tonight.”
“That it is.” It seemed they were both doing their part, contributing to the slightly stilted small talk. “Been here long?”
“About one and a half drinks worth.” She made a point to drink then, determined to clear her glass. "Working my way to a third."
"That kinda night, then?" It didn't stop him from tilting his head in her direction once the bartender returned with glasses, or sliding a few folded bills across the bar top to pay for his drinks and hers.
Which Buffy noticed almost immediately and wrinkled her nose at. "You don't have to do that."
"Least I can do, considering." He brushed off the protest with a smooth shrug and Buffy frowned.
“Should I wonder where you’re getting the funds?”
To his credit, there was the briefest pause before he rolled his eyes, almost as if he were second guessing the action.
“Not unless you’ve got a sacred duty to stop vamp shakedowns.” He stopped when he noticed Buffy’s arched brow, and he regarded the silent question with a flat look. “They’re getting dusted anyway. No sense in a few quid going to waste. Ever wonder why the grocery fund’s been real flush as of late?”
Weirdly enough, the logic worked, and she couldn’t really be annoyed about it. Really, the fussing wasn’t worth messing up her rum buzz, so she gave it a short nod. “That’s...oddly noble.”
He gulped at his beer. “Right. Toein’ the soul line.” The line of his broad shoulders was tight, and he was folded in on himself in a manner that reminded her of those early encounters in the school basement. Body battered and mind scattered, all signs of torment by The First and his own personal brand of self-flagellation.
And he wasn't wearing the duster. Instead, it was replaced with a black utility jacket, hip-length and soft-looking and that was almost as jarring as seeing the leather on his rangy frame the other night, after months without it.
Spike downed his shot cleanly, with nothing more than a quick toss of his head and his eyes caught hers once the glass hit the bar top, no doubt feeling her assessing stare. "Summat you need, Slayer?"
Buffy shifted in her seat, and shifted focus back to the bar and the melting ice of her drink. "Nothing. You just...look different." A lame ending, and judging from the raised brow he sent her way, they both knew it.
Things had been tense, to say the least, since the very heated (and very public) exchange of words that had resulted in the reappearance of the coat he’d worn like second skin. They’d faced off like the formidable adversaries of old in the living room, laying truths bare and jabbing at open wounds. There was a hint of the old Spike spark in the flash of his eyes when she’d told him the new and improved model had left her lacking in the fighter department. He’d looked angry enough to strike her, but of course he didn’t. He’d merely backed down, withstood the brunt of it but apparently was spurred by it all to make a choice.
She’d learned sparse details from Willow, who seemed to be the only one up for a discussion the evening Buffy had returned from her mind-bending trip with the Shadowmen, with bonus terrifying glimpse into The First’s uber-vamp army.
Spike had been the one to go after the demon that was sent in her place, which explained the massive person-shaped hole in the second floor that Xander grumbled about repairing. They didn’t know where he’d been and how it all went down, only that he’d returned with a dead demon and the duster back in place.
Long, pale fingers gripped the pint glass, flexing against the cool rim before he lifted it to his lips. “Look about the same,” he offered quietly, with only the barest hint of flinty edge. “Anyway, wasn’t expecting to play foot soldier tonight. Suppose the principal will do, should you need a beck and call.”
The words were a dull prod, like poking at a sore tooth just to feel the ache and Buffy frowned into the glass and finished the rest of her drink. “I don’t need…”
“Got it, Slayer.” The beer he finished in one last, long swallow, letting the glass drop back to the bartop with a muted thunk. “Best not to dwell on it, yeah? You did what you had to do. Play the leader. Psych up the troops, or give ‘em hell for fuckin’ up, all that rot. Maybe you were right. Came back all soul-soft.”
His tone was too detached to be genuine, and Buffy wasn’t entirely sure he knew how easy it was to pick up on. It reminded her of their drunken outing the year before, to the back room of a seedy bar where kittens were currency and everyone was cheating. Spike’s face was hard, but open enough to anyone actually paying attention. Which, much to her annoyance, she had been.
Like now, with his curiously blank expression and her empty glass. She pushed it aside and reached for the new cocktail Spike had bought for her, sipping slower this time. “You handled yourself against that other demon,” she offered. “Guess you’ve still got it.”
“Maybe so. But you've never held back with me. No need to start sparing feelings now.”
It was as honest as it was obnoxious, a combination he managed to perfect, and certainly emphasized, even if he hadn't realized it, the core of him hadn't been altered too much. Still. Buffy rolled her eyes, the response just as familiar. "That wasn't sparing. It was honesty."
"Right." He tipped his beer before draining the glass and let his hand pass over the top when the bartender gestured if he needed another. “I’ll do a quick patrol. See if the thrill of the kill was just a fluke.”
If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was trying his damndest to get the hell away from her. True, she’d made a point of leaving the house alone, and making a good show of drinking alone. But he was here now, and just like the night he proposed leaving town, after the strangest date night she'd experienced in a long time (though at this point, strange was her date night normal), Buffy realized she didn’t want him gone.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“S’not a bother.”
It was yet another sign of the change in him. The old Spike would’ve tried to stay, would’ve poked and provoked an argument just to get her back up (in the hopes that she’d eventually put him on his). But this was different. New and improved Spike, now with softer, shorter jackets and a shiny, if battered soul. There were silences now, and lingering looks and waiting. So much waiting.
And Buffy was sick of waiting. For The First to reveal its big damn plan. For everyone to stop looking at her as if she were Bitch of the Year. For the moment she could really, truly relax. Because the liquor was helping but it was all so temporary.
So the words slipped from her, easy and quiet, but loud enough that Spike managed to catch them above the regular nightly noise of the Bronze.
“Can we just...go someplace else?”
He was still sitting, shoulders shifting slightly when he met her gaze. Really taking a long look at her, at honey green eyes a bit glassy from the drinks she’d been knocking back, but otherwise as clear and big and beautiful as ever, even with the look of weary exhaustion that seemed to take up permanent residence as of late.
So he nodded and pushed off the stool, and offered his hand to her, palm side up and open. “Yeah, Slayer. I might know a place.”
________
They rode on his bike.
The wind was chilly, but not overwhelming, a cool caress against her face, and she pressed her cheek firmly into his shoulder blade, blocking out the incessant noise, whooshing wind and the powerful rumble of the noisy motorcycle. The small blue helmet was incredibly silly, but he’d insisted, and Buffy was glad at least that she’d worn her hair down, figuring it would be a quick fix once they reached their destination. Wherever it was.
Spike hadn’t offered any information on where they were going, and Buffy hadn’t asked. It was the kind of escaping she’d thought about relentlessly last year, when she’d been deeply mired in that dark self-loathing, wanting nothing more than to be drawn further away from her pathetic life. The kind of escaping Spike had suggested a few times; only to be met with a cold shutdown and the occasional fist. The kind of gentleness she couldn’t stand and wouldn’t allow herself. Not from him.
That was then.
Now, she was glad she’d worn her leather jacket, the heavy material keeping the worst of the winds from giving her the shivers and her arms tightened around Spike's middle as they cruised along the highway at a speed that edged on breakneck. They’d passed the ‘Leaving Sunnydale’ sign some time back, but not too far that Buffy would worry about the distance. She’d text her sister once they arrived, and wherever they were wasn’t anywhere they couldn’t get back from if anything happened to go down.
The worries eased, settling further back in her mind, allowing for a tentative bliss only helped by the rum in her system. It wasn’t long after when she could feel the tug and pull of the bike slowing down, and Buffy opened her eyes just as they were pulling into the dirt parking lot in front of a lone building surrounded by a sky full of stars and open night air.
Very much in the middle of nowhere and seemingly the only establishment around for miles. It was a low building, but long, looking as if it were weighed down by the curtain of inky darkness surrounding it, save for the glow of outside string lights wrapped around wooden support pillars There was also a sign, outlined in neon purple and illuminating the picture of a black bird in flight, wings spread. Nothing more, not even a name. Despite the lonely location and the vagueness of the outside it was surprisingly lively. Buffy could just make out the muffled music playing inside once she slipped off the bike, arching her back and shaking out the stiffness in her shoulders from the ride.
“What is this place?” she asked, passing Spike the helmet before doing a brief hair check.
“Corvus. Found it on my way into town a few years back. Came here a lot, summer after you…” He trailed off then with a slight cough, eyes glancing in the distance. The pause wasn’t long, but his eyes held that spaced look when he fixed them on her once more. “Got a diner few miles up the road. Used to take the Bi--Dawn. When I was on babysitting duty.” The helmet he stashed in a small compartment on the bike and Buffy followed when he started towards the door.
“You took her all the way out here? On the bike?”
Spike shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Not that far. And I still had the DeSoto then. Used to let her drive a little. Hell of a lead foot and proper reckless. Might be a Summers thing, that.”
Buffy managed to catch his smile, soft and fleeting as it was before it shifted into the neutral look that was more or less his go-to lately. If things were weird between them, they were far more strained with Spike and her sister, with no significant move to repair it, far as she could tell.
Spike had seemed to accept the new state of things, edging around the youngest Summers, taking care to keep out of her way unless she spoke to him, which didn’t happen often. Yet another casualty completely of his own doing, and he bore the burden with a forlorn quiet that she wasn’t used to from him.
Those thoughts shifted to the back of her mind with a well-meaning shove and she stepped into the bar alongside Spike. Inside, it was loud, but not overwhelming. The music, something old and soulful, was courtesy of a jukebox in the far corner, where a cluster of tables and chairs were placed around a makeshift dance floor. There was some dancing, but mostly it was patrons sprawled on stools or seated at tables, and a few somethings (or someones) in the crowd that sent Buffy's slayer senses tingling.
"Is this a demon bar?" She asked, making sure to keep her voice low.
Spike seemed amused by the effort, shaking his head as he managed to find a pair of empty stools at the bar. "Not explicitly. Friendly to the types, though. No killing allowed on grounds. Owner's some kinda witchy one. Worked a bit of mojo, keeps the violence outside. Saves on broken glasses and bodies to get rid of."
Impressed by that, and relieved not to be needed on high Slayer alert for the time being, Buffy moved to sit beside him. Closer look at the patrons revealed more scales and horns and other features she hadn't caught at the first cursory glance, though she could blame that on the rum. The bar top was worn, but the wood was polished to a high shine, and there were silver bowls filled with cute little white matchbooks with large black birds on them, much like the sign outside and she snagged a couple as souvenirs, tucking them into her jacket pocket.
Their bartender was definitely not human (the luminous violet eyes were a dead giveaway) and seemed to balk at her presence, shifting anxiously between her and Spike who managed to alleviate the nervousness with a low 'Slayer's off duty' and a call for a pint of the strongest and least shittiest beer on tap.
For her part, Buffy ordered a rum and diet coke. It had served her well at the Bronze, and she saw no reason why it shouldn't, here. This one, she’d sip slowly. Unfamiliar setting, unfamiliar people, it was the smart thing.
Just like texting her sister. That, she kept short but informative. Although she left the Spike of it all out of it. Though since he’d started attending the Potentials’ training sessions, there was less of a worry about their resident cellar dweller sneaking off in some kind of evil-induced trance for a late-night murder spree. Despite whatever hold The First seemed to still have on him, the spells had stopped, and Spike had managed to keep a low profile. The air of mistrust lingered, mostly between her friends, a little with the new girls, and generally anyone with good sense to spot a vampire in their midst, even without the baggage. Truly, it was easier to just keep this evening between them.
Whatever the hell was going on.
Currently though, it was just drinking. More of the same from the Bronze, but less with the boredom and listlessness. And a bigger crowd, though Corvus lacked the size and sprawl of the familiar Sunnydale hangout. Buffy chanced a glance over at her unexpected evening companion, drinking in the sharp cut of his cheekbones, his sooty eyelashes skimming the tops of his cheeks when he shut his eyes and hummed along quietly to the song. It was brief, because then he was speaking, his eyes still closed while his fingers reached for his beer.
“You’re starin’ again.”
“With good reason,” she quipped, though turning away to sip at her drink. “You seem...calm.”
“M’alright at the mo. Might be the getting away. Less clomping feet and constant rustling through the cupboards. Damn toilet’s always flushing too. Like a bloody Motel 6, your place.”
“I wish. Someone else would be washing the sheets then.”
She didn’t have to look to know he was smiling, but she caught the faint trace of it between sips. Perhaps it was the change of environment, leaving the pressing strain of Slayer General responsibility and self-righteousness at the Sunnydale city limits.
Or maybe it was him. This place they were in together, something undefined but lacking the raw sharpness from the previous year. The ugliness she clawed and clung to, wanting the bruise of it, wanting to bruise him. The spiral of it all, culminating in that one heinous, ugly act, forever altering them both.
Buffy sidestepped those thoughts with a quickness and stirred her drink, listening to the quiet clink of ice against the glass. “A few weeks ago, you thought about leaving.”
“That I did.” He turned, meeting her questioning look, knowing there was more to it than a random bit of blurting.
“Did you have a place in mind? You know, an ‘on the lam’ plan?”
As she figured, Spike could see through the humor in her wondering, though he offered her another quick, appeasing grin. “Didn’t, really. Figured anywhere outta your hair was best. Away from causing any more trouble than ‘m worth.”
“I don’t think of you as a trouble, Spike.”
“Won’t question the ‘why’ of that.”
His fingers drummed against the bar, fidgeting in a way that she remembered, when he was bored or nervous or angry or just generally himself because he could never sit still. He would distract himself with a cigarette or a good fight...or her body. Those times when the ceaseless wandering of cool fingertips against her heated flesh brought out an urge to crawl away from the tenderness of it or the pleasurable pain, afraid of how much she both hated and wanted it.
“I can’t say I’m brimming with answers myself, really. Rousing speeches, sure. And self-importance, I guess if you’re taking a house poll.” At that, Buffy gave into the urge, downing half her cocktail in a grumpy gulp.
“You were always a bossy chit. Know it’s the reason I like gettin’ you good and brassed off. Plus getting a busted nose for my troubles.” The admittance came with a wry, rumbling chuckle. “Your Scoobies don’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah well, I’ll try to remember that when I’m burying the next body in the backyard.” His jaw tensed, and Buffy couldn’t help but wince at her own words. “Sorry. Kinda bringing the mood down.”
“S’fine. Not exactly singing showtunes as of late, me.”
“Kinda glad for that, after the last song and dance fiasco."
“Fair point.” Spike pushed away his empty glass. And he paused then, as if debating with himself on what to say next, which struck her as unusual. He was, after all, a habitual indulger of impulses. Or used to be. “You were right. I was holding back. Mind's all bent and twisted up. Enough blood on my hands and voices crying out to do my head in. S'what I signed up for though. Knew the price and all. Still struggling to live with the purchase, I suppose." Twitchy fingers discordantly tapped a stray matchbook against the edge of the bar top, stopping abruptly before he spoke again. "But I put that coat on and got the job done, even if I hated you just a little for knowing it was what I needed."
"I shouldn't have pushed," she admitted quietly, taking in the sight of all his pent-up, nervous energy. "Not like that. In front of everyone."
"Don’t blame you for the way it went down. No sense in playing delicate, Slayer. War going on."
"Yeah, but…" How else to explain it? She was never good with words without it being some quip she could bury her real feelings in between. She'd gone and thrown his soul back in his face, in front of everyone and while she was sure she'd been right pushing him as she did, it still rang like a low blow.
Spike shrugged. "It’s you, pet. Even if I can’t trust my own thoughts with The First buggering around in my head, treating my thoughts like its personal playground, I do trust you. Always. Know your mates can say the same, even if they’re singin’ a different tune right now.”
The words squeezed at her chest, and Buffy exhaled slowly, needing a sip of her drink. It was too much. It was just right. And it was also annoying, just how good he was at that. The silences that said nothing. Or the honest words that scraped at her buried feelings. How he recognized the thoughts that still plagued her, the ones she put aside in order to do her job in keeping so many people alive, including herself. She wasn’t that empty shell from a year ago, newly resurrected, mouth still tasting of grave dirt and hating everything around her, feeling as if she was fighting for every second to keep existing. He knew what hurt, and had understood it.
Sensing she might have been just the slightest bit overwhelmed, Spike signaled the bartender for another beer and slid his gaze over to Buffy, her face hidden behind a curtain of loose blonde curls. “The rest of that lot, they’ll come around. If not...offer still stands for thinning the herd. No headache this time.”
She smiled then, just as she did the last time he laid such a suggestion at her feet, a tiny laugh caught between her teeth and the sound of it was enough to bring out one of his own, full lips quirked cockily, in a manner that mirrored the Spike of old.
“Knew you could get a grin, huh?” she asked him.
“Had crossed my mind, yeah.”
A silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Buffy didn’t want to get too deep into her head; the drinking saw to that, though she would have to ease up if she wanted to remain clear and focused.
Her gaze shifted to Spike a few times, and judging from the measured movements of his hands, grasping and lifting his glass, he could sense her watching him. He did his fair share of staring though. When she shifted her long hair over one shoulder, she could hear his sharp intake of breath and the slow exhale that followed.
And while they weren’t saying anything, it was the lack of noise that was comforting. No longer feeling tugged in different directions. Slayer obligation, friend and sister duty, counselor extraordinaire.
It was the song change that got Spike speaking again, the opening string notes not at all familiar to Buffy, but apparently he knew it well. The laugh that slipped out wasn’t exactly pleasant, but definitely curious, so was him downing the rest of his beer.
“Universe's got a sense of humor tonight,” he remarked.
“Huh?”
He twirled his pointer in the air, indicating the music playing around the bar. “Meant the tune, pet.”
Buffy wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t something she recognized, though the voice sounded familiar, but her mind was currently in coasting mode and clouded with rum so thinking was slow going. “I don’t think I know this one.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Spike replied, not unkindly. “More of a b-side to the bigger songs off the album.”
“Album?”
“ Let’s Get it On .”
Which was the title and not a suggestion, as Buffy’s knee-jerk reaction had initially guessed. She sipped her drink, letting the talking lapse into silence while listening, catching bits of the lyrics.
“Huh. This is kinda sad,” she remarked, cutting through the quiet between them. “The song, I mean. It’s sad.”
Spike gave it a shrug and took a generous swallow of beer, licking his lips at the taste. “Not entirely. Fella knows there’s love between him and his bird. But there’s hurt too. Lots of it. Maybe they’ll be happy down the road, but now? Not so much.”
Her look was pointed, but also curious. “That doesn’t sound sad to you?”
“Dunno. Could just be s’for the best, sayin’ goodbye. Doesn’t mean it’s farewell forever.”
That, Buffy felt. Sitting beside the vampire full of complex feelings and bringing out more than a few of her own. Confusion, care, resentment...others she didn’t know if she could (or wanted to) unpack at the moment. The description was a bit on the nose, and for a minute there she wondered if the song choice had been deliberate in some ‘universe sending a message’ way. Still...“I get it.”
“Thought you would. Marvin was a right genius. Saw him live once.”
Green eyes widened. “Marvin Gaye? Really? You saw his show?”
“One of ‘em, yeah. London, around...1976, maybe. Right before me and Dru legged it to the States. Brilliant performer.”
Buffy pushed her empty glass away and gave a small hum. “Huh. That is just...weirdly random.”
At that, Spike just dipped his head in passive agreement. “Live long enough, you end up in a lotta places.”
“Sure. But also, I can’t picture you, decked out punk rocker, grooving to Sexual Healing .” The laughter started then, soft giggles that grew louder the more she tried to imagine it, a leather clad Spike, pale and deadly, hips swiveling to a hot soul track.
“If you’re gonna poke fun, I won’t share”. He was glaring, though working hard to hide a small grin.
“Sorry!” If anything it made Buffy laugh harder, her cheeks warming with mirth. “I think I needed that,” she gasped out. Eventually it settled, and when the amusement quieted down to a few muffled giggles between sips of her cocktail,, she was back to being curious about the reason they’d gotten onto this particular track in the first place. “This night feels strange.”
Spike glanced over, head tilted. “Might be the drinking. Been awhile for both of us, I ‘spect.”
“Well, that too. I guess...I wanted some alone time tonight. A good ol’ fashioned Buffy wallow. But I think it would’ve just made me feel worse. ” She shook her head. “This was a better plan.”
“Guess the resident cellar dweller’s good company for when you wanna be alone.” The self-deprecation wasn’t lost on her, even in the honesty. Though Buffy wasn’t planning to take the bait. She simply matched his truth with hers.
“You always were.”
And she closed her eyes against his stare, focusing instead on Marvin’s lament about being unable to bear the mental strain, questioning exactly how it all ended up like this, with memories of fights and feelings and all the in between.
You set my soul on fire...
When she opened her eyes, Spike’s blues were still drinking her in, though this time he had his hand out.
“What?” she asked, unable to help herself.
“Since we’re here. Alone together, and all. And it’s a proper tune for dancing.”
Any protests were drowned out by the rum liquoring up her logic, and so Buffy met his invitation with a tentative grasp, standing up when he tugged gently and led them out to the tiny dance floor.
There was only one other pair moving in a shuffle, with the rest of the patrons crowded into the surrounding tables and chairs and Buffy figured she should have been a little insecure about being watched, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention.
Still, it was surreal. She could recall doing so many things with Spike. To Spike. Her memories stark and vivid. A sound, like the crunch of cartilage when her fist met his nose in signature greeting. Or the feel of her fingers clutching at his biceps, nails digging into cool skin, losing herself in the relentless grind of their bodies, as hard as they both needed it to be, lost in the sensation and the spiral of more. The sight of him, blissed out beneath her, wrists cuffed in metal and completely at her mercy. It was all there, every bit.
Now, Marvin crooned his sorrow at saying farewell, just as they came together once more, her hand settled at his shoulder while his arm slotted at her waist, the touch familiar even if the setting was new. His hold was gentle, and they stepped in motion, Buffy realizing neither one seemed to be outright leading, just moving on instinct, letting the somber chords of the melody guide them in a steady, continuous shuffle.
Now you see how much you hurt me...
And even if it was true, even if the bad times had outweighed the good ones, even if that line made something hurt deep down in her, where not even the rum could dull it, there was at least Spike’s hold. His arm curled tenderly around her waist, with his other hand still clasped with hers.
A different kind of dance for them. Not with fists or the crash of crushing kisses and the bloom of bruises, outside and in. But a sweetness she didn’t know if she could stand. Buffy looked up, finding him once again watching her, an unreadable expression in blue eyes. Her fingers skimmed his broad shoulder, trailing lightly over the supple material of the unfamiliar black jacket to press against the cool skin of his neck, finding no pulse, only a faint tremble.
And he leaned into the touch, a subtle shift that would’ve gone unnoticed had it not been for the fluttering close of his eyes.
But if you ever need me, I’ll be by your side…
Spike’s hold tightened, keeping them close, their feet still moving in that slow drift to the music, and Buffy’s hand slipped lower, pressing to his chest where her head soon joined, resting her cheek against his soft black jacket just as she did on their windy night ride.
Oh, I never loved nobody like I love you, baby…
His cheek rested at the crown of her head. She was warm, from the alcohol, and her sweet scent was pure Buffy concentrate. Heady and familiar and making him ache. Fond remembrance warring with the shame and guilt that were his regular companions now, along with The First whispering wickedly in his ear, telling him the truths he could fully admit to himself: that he didn’t deserve this.
But the ugliness wouldn’t be able to touch him. Not here, and not now. Not with Marvin on the jukebox and Buffy in his arms. It could all be endured. The fighting, the pain, the self-loathing. He would bear it because she needed him to. And it gave him this. A memory he could tuck someplace The First wouldn’t be able to touch. That Spike himself couldn’t taint. Because he hadn’t demanded it, hadn’t pushed. He offered and she accepted, slipped her hand in his and set them off to a different kind of dance.
God knows we tried, now it’s too late to live and learn…
Their clasped hands rested on his chest, their bodies meeting and moving together almost instinctively. The way his fingers flexed and tightened against her, spoke louder than any heartbeat she might've missed from the quiet hollow of his chest. They remained that way, locked in their silent shuffle as the song came to its sad, but hopeful close. Just as Spike had interpreted. Leaving, but loving all the same, with a wish hanging on the final end note.
All we can do, is we can both try to be happy.
The jukebox soldiered on, shifting to the next song with a drum intro loud enough to knock them out of the moment. Buffy started a bit, jumping in Spike's hold and he automatically released, letting his hands drop and untangling their fingers.
"Sorry," she winced, pointedly ignoring the hoarseness in her voice.
"Don't be," came his quiet, rumbling reply. He smoothed a hand down his slicked back hair, the platinum looking far more pronounced under the bright lights. His eyes met hers, finding the same weighted, searching look in them, wide and green and giving more away than he figured she knew (part and parcel to the alcohol, he was sure), but still as shuttered as she needed to be, and he understood. He really did.
Still…
Spike cleared his throat and that seemed to stir her. Buffy tore her gaze away, finally realizing they were still on the dance floor, the music had changed, and yep, now they were getting looks.
"I...uh, maybe it's time to head back."
Spike gave the suggestion a brief nod. "Can't leave the troops for too long."
"Something like that."
This time, she led and he followed behind, watching her weave around tables and patrons to the front door. The air outside was a welcome change from Corvus' smoky, clustered interior and Spike waited as Buffy took a few breaths before heading to his bike.
He passed her the helmet and climbed on, waiting until he felt the press of her petite and powerful body to his, her arms around his waist and face against his shoulder blade, and then they were off, spinning out of the dirt parking lot and speeding off in the direction of the Sunnydale lights.
They were going too fast for Buffy to catch a glimpse of stars, but the glow of the moon guided them along the highway, occasionally squinting when a lone car passed them on the opposite side. The getting back seemed shorter than the leaving, because all too soon they were breezing past the ‘Welcome to Sunnydale’ sign, and moving seamlessly into its darkened small-town streets.
Things seemed even more shuttered up than the last time she took notice. More storefronts with ‘closed indefinitely’ signs and plywood covering the windows of residential houses. For so long, Buffy wondered just how Sunnydale’s residents lived so obliviously while Hell literally rumbled under their feet but even the oft-ignorant human population appeared to be getting the message and packing up.
It only further highlighted the seriousness and scope of the fight she was in for (if the vision of a thousands-strong Turok-Han army hadn’t already done it). Spike’s motorcycle seemed louder than usual once they turned onto Revello, enough that Buffy was sure someone would be spilling out onto the front porch in curiosity but wisely (thankfully) the front door remained closed and for once, (she hoped) locked.
Her dismount from the bike was less than graceful, but she managed to right herself from completely falling ass over teakettle, slapping away Spike’s hand and its attempt to steady her and giving the bike a baleful look.
“That thing is a rolling deathtrap.”
“Course,” he rumbled. “Think it’s why I like it so much.”
She was still wearing that ridiculous helmet but this time did allow him to help her take it off, shaking out her hair and savoring the cool evening breeze. It was almost sort of sobering, especially when, once the helmet was safely tucked away and Spike had turned, he was looking at her with a questioning gaze.
It had only lasted a few seconds, and Buffy shifted her attention to the house, brightly lit looking inviting, in spite of the household chaos that no doubt awaited them. She didn’t think she could handle any more talks about strategy with her friends, or questions about her whereabouts from her sister, or bickering fights with the Potentials, or how ineffective she seemed to be as their de facto leader (though that seemed to only really come from Kennedy usually and Anya, sometimes). Either way, it all sounded like a good way to crash the semi-decent buzz she had, whether from the liquor or just putting aside her problems for the night in a non-destructive way.
“I think I’m stalling.”
“Don’t have to go in just yet.” Spike nodded towards the backyard. “Could sit outside for a spell. Nice enough night.”
It was way more accommodating than he needed to be, but Buffy figured he also wasn’t as eager to be indoors either. Creature of the night, it being night hours, and the basement being dank and far too quiet (though that part was probably a good thing). Still, she followed him around the side of the house, shaking her head when Spike hopped the fence.
“There’s a gate, you know,” she chided, but followed suit, adding a bit of spinning flair to her far more graceful leap (take that, rum and cokes).
“More fun this way,” was all he said. The back porch steps were a familiar setting, the pair sitting side by side and taking in the evening’s quiet. It was there that Spike lit the first cigarette she’d seen on him for the evening, and she watched as he was careful to keep the smoke away from her.
“Huh. That’s new.” Buffy nodded at the lit cigarette. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”
“Didn’t have my lighter, either. Found it with my coat.” Spike took a long drag, and an equally slow exhale, the menthol-flavored smoke spiraling into the darkness. “Tough habit to break.”
Buffy sighed. The smoke didn’t bother her. Besides, it was hardly noticeable, the scent coming from the honeysuckle that had nearly overtaken the southern part of the back garden overpowering any lingering tobacco. It was sweet and sharp, a pleasant companion to the cool evening and the sky full of stars. It made her less inclined to delve further into thinkier thoughts. Resisting the urge to unpack their moment at the bar, and the song she hummed in her head. It’d be easy to explain it away as a momentary lapse in judgement, or solely a comfort thing. But it was definitely not the former, and the latter...it was best to let it be what it was in that moment, and how it made her feel now, with him.
Good.
It was quiet again, so quiet that Buffy was considering asking him something just to break the silence, but then his voice sliced through it all once more, startling her out of her overthinking with an unexpected tangent. “Gonna wear it again. The coat. Still tryin’ to shake the feelin’ of it all being a costume. But we’ve got a fight comin’. I’ll be ready, whenever you need me.”
Buffy didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know if there was anything to say. His battle feeling entirely internal, and that, well...it was understandable. And she wanted to return the gesture, the way Spike had so easily gotten her out of her head, if only for a few drinks’ worth and a dance she didn’t intend to dwell on, but simply savor.
So she found his hand in the dark, slender fingers threading with his larger ones and she dutifully ignored his start of surprise at the touch, but focused on the reflexive tightening of his grip, cool and familiar and reassuring.
And Buffy looked up, taking in the sight of the stars, and the smell of honeysuckle, listening to the nighttime sounds, alone together with the vampire at her side.