Chapter 7:

Needless to say, Spike wasn’t exactly looking forward to the interview. He was rather embarrassed about his half-assed attempt at a good argument at lunchtime. He’d expected that teasing her would help her get back to normal. If the chit was anything like him, arguing would help her feel normal.

Sodding hell. Since when did he care about helping her?

Spike stabbed his fag out on the metal plating of the vent in the roof of his bathroom. He was crouching on top of the toilet and had been smoking into an air vent. Since his Da had cracked down on what he termed “rebellious actions”, Spike’d had to practically bend over backward just to sneak a smoke.

He hopped off the top of the toilet seat and arched his back, wincing as his vertebrae cracked. Or bend over forward.

“Spike!”

He cringed as he heard his father’s voice. “Yeah?” he hollered back, trying to keep the animosity out of his reply.

“There’s a girl downstairs who wants to speak with you!”

“Uh—yeah, just let her in,” Spike called back. “Be down in a few.”

Christ, now his clothes’d smell like smoke. Trust Summers to show up early for something neither of them wanted to do...

He shoved his pack of Camels in a pocket of his duster and slipped out of the bathroom. When he heard his father and mother interrogating Buffy, he winced. The other reason he hadn’t wanted her to come anywhere near his house was because of his insipid, idiotic parents.

“So, Buffy, what is your career path once you exit high school?” he heard his mum ask as he came down the stairs.

“Well, I haven’t really—that is, I—“

“Hm, interesting,” the older woman murmured. “Refusal to answer implies an inherent fear concerning life after the school environment is displaced,” she said offhand to her husband.

“Uh-huh,” was his Da’s response.

“No! I’m not being avoid-ey, I just haven’t though about it is all,” Buffy babbled. “I mean, I have a very—very simple philosophy. I’m big on the living in the moment, and day-seizing, and stuff.”

Spike sighed impatiently. Poor girl sounded like she was ready to melt into the floor. Better go help her, he thought, striding into the foyer—and stopping right before he walked into the light.

His parents had finally succeeded in driving him bug-shagging crazy. He’d come within an inch of actually helping Buffy Summers. He’d felt sorry for her and then gone off to play the white knight.

Bloody hell.

He would have slunk back up to his room and waited for his mum to finish interrogating Buffy before sending the blonde’s remains up, but unfortunately for him, his dad heard him. “Come on in, son.”

He grimaced and walked into the foyer, keeping his shoulders hunched. “Yeah, Da?”

“Who’s the lovely young lady you’ve brought home?” his father inquired.

Spike rolled his eyes. Despite the fact that his father was ten years younger than his mother and hadn’t even been man enough to take her name when they’d gotten married, he still treated Spike in this idiotic proprietary manner that drove him mad. “Name’s Buffy, Da.”

“That we know, William.” His mother sounded dryly amused, which was actually worse than his father’s idiotic condescending.

“She’s a cheerleader at school. We’re doin’ a project together for English. Which is why she’s here, so we’ll just—go now.”

“Is that the only reason she’s here, William?” his mother inquired, studying him with sharp eyes.

“Uh, yeah.” Suddenly the room felt a bit too hot. Buffy was wearing a very short skirt, he noticed suddenly, and the way she was biting on her lip was really very adorable.

He couldn’t take it any more. There was no was in hell he was gonna get a hard-on standing in his parents’ foyer. Hard-on...Buffy....Buffy on his hard-on...

Bleeding hell, he was gonna go insane. Hurriedly he grabbed Buffy’s hand, trying hard to ignore the way just touching her hand (which was admittedly rather a lot more than he’d ever done before) was making his skin feel like it was on fire.

“Hey! What are you—“

“My room’s this way,” he interrupted, tugging her towards the staircase. “We’ll go up there, yeah?”

“I don’t see what your problem is,” Buffy whined, following Spike upstairs. “I was just talking to your parents, which by the way is part of the stupid project, and—“

“Mum was psychoanalyzing you,” Spike informed her. “And I didn’t drag you out of there ‘cuz I felt sorry for you, I dragged you out ‘cuz I don’t fancy hearin’ about your shortcomings for the next sodding week. So lay off it, a’right?”

“Whatever,” she snapped, following him into his room—or to the doorway, anyway. Spike was halfway to his desk when he realized she wasn’t following.

He turned around. “You comin’, or what?”

“Your room’s...” she looked around, wrinkling her nose. “Weird,” she finished.

His eyebrows went up. “Weird?” He repeated almost incredulously. He looked around his room. Black walls covered with posters of the Sex Pistols, the Ramones, and AC/DC; black carpet, littered with black clothing; black sheets, rumpled from sleep; desk covered in—oh, bugger—books...with the exception of the desk, which he knew damn good and well was out of place with his rep, it was a pretty ordinary room.

And Buffy wasn’t coming in. For some reason, that was really gettin’ on his nerves.

“Yeah, weird. It’s all black and stuff.”

“Black’s m’ color, luv, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he informed her with a smirk on his face.

“It’s not a color,” she shot back, still teetering at his doorway, rocking on her toes and clutching her hot pink clipboard but refusing to enter.

“Bloody hell, Summers, would you just come in here already?” he burst out impatiently.

“Uh-uh.” She shook her head in an astonishingly childish manner, still rocking back and forth.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Spike snapped impatiently. Fine, then. If she wasn’t gonna come in on her own, he’d help her out. Lunging forward and grabbing her wrist, he yanked her inside.

*

Okay. One of the reasons Buffy had been way scared to go into Spike’s room was because of the clothing that was like all over the floor.

The other reason was because, well, it was Spike, who despite his bajillion shortcomings was still really hot. And this was his bedroom, for crying out lout. His very soft-looking bed was only a few feet away! And Spike just expected her to walk in, cheerful as you please.

There is no way.

Unfortunately there was a way, in the form of Spike’s hand getting a-hold of her wrist and pulling it forward.

Almost in spite of herself she shrieked and flew forward. She would have been able to gracefully stumble into his room—well, okay, there was no such thing. But she would have probably been able to get away with just stumbling if it wasn’t for a pair of black jeans that caught on her heeled sandals and sent her flying forward—

Humiliatingly enough, right into Spike’s arms.

She generally didn’t believe in the fireworks-and-freeze-frame routine, but she could have sworn that for a fraction of a second the only things in the world that existed were her, Spike’s incredible blue eyes, and his steely arms, holding her tight.

Oh. And her heart, which was thumping so wildly she swore it was about to break out of her chest.

“Eeek!” She shrieked again and hurriedly jumped back. But it was too late. For an eye blink, she hadn’t thought about Spike as her arch-nemesis. He’d just been a really, really hot guy whose bedroom she was in.

Wonderful. Now the interview’s gonna be a Buffy Blush-a-Palooza.

He settled himself down on his bed, pointing to his desk chair. “Sit.”

Why did it sound more like an order than an invitation? But Buffy, being flustered and horny and therefore in no mood to argue, sat anyway.

“So...um...” she looked down at the clipboard. As Spike had told her, Mr. Giles had given them a list of questions, but a note at the bottom said they could also ask whatever questions they liked as long as they were related to the project—so she had a little wiggle room.

Wiggle. Her wiggling in Spike’s arms. Yum...

“No,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head.

Spike cocked an eyebrow at her. “Though I was supposed to be the one answerin’ questions, luv.”

“I—you are. I was just thinking,” she snapped. “Okay. Um. Question number one: how is your relationship with your parents?” Yeah, that was it. Stick to the teacher’s questions and she’d be okay.

“You saw the buggers, think you can answer that.”

She gave an impatient sigh. God, he was annoying...” Yeah, but I have to have an answer from you for the project.”

“Right, then. M’ mum’s a control freak. M’ da’s such a cowardly ponce that he let m’ mum give me her last name instead of his. They fight all the time, and when they’re not at each other’s throats they’re givin’ me hell. That tell you what you need to know?”

She was scribbling as quickly as possible, trying to get it all down. “Um...what’s a pounce?”

“Ponce,” he corrected. “’s an idiot, a nancy-boy.”

“Oooh, I get it,” Buffy said. She wrinkled her nose. “That’s kinda mean.”

“’s the truth,” Spike said peacefully. “Next question.”

“What is your home life like?” she read in her best serious-reporter voice.

Apparently it wasn’t as serious as she’d thought it was, because he burst into laughter.

“What now?” she snapped, more than irritated.

“You sound like Pamela Anderson when she was hawking that book of hers,” Spike explained, smirking. “Dumb blondes tryin’ to be serious...’s a laugh riot.”

She glared at him. “Hello—interview?” she reminded him, holding up the clipboard.

“Right. Home life. Eat, sleep, repeat,” he snapped. “Sodding hell, Summers, can’t you come up with anything more interesting?”

“They’re the same questions you were gonna ask me if I hadn’t kicked you out,” Buffy told him, pouting, “So shut up and answer.”

“How the bleeding hell ‘m I s’posed to do both at once?” Spike inquired, grabbing a black baseball from his nightstand and tossing it up in the air.

“Just answer the question, then,” Buffy ground out. God. How could she ever have thought he was even the tiniest bit hot? He was an annoying pig!

“Already did,” he drawled.

She blinked. He was right. Dammit. “Okay, fine.” She looked down at the clipboard. The next question was, what is your relationship with the interviewer?

“Wonderful,” she muttered, before saying out loud, “Mr. Giles wants you to tell me what your relationship with me is.”

“What?” Was it just her, or was his voice higher than usual? “That doesn’t make any sodding sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Buffy agreed, frowning down at the paper. “Wait, hold on—it also says, ‘Please specify as to when you met the interviewer and what your feelings were towards him/her at that point in time, as well as detailing your present relationship.’”

“So Brit-Boy wants our whole history, then?” Spike threw the baseball up so hard it hit the ceiling. Buffy blinked and bit her pen. Wow. He could get violent really fast.

“Let’s see,” Spike began. “Met you—um, five years ago.”

“You so did not. I didn’t even move here till I was a sophomore, dumbass,” Buffy insulted him.

“And I met you in eighth grade. Cordelia’s pool party, remember?”

Buffy frowned. Eighth grade...pool party...oh yeah, she remembered that. Tyler had been there, it’d been the first time she’d seen him. He had looked sooo cute in his black trunks—but...”I didn’t see you.”

“Well, okay, saw you, then. Didn’t talk to you. I was only there to put the purple dye in the bint’s pool.”

“That was you?” Buffy scowled at him in renewed outrage. “It took her like three months to get the stain off!”

“Stupid chit’d insulted me a few days ago, what the hell was I s’posed to do?”

“Whatever.” Buffy dismissed it with a wave of her hand. She so didn’t feel like taking a walk down memory lane right now. “Anyway, specify your feelings towards me, please.”

He gave her a funny look. It was clear he thought she sounded silly, saying what Giles had written in her normal voice. Which, she’d admit, it kinda did. “Dunno. All I remember is seeing you...thinkin’ you were...” he trailed off, staring into space.

“Thinking?” Buffy prompted, doodling on the paper in front of her.

He sighed. He sounded irritated, even impatient. “Thinking you were the most stuck-up chit ‘d ever seen in m’ life.”

The pen slipped on the paper, causing her to draw a huge, ugly black line through the cute little rainbow she’d been drawing. Buffy made a face and quickly scribbled down what he’d said. For some reason, his answer has surprised her—maybe even hurt her a little. Well, come on, Buffy. What were you expecting him to say, that he was madly in love with you and wanted to spend the rest of eternity in your arms? Get a grip, her inner Cordy snapped at her.

“Fine, then.” Her voice was brisk, but not as brisk as she wished it was. She still sounded all...girly. Hurt, even. Which I’m not. Nope. Not one little bit. “Present relationship?”

“You’re a bitch an’ I know it,” Spike said casually.

Buffy sighed. “Do you always have to be like this? Before you got all mean, we were almost having a conversation!”

“All the more reason to start fightin’ again, don’t you think?” Spike inquired. “God knows, the day we become friends is the day the soddin’ world ends.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Okay...describe your friends.”

“Right, then. ‘ll start off with Red...”

The interview went on for almost an hour. At the end of it, Buffy’s hand was cramped, her eyes were tired, and she was fairly certain that the ceiling was gonna crack and fall down on their heads if Spike hit it with that baseball one more time. “That’s the end.”

He glanced over at her. “What d’ya know. Time flies when you’re bored to tears.”

“Ha-ha,” Buffy said sarcastically, but even she noticed that her reply wasn’t exactly as mean as it could have been.

In fact, it sounded almost friendly.

At that thought, Buffy leapt up. “It’s late, I should go.”

Spike sat up and looked at her, smirking, clearly amused. “’s only six o’clock,” he pointed out.

“And I have dinner, and homework, and—stuff,” Buffy said defensively. “So I’ll just—go now.” She edged toward the door, once again super-aware of the fact that Spike’s bed—with Spike on it!—was only a few feet away.

He stood up and sauntered towards her. “I’ll just walk you out, then,” he said, still wearing that infuriating smirk.

“I think I can walk downstairs all by myself, thanks,” Buffy said sarcastically.

“Wanna end up talkin’ to my mum for the next hour?”

Buffy almost shuddered at the image. A few minutes with that uber-bitch had been more than enough. “Okay, point taken. Let’s just get this over with!”

“Right.” Spike’s face, which up until then had been playful, suddenly became closed off, almost hostile. He pushed past her and led the way downstairs.

Buffy followed, wrinkling her nose at his back. She didn’t think she’d ever met anyone who got so mad at eensy-weensy things before. It was kind of cute...in a super-annoying way, of course.

He opened the door and stepped aside, clearly wanting her to leave. Just before she stepped out into the evening light she paused and said, “Spike...” she trailed off, unsure.

“Yeah, pet?”

She took a step forward so that she was only about six inches away from him. Tilting her head up, she smiled a little and said, “Thanks for not kicking me out.”

“Any time,” he said, his face completely devoid of any sardonic expression.

His eyes were really very blue...almost unaware of what she was doing, Buffy began to sway forwards. She was less than an inch away from touching Spike when—

“Spike Walsh, get in here!” His mother’s voice pierced the stillness.

Buffy jumped away like she’d been burned. She blinked, there was a flurry of movement—and then she was facing a closed door where Spike’s body had been.

She should have been mad. All things considered, she really ought to have been utterly furious.

But instead, only one thought was in her mind as she walked home: What the hell just happened?

~*~

 

Chapter 8:

~*~

Two days passed, way too slowly for Buffy’s taste. She continued to hang out with Spike’s friends, although after that interview, she hardly saw Spike himself. Generally he skipped lunch and either hung out in the library or the computer lab—which, Buffy kept telling herself, was just fine with her. Oz, Willow, Fred, Anya, Xander, and Faith were plenty of company for her. Uh-huh. Plenty.

Now it was Friday night, and she was getting ready to go to the Bronze, a local underage club. But her preparations weren’t of the usual sort, and it was bothering her.

Usually, Friday and Saturday were both really busy days for her—shopping and Bronzing till she and her friends were just about ready to die. But ever since that fateful—and silly, but Buffy was too depressed to laugh at it much—fallout, not a single one of her old friends had talked to her. With the exception of calls from Willow and Faith, her phone had been silent. It was really kinda lonely.

Willow had managed to talk her into going to the Bronze with Spike’s crowd, but she was still really unsure about the whole thing. She knew Cordy, Harmony and company would be there; they always were on Friday nights, and up until a few days ago Buffy would have joined them. In fact, she’d gone to the Bronze for almost as long as she could remember—but she’d never seen Spike or anyone there before.

She finished clipping her hair back and glanced at her silent phone, sighing. “God. Why did I let Wills talk me into this again?” She stepped back and studied her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a simple black skirt that fell just to her knees. The hem was cut at sharp angles, making it fun instead of boring. Her red top was sparkly and accented her blonde hair well. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, but it was enough to make her eyes look bigger than usual and her lips cute and pouty.

She didn’t think she looked half as good as she usually did, but she just sighed. Oh, well. Not like there’s anyone I want to impress. Spike probably wouldn’t even be there...

Her stilettos fell from numb fingers when she realized what she’d just though. No. There is no impressing! Or—or wanting to impress! None whatsoever!

It was kinda hard to lie to herself in her head.

“Damn it,” she muttered, quickly strapping on her shoes. “Stupid Spike with his stupid hair, and his accent, and—uh-uh.” She shook her head firmly. “Not gonna go there. I hate him. Really, really hate him. Yep. There is lots of hateyness where Spike Walsh is concerned.”

She was still repeating that, like it was her frickin’ mantra or something, when she walked out the door.

*

Why the hell had he let Red talk him into this?

‘Course, Red could talk just about anyone into just about anything. She was skilled that way. But this was Buffy Summers she was talking about.

Red’d begged him to come, saying that Buffy would need as much company as she could get. It was, she’d argued, bound to be stressful for the blonde, since Queen C and her minions held court there every Friday and Saturday night.

He really should have said that if it was so damn stressful for the bint, she could just stay home.

It was bad enough, really, that he’d almost slipped up the day of the interview. He’d been a hair away from telling her he’d though she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life that time at Cordelia’s pool party.

That would have been the biggest bloody mistake he’d ever made in his life.

And now he was getting ready to hop into the DeSoto and drive off to the Bronze like he just couldn’t wait to spend his Friday night with one of the biggest bitches on the planet. Wonderful.

Except he knew that she wasn’t. One of the biggest bitches on the planet, that is. She’d had two days to tell everyone about his fucked-up family, and she hadn’t. Buffy Summers, the one thorn in his side who just wouldn’t go away, had kept her mouth closed about his parents.

That alone was enough for him to rethink the ‘Buffy-is-a-bitch’ theory.

But still, he didn’t want to talk to her, or even look at her, at the Bronze. Stupid chit and her sodding resolve face, he thought with a scowl as he drove towards the Bronze.

He parked in an alley a few blocks away and got out of the car, tossing on his duster—California nights could get damned cold.

His footsteps echoed in the near-empty streets as he strode towards the club, mind on who he might find to help him get his mind off a certain blonde cheerleader. There was a girl he’d seen there the other night—what was her name? Sheila, that was it...bit dumb, but God knew he seemed to like the dumb ones. Irritation coursed through him—there he went again, going right on back to Buffy. He walked a bit faster. Bugger, he’d parked farther out than he’d thought...

He rounded the corner nearest the club and crashed right into someone.

They let out an “Ooomph!” and went careening backwards. Out of reflex, Spike grabbed the person...only to find that it was a she, and that she, whoever she was, had a damn nice body. He wrapped his arms around her under the pretense of helping her right herself. Mm...warm curves, nice breasts...

“God! Could you get any more clumsy?”

He jumped back like he’d been burnt. “Bloody hell,” he groaned. “I just can’t get away from you, can I?”

Harmony glared at him. “That is so you, like almost mowing me over and then accusing me! Why can’t you be more sensitive, Spikey? You’re like the worst boyfriend ever!”

“Don’t see how you could know,” he shot back, “Seeing as how ‘ve never gone out with you.”

“Spikey...” Harmony sighed. “This is another one of your issues that we totally need to talk about. You never want to talk about your real feelings.”

“Harm, how many times’re we gonna have to go over this? ‘m not your—“

“See, there you go again!” Harmony pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re like completely denying the truth—“

“That’s because it’s not the truth!”

“Oh, come on, Spikey,” a new voice said. “You know you’re like totally in love with her.”

Buffy materialized out of the darkness. She wore a smug grin and clothes that clung to her curves, leaving very little to the imagination. Bugger—Spike didn’t know whether to throttle the chit or press her up against the wall and ravish her.

Buffy nodded to Harmony. “Hey, Harm.”

The other blonde eyed Buffy coldly. “Oh look, it’s Gutter Girl,” she said snidely.

“Huh?”

“Oh, please,” Harmony said, rolling her eyes. “Only like a total ho would wear that outfit!”

Buffy stared at her former friend with wide eyes that, though Spike saw mostly anger, were also hurt. “Harmony, I—“

“Save it,” Harmony advised. “Everybody knows that you’re like so totally out. And when you start hanging around Willow Rosenberg...” Harmony raked her eyes up and down Buffy’s form. “Well, let’s just say—Cordy would probably talk to a whore first.” And with that, Harmony smirked, ran a finger across Spike’s chest too quickly for him to push her away, and went inside.

Spike watched her enter, a sneer on his face. Stupid sodding bint barely even held a candle to that Cordelia bitch, much less...he turned to Buffy.

She was staring into space, clutching her purse. Her nostrils were flaring and the dim lighting made the tears in her eyes glimmer. Despite the fact that three-quarters of the time he wanted to wring her neck, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Losing her mates like that had to be rough.

So when she wiped the tears away angrily and looked at him like she expected him to attack her, he didn’t. Instead he just said, “’s gonna be okay, you know.”

“How?” Barely a whisper.

His brow furrowed. “Well,” he began, frantically trying to think of things, “You’ll make more friends. Red likes you—God knows why—an’—“

“No,” she interrupted. “I mean—how can she just go all catty on me? I thought...I mean...”

Spike didn’t know what to do. Not once in his life had he ever had to deal with whatever she was dealin’ with now. “Dunno, pet,” he said, shrugging. “Hell, I barely understand half of what comes out ‘f that bint’s mouth. What’d she mean, you’re out?”

Her mouth twisted in a sardonic half-smile; Spike decided to consider that progress. “Out of the group. You know—Cordy, Parker, Harmony, Veruca...Angel...” Her face twisted again.

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t go crying over that ponce,” Spike said, irritated—over what he wasn’t sure. “He’s a complete nancy, not even worth your tears.”

She froze and raised her head to stare at him, so quickly that Spike didn’t have a chance to look away. Instead, he just stared steadily at her. Let her read what she would in his eyes. God knew he sure as hell didn’t know what he was feeling.

After a moment Buffy smiled at him. “Tha—“

“Summer, ‘f you thank me, I’ll knock your soddin’ block off,” Spike interrupted. What was wrong with him? Comforting the biggest thorn in his side—he was going insane.

She nodded. “Right. Gotcha. No thanking.” Another awkward silence.

If someone didn’t talk, Spike was going to lose it completely. “S’pose we should go in, then?”

Buffy latched onto that suggestion immediately. “Yeah! I—I mean, uh-huh, that would be—good,” she stuttered, and practically ran for the door.

Only problem was, so did Spike. Her little body collided with his—and she made it worse by wiggling to get into the doorway. Spike’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head by the time she was through. “You know, you could warn a fellow before you—“ He paused. She was walking through the club as quickly as possible, little ass swaying, skirt riding up with each step.

And then it happened. Just like in the lunchroom, only instead of a twitch, it was more like a jump. A high jump.

“Oh, God,” he muttered, following her into the club. “Here we bloody go again.”
 

Chapter 9:

~*~

Buffy was looking around hesitantly, trying to find Willow and the others, when Spike caught up to her.

She rolled her eyes reflexively. “God,” she snapped, all traces of their former talk gone from her voice, “Puppy-dog much?” Actually, he’d make a really good puppy dog, following her around like a slave...oh, God. Where had that thought come from? Buffy forced herself to stop thinking about slave-Spike.

“Just figured you’d wanna know where all the cool kids hang,” Spike said in a snide voice.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Oh, please,” she began, but someone cut her off.

“B! Wassup?”

Buffy rolled her eyes but greeted Faith nicely enough. “Hey, Faith. Who’s your date?” She eyed the guy standing beside the brunette.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Faith laughed tipsily. “This is Devon. He’s the lead singer in—“

“Oz’s band,” Spike finished for her. “How you doin’, mate?” he added, eyeing the man up and down with a faintly protective air.

Devon raised his eyebrows. “Man, I’m still recovering from dating Cordelia.”

“Right.” Spike nodded and tilted his head up. “Good. Red’s up there.”

Buffy followed his gaze and let out an incredulous snort. “You guys hang out on the balcony?”

Devon frowned at her. “There something wrong with that?”

She abruptly remembered the fact that she was supposed to be friends with these people, not make it her life’s goal to insult them. “N—nothing,” she stuttered, smiling ingratiatingly. “I just don’t think I’ve ever been up there, is all.”

Devon gave her this look. She couldn’t really describe it—it was an “I-know-what-you’re-up-to” look mixed with a “you-stupid-bitch” kinda thing. He glanced at Spike. “Dude, I need to talk to you.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “Either say what you wanna say in front of Summers or keep you mouth shut, Devon.”

“Fine. Buffy Summers is a bitch, no one likes her, so why the hell are you talking to her?”

Buffy’s mouth fell open in outrage. How dare he stand there and insult her! She was not a bitch! Well, okay, she had been, but as of three days ago she was so totally reformed! “Okay, you know what?” she snapped. “I have no idea how Faith puts up with you. I mean, yeah, the stoner-boy thing is kinda hot, but I’d rather put up with Harmony.”

To her surprise, Faith laughed. “Damn, B, way to kick my boyfriend’s ass,” she said, grabbing Devon’s arm.

Buffy just looked at her. Was that a compliment or an insult?

“Faith, why don’t you take Buffy on up?” Spike suggested, keeping his eyes on Devon. All of a sudden, Buffy found herself very, very glad he wasn’t looking at her. They’d fought for like forever, but he’d never looked at her like he wanted to kill her. And, okay, she doubted he’d kill Devon in the middle of the Bronze—but she was still glad he wasn’t looking at her.

Faith looked at him like he was insane. “I’ve had three frickin’ margaritas already. I am not doing those.” She pointed at the stairs before turning back to Devon with a sly smile. “I could do you, though...”

Surprisingly enough, Devon allowed Faith to pull him away from what Buffy was starting to think was a major testosterone thing, what with the staring and the growling and all. It was seriously weird and frankly, a little bit creepy.

So really, she was glad when Willow waved at her from the balcony and called down, “Buffy! You’re here!” She had to shout to be heard over the music.

“Uh, yeah. Just got here.” She tried for a smile, succeeding only a little.

“Well, come on up! What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation signed in blood?” Willow yelled back, grinning at her own joke. Buffy smiled, too, and went up the stairs.

“I’m sooo glad you could make it.” The redhead began gushing as soon as Buffy’s foot hit the top step. “I had to talk Spike into not kicking you out of here the second you walked in—what’s up with Spike, anyway? He looked like he wanted to rip Devon to shreds—nobody really liked Devon, but it’s OK, since he’s Faith’s and we all just put up with Faith on account of how no one can control her, and—“

“Willow? Breathe.” Oz came up behind her and wrapped an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder. He nodded casually to Buffy. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Buffy replied, trying to smile. It was still so weird, having these people as her friends.

“So, you wanna sit down?” Willow, having recovered her breath, was doing her best to make Buffy feel normal.

“Um, yeah, sure.” Buffy followed, looking around curiously. It was a nice enough place, she guessed, if you were into dark and mysterious. The balcony was out of the neon lights that swung around the dance floor, and though the music drifted up, it was much quieter than on the floor below. Low couches in dark blue and black made it even more creature-of-the-night-ey. Buffy couldn’t decide if she liked it or if it majorly weirded her out.

“So,” she said, sitting down on a couch next to Xander and Anya, “This is nice. Kinda dark, but—“

“Hey.” Oz sat down and pulled Willow into his lap. “Dark has advantages.”

“Yes, you can get many orgasms up here and no one would even notice,” Anya said, darting a quick glare at Xander. He was sitting next to her, but to Buffy’s great amusement, every time Anya tried to scoot closer, he’d scoot away. “That is, if you have a boyfriend. Which I don’t,” she told Buffy.

“That’s horrible,” Buffy said, fighting to keep a straight face. “Must be really awful, with no one to take your coat, or open doors for you—“

“Or give me sex, which you and I both know is the most important thing in a relationship. Isn’t that right, Xander?” Anya resumed glaring at Xander.

“Think you’re gonna kill the whelp ‘f you keep bugging him like that, Ayn,” Spike said, grinning. He leaned against the balcony railing.

Buffy frowned at him. “Why are you up here?” Oh, great, now she sounded all jealous and stuff.

“Well, these are my friends. ‘m up here every Friday night, you know.”

“He is,” Anya said cheerfully. “And usually he passes his time by staring down at—“

“Oh my God!” Willow exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “I absolutely love this song! Don’t you love this song, Oz? Xander? Anya? I love this song!”

Anya stared at Willow in confusion. “Willow, what in the world are you doing? I was trying to tell Buffy that Spike—“

“We should go dance!” Willow again cut Anya off. She began tugging on Oz’s hand. “Come on, Oz, we never dance! And Anya, you know, dance floors are very seductive, with the sweat and the music and everything, you should come too!”

She pushed Oz towards the stairs and moved in on Anya. Before anyone had time to blink, she was ushering her boyfriend and the hapless would-be couple down the stairs and onto the dance floor, babbling about dancing the whole time.

Buffy blinked at the empty space that a second ago had held four people. “Okay. What just happened?”

Spike shrugged, looking casual. Buffy narrowed her eyes at him, glad that he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes looked...funny, she decided. All tight around the corners, like he was worried about something—or maybe nervous? No—Spike never got nervous! Mad, yeah, but...nervous?

It couldn’t be.

“Sometimes Red just goes completely carrot-top. Best to just obey her when she does,” Spike said casually. “Anya was right ‘bout one thing, though. The view from up here is nice.”

Buffy stood up and walked over to the railing hesitantly. She mimicked Spike’s leaning position, except she was about ten feet away from him. Because being stuck in a small dark space all alone with Spike was bad enough, thank you. She did not need to get all close to him, too.

She could see Willow going absolutely nuts on the dance floor. Buffy smiled fondly—Wills could be crazy sometimes, but she was a really good person. And there was Cordy, rubbing up against some frat boy, who was a piece of salty goodness really but hello, Cordy was acting like such a slut with the shimmying and stuff—and there was Harmony, practically wrapped around—

Buffy clamped her hands over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Not gonna cry, not gonna cry, don’t want to look like a dumb blonde—come on, Buffy, don’t go all Hilary Duff now, Spike is right there, do you want him to see you cry? Not so much!

But it didn’t work. She stumbled back to the couch and plopped down in it, struggling to keep tears in. Well, she couldn’t help it, could she? Harmony was dancing with—“Tyler.” The name came out as a strangled kind of half-sob. She sounded like a dying duck. It was pathetic!

“Who?” Spike asked absentmindedly, still scanning the crowd. He glanced over at Buffy and did a double take. “Bloody hell, Summers, what’re you cryin’ for?”

“I’m not crying!” Buffy sniffled. She wiped away the tears, being careful not to smear her mascara. “I’m just—I’m just a little mad, is all.”

“Mad at who?” Spike was inching towards her with a wary look on his face. It was actually beyond annoying. He reminded her of the people at the zoo who had to feed the lions.

“Harmony.”

Spike let out an aggrieved sigh. “Not this again!”

“Huh? Oh, not the whole kicking me out thing. That slut is rubbing herself all over my Tyler!” Buffy winced as soon as that came out. Could she get any more lame? She sounded like one of those pathetic losers on Desperate Housewives.

So really, it didn’t surprise her when every hint of pity left Spike’s face and was replaced with amusement. Piss her off, yeah, but she wasn’t exactly surprised. This was Spike, after all. Stupid Spike who couldn’t go a day without insulting her—

And who, she decided, looked really, really good in red and black.

Wait. Off topic. Spike was saying something. Words were coming out of those wonderfully shaped lips...Concentrate, Buffy.

Right. Concentrate. On words.

Okay.

“What, did you brand the guy, or something?” Spike inquired, arching a questioning eyebrow at her.

“Huh? No!” Buffy mentally smacked herself. “He’s just...everybody knows he’s mine!”

Spike inched forward. Now he looked something other than amused...he actually looked kinda...Buffy frowned. Weird was the word. Not angry, not shocked, not annoyed, and not—thank God—pitying....just weird. “Just like everyone knows I hate you, right?” Inch. Inch.

“Just like everyone knows you hate me.” He came still closer, until he was standing in front of her. Then he sat down, and through the dimness, Buffy could see straight into his eyes.

“So answer me this, Summers...if what everyone knows is true, how come you don’t slap the shit out of me when I do...this?”

Then, to her complete shock, he lifted a single finger and trailed it down her face, brushing her bottom lip ever so slightly. She wasn’t the only one who shivered.

They sat in silence for a second, breath shallow, just staring at each other. Then Spike did the absolute worst thing he could have done.

He smirked.

“Well?” he said expectantly.

Buffy just lifted her hand and showed him the nails. “Manicure,” she said, tilting her nose in the air, trying hard to make it look like she wasn’t in the least little bit affected by that little touchy-thingy he’d just done.

Because she wasn’t. Her heart was racing and she was flushed and she couldn’t think straight because the music was all fast and loud and stuff, not because of anything Spike was doing...or had done...or could do...

Oh, crap.

Buffy pouted and slumped against the couch, shooting a disgruntled look at stupid Spike and, more specifically, his stupid fingers.

It was gonna be a long night.

~*~
 

Chapter 10:

She’d been right. Twenty loong minutes had passed since Willow dragged everyone out on the dance floor, and Buffy was still stuck up on the balcony with Spike. Needless to say, she was starting to get bored.

Spike hadn’t moved an inch since he touched her on the face, so they were sitting in silence, only a few feet apart, both of them staring everywhere but at the other person. It was beyond boring and Buffy had drifted off into daydream-land a way long time ago.

She was thinking about Cordy and Harmony, and she was starting to come to a way horrible conclusion. One that she really wanted to talk about, because it was starting to bug her.

She glanced over at Spike. Part of her was convinced that he was the absolute last person she would want to talk to about anything, much less this. But the other half of her wasn’t so sure. Spike didn’t like her in the least little bit, so maybe he wouldn’t be all nice to her about what she was gonna say. That would be good.

When she spoke, her voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding music. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a real friend.”

“’course you have.” Spike snorted. “You were Little Miss Popularity for three bloody years. You had friends comin’ out your arse.”

Okay, he was definitely not being nice. “That’s not what I mean,” Buffy said impatiently. “I wasn’t talking about mixy-people!”

She was staring straight ahead, determined not to look at him, so she couldn’t see his expression, but if his sarcastic tone was any judge, he was arching a cool eyebrow at her. “Mixy-people? What the bleeding hell is that?”

“You know...people you sit next to in elementary school, and talk to when you have the same lunch period, and stuff,” Buffy explained. “Mixy-people. They’re not your friends, but you’ll talk to them when you see them.”

“So...you’ve got lots ‘f mixy-people—“ Buffy grinned at hearing the Brit say her phrase, it sounded like he was saying “Neanderthal” or “football-player” or something equally weird and freaky—“But no friends?”

“Um, yeah. That’s pretty much it.” Buffy wrinkled her nose in an effort to hide her hurt and added, “Don’t you think so?”

“I reckon you’ve got a few friends.” Spike’s voice was like hers, carefully indifferent, masking any real emotion it might contain.

“Yeah? Like who?” Wow, this had to be a record for them. They’d gone like five minutes now without screaming at each other.

“Well, Red, for one. Chit wouldn’t invite you to the Bronze if she didn’t like you. Faith, too. She doesn’t go all slutty for everybody, y’know.”

Buffy couldn’t help herself—she laughed bitterly. “Oh, right, sorry. I have two friends—a nerd and a total slut.”

Ow! God, what was Spike’s deal? One minute he was all Mr. Neutrality, and now he was grabbing her chin and glaring into her eyes, his own a hard, uncompromising blue, his jaw set. “Maybe ‘f you were a little nicer, you’d have more friends,” he ground out. “Red’s worth more than five sodding Harmony’s, and ‘f you’re too stupid to notice it—“

She pushed him away and leapt to her feet. He wasn’t the only one who could act all tough and fight-ey. “Oh, so now I’m stupid? Way to make me feel better!”

“Wasn’t tryin’ to,” Spike shot back. “All ‘m doing is giving you the truth, as I see it.” His voice softened. “You can still fix it, you know.”

She stared at him incredulously. One minute he was calling her stupid, and now he was acting sensitive and stuff. Is he schizophrenic, or something? “I don’t wanna fix it. I want you people to leave me alone!” She stomped over to the railing and stared out at the crowd of dancing teens.

He came up behind her. When he spoke, it was in her ear, and almost in spite of herself, she shivered. “Leave you alone—is that what you really want, pet?”

“I never asked to be adopted by the nerd squad,” she snapped, but even she could hear the lie in her voice. She was grateful for Willow’s help, not to mention Anya and Xander and the others. She didn’t know where she’d be without them.

“Yeah, but you were. And a fellow had to wonder—‘f you hate us all, what’re you doing up here in the dark?” She could feel him behind her, almost touching her back.

Okay, that was it.

She whirled around to face him, stubbornly refusing to show that having her own face be just inches away from his was doing serious things to her body. Instead she stared into his eyes and smiled slowly. “You know what, Spike?”

“Yeah?” There was still another strange expression on his face, one she’d never seen before. It was—intense was the only word she could think of to use. Like he knew what was going on in her head, what was really going on, and he wanted to help.

“I think I’ve had my fill of the yicky side of the tracks.”

The weird look left his face, to be replaced by an expression she was very familiar with: anger. “Oh, so ‘m yicky now, is that it?” He inquired, moving closer. Now he was pressing her up against the balcony railing. Buffy felt a moment of panic—her and heights? Not so wonderful. But Spike couldn’t push her hard enough to make her actually fall, right? Right????

“N—not yicky,” she stuttered, willing to say anything if he’d just back off. “I meant, um, sticky! Like, you know, hair gel and stuff. Because you use a lot of hair gel, and—“

“I use a lot of hair gel? The soddin’ poof uses a bucket a day!” Now he looked insulted. It was actually kinda a funny look, because his eyebrows got all scrunchy, and his lips pursed...ooh, lips.

Wait. He’d asked her a question, and she’d zoned out. Again. This was getting embarrassing.

What came out of her mouth was even more so. “What’s a poof?”

“A nancy-boy.” When her face stayed impassive, he exhaled loudly. “Someone walkin’ on the wrong side of the street? Lorne?”

When he said Lorne’s name, Buffy’s face lit up immediately. “Oooh, you mean a gay guy!”

“Well, yeah,” Spike said.

“Who’s gay?” Buffy asked eagerly.

“Peaches,” Spike spat, taking a step away from her. Buffy was glad—the conversation was getting so ridiculous that looking all mad and impassioned really wasn’t working anymore.

“Peaches are gay?” Buffy was confused. How could peaches be gay? Fruity, yeah—peaches were fruit, right?—but gay? Was that even—

Spike exhaled angrily, rolling his eyes. “Angel, pet. He’s a rainbow-flag-waving, gay-pride-parade-marching faggot.”

“Angel?” Buffy glanced down at the dancers. Angel was rubbing his crotch against Cordelia’s ass like his life depended on it. “Sorry, Spike, but I’m pretty sure Angel’s straight.”

“Well, yeah, but it pisses him off when I call him Peaches,” Spike said with a smirk.

Buffy stared at him for a second. It was funny how she could be all furious with him, and then get completely confused, and then in an eye-blink be mad again. It was the smirk that set her off. He’s smirked right after he’d done the finger thing, too.

So instead of answering, she just turned on her heel and stormed down the stairs.

She wasn’t actually expecting him to follow her, or anything. He hated her, right? He should just let her have her dramatic exit and sat up there and been all growly for the rest of the night.

In retrospect, she really should have known that Spike never did anything the easy way.

No, he had to come rushing down the stairs and grab her arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not gonna run away, Summers.”

She wrenched her arm from his grip. God, could this get any more clichéd? “I’m not running away! I’m just—bored, and I’m going home.” She turned her nose in the air and practically ran down the stairs.

After that, several things happened at once. Buffy ran straight into Harmony, who screeched and dropped her root beer right on Buffy’s feet. Spike ran straight into Buffy, who fell right on top of the root-beer-soaked, screeching Harmony. The music stopped and people gathered around them in typical high school, ooh-there’s-gonna-be-a-fight fashion.

Harmony was the first to act. Buffy was kinda pinned down by Spike’s weight, but Harmony’s arms and torso were free, so she had some wiggle room. And wiggle she did, until she was standing upright and staring down at the two blondes with a look of pure rage on her face.

“You stupid slut!”

Buffy pushed Spike off and stood up, trying to ignore the fact that she really would’ve enjoyed letting him stay there for awhile. When she stood up, her shoes squelched. “Eeew, I have sugar shoes!”

“’ll drive you home,” Spike said, but his eyes were on Harmony, who looked extremely angry. In fact, now that Buffy had elected to ignore her, she looked something very close to murderous.

“Hello! You spilled root beer all over my brand new dress! You should be, like, groveling, or something!”

Buffy just stared at the girl. It was funny how, two days ago, if another girl had spilled soda on Harmony, Buffy would have been backing Harmony up. She would have said something along the lines of, “You totally should, geek,” or something equally as dumb and banal. Now, though, all she wanted to do was laugh.

It was unbelievable that people like the girl standing in front of her thought that they had a right to homage from every single person in and out of the school. What was even more unbelievable was that they actually got it.

And finally, to round out the unbelievable-a-thon: she was completely unafraid of Harmony. She was already about as low on the popularity scale as you could get. She had someone standing beside her who, though he hated her, hated Harmony just as much as she did.

So instead of cowering or begging Harmony for forgiveness, Buffy just rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Harm.”

Harmony went stock-still and stared at the other blonde incredulously. “Did you just whatever? You so did not just whatever me!”

“I so just did,” Buffy shot back, mimicking Harmony’s dumb-blonde accent. “And you so need to get out of my way!”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Harmony shrieked. “I am not going to let a social leper like you insult me! It is so totally never gonna happen!”

Oh, ew. Buffy’s feet were starting to get sticky. “Harmony, just move already.”

“I am completely not moving until you—“

“God, would you just move your arse, already?” That comment came from Spike, who sounded as bored as Buffy was.

Harmony stuck out her lip. “Blondie Bear, you should do something. She just, like, ruined my dress!”

Buffy glanced at Spike. He was eyeing the dress with a sarcastic expression—it was a tube dress and fit her way too tightly, in Buffy’s opinion. I mean, does she have to show the whole world how huge her boobs are?

Spike’s answer told her he’d been thinking the same way. “Harm, why the bloody hell should I care?”

“Spikey, I can’t believe you sometimes. You’re so insensitive! If you were a good boyfriend you’d—“

“Bloody hell—Harm, I am not your soddin’ boyfriend!”

Buffy started to grin. She’d never seen Spike get this mad at her—and he’d gotten really, really mad before. But now he was all embarrassed and mad, which was way entertaining, cuz his face was pink and his fists were all clenched and he looked really cute like that...

Cut it out, Buffy!

She tapped him on the arm. “Sorry to interrupt the lover’s quarrel again,” she chirped, “But you said you’d drive me home?”

He looked down at her. His lowered brows made his eyes navy, almost black. Buffy had to force herself to hold his gaze, his eyes were that intense. “Yeah. You ready?”

“Uh-huh. Let’s go.” Buffy began to walk away.

“Hold it!” Harmony screeched. When neither of them obeyed, she ran over to them and grabbed Spike’s arm, digging her nails into his flesh. “Blondie Bear, wait up!”

“Hey! Get off of him!” Buffy began prying at the other blonde’s fingers, trying to ignore the way the crowd around them was tittering.

Spike solved the problem by jerking his arm so hard Harmony’s hands were wrenched away. “Shove off, bitch,” he snapped, and before Harmony had time to recover, he strode towards the exit. Buffy followed, practically running to keep up. She thought she heard Harmony scream something, but the music was loud enough so that (luckily, in her opinion) she didn’t hear what it was.

Spike was silent as he led them to his car, so Buffy was quiet, too. She was actually a little worried that if she started talking she’d remind him she was there and he wouldn’t take her home. Not that she really had a problem with walking home normally, but her shoes were seriously gross—the sooner she could get out of them, the better.

Apparently he knew she was there, though, because when they got to his car he opened the passenger door and said, “Careful, I think there’s some Jack on the seat.”

The streetlights made his hair seem to glow in the darkness, but she couldn’t see his eyes. Suddenly, something occurred to her: Holy shit, I’m in a dark alley with Spike. Did I, like, get a lobotomy and not notice, or something?

“You gettin’ in, or what?” Spike asked impatiently.

“Um, yeah...” She slid in, pushing two clinking bottles out of the way. “What’s Jack?” she asked right before he slammed the door.

“’s whiskey, pet. Jack Daniels.” He slammed the door.

“Ew,” Buffy muttered, dropping the bottles on the floor of the vehicle.

When Spike got into the driver’s seat she said, “Anyone ever tell you not to drink and drive?”

“I don’t,” he replied, so shortly that after that Buffy decided to keep quiet. It would be so like him to kick her out of the car because she was bugging him.

He drove quickly, his headlights cutting through the night. He drove up to her house without hesitation—Buffy couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he’d remembered her address. As soon as he stopped she grabbed the door handle, ready to leave. She had in fact pulled it and started to open the door when he turned the car off.

She turned to look at him, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Just ‘cuz I gave you a ride home doesn’t mean I even remotely like you, y’know.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth at a remarkable speed. “I just wanted to piss Harmony off.”

“Um, I know?” She said it like a question because she had absolutely no idea why he’d told her that. Talk about stating the obvious.

“Good.” He nodded and opened his door.

She stared at him. “This is my house. You remember that, right?”

“Well, yeah. ‘m walkin’ you to the door.” He half-rolled his eyes at her and got out, closing his door before she had a chance to protest.

She exited the car hastily when he started walking over to her side—he was acting like this was a date, or something.

Unfortunately, he was standing right in front of her by the time she got out. She couldn’t just walk past him and into the relative safety of her own house like she wanted to. No, she had to stand in front of him and wait for him to move—something he didn’t seem inclined to do.

She tilted her head up, intending to ask him to move...but she stopped suddenly, transfixed by his face.

They were right outside of her family’s garage, so the floodlights lit his face roughly, throwing harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the hollow his cheekbones made. Yet, somehow, the dim light added poetry to his face. It made his lips seem fuller, his eyes bluer.

Buffy was entranced.

So entranced, in fact, that contrary to everything she actually wanted to do—smack him, insult him—she found herself slowly swaying towards him, her eyes intent on his. In them she read anger, confusion—and the same interest that was drawing her in.

“You know I really hate you...” Spike whispered, bringing a hand up to cup her face. She leaned into it, closing her eyes.

“Yep,” she said breathily. “Me, too—I hate you too, I mean...”

“Good. Glad that’s clear.” He moved closer.

“As glass,” Buffy whispered, and her lips met his.

She’d kissed people before, of course. She wasn’t a kissing slut like Harmony, or anything, but she had kissed guys—Tyler, Angel, and to her shame, Parker. So, kissing Spike should have been pretty—well not ordinary, but not exactly world-shaking, either.

Except that it wasn’t. The second he’d touched her face, tingles had shot up her spine. She’d never had spine-tingles before. It was kinda freaky.

Then, when he actually kissed her, she got lip and face and all-over-the-rest-of-her-body tingles, plus an amazing feeling of heat that started slowly burning in the pit of her stomach. She moved a bit closer, feeling his grip on her tighten, sliding her arms up to lock around his neck.

Their lips stayed locked for an indefinable moment, suspended in time, neither of them wanting to move and break the strange spell that had come over them.

Oddly enough, it was Spike who became forgetful and whispered, “Buffy,” breaking their liplock and reminded Buffy that she was standing in her driveway, kissing Spike Walsh.

She pushed him away and stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed, before stuttering something completely inane: “I have to—I’ll just go now,” and running up to her front door. Behind her, she heard Spike mutter, “Bugger.” She ignored him—God only knew what would happen if she went back there.

Later, she thought it was a miracle that she didn’t trip over the steps, fall flat on her face, and break her nose. Someone up there must really, really love me, she thought, redoubling her pace until she was inside.

She slammed the door behind herself, breathing as heavily as if she’d just run away from a swarm of evil killer bees—although actually, compared to what she’d just done, the killer bees might be preferable. She slumped against the doorway, heart thunking in her chest, one thought running through her mind:

What the hell did I just do?

~*~

 

Chapter 11:

   
~*~

What the bleeding hell had he just done?

If there was a prize for the absolute stupidest action a person could make, he’d just won it, hands down. He coulda done a million things—stepped away, run away, hopped into his car and driven away—anything involving away would’ve been an excellent choice.

But no, he’d had to come closer. Spike let out an angry growl and kicked the side of his car. “Ladies and gentleman, come to see the show,” he muttered as he got into his car. “Biggest soddin’ idiot in the world, on display for all to see.” He jammed the key in and started the car.

“Why the buggering hell did I do it, anyway?” Spike wondered out loud as he drove to his house. “Not like I actually wanted to.” He stopped the car and got out, walking up to his front door. “Maybe ‘m just insane. That could be it.”

He opened the door, slipped inside, and headed up the stairs before his parents could notice he was home. “Yep, that’s it. Didn’t wanna kiss her at all. The little man in my head forced me too. That whole angels and devils bit, with the shoulders, and all.” He flopped down on his bed. “Sure as hell isn’t myfault.”

“William?” his mother’s voice came through the intercom. “Why are you talking to yourself?”

“’m not,” he called back, irritated. “’s the, uh, TV.”

“You don’t have a TV in your room, son,” his father called up the stairs. “Now give us a truthful answer.”

He lay in silence for a moment, glowering. God, he hated his parents. Why the sodding hell couldn’t they just leave him alone? He didn’t like them, and he knew they didn’t like him, so why did they insist on bothering him?

“William!” His mother, her voice like a gunshot. “Answer your father now!”

“Okay, yeah, I was talkin’ to myself!” He hated himself for it, but he finally caved and told them what they wanted to hear. “I’m deranged, a’right? Now can you leave me alone?”

Silence. Spike relaxed, sinking into his bedcovers and thinking about anything except the small blonde he’d been with just a few minutes before. God, but she was pretty. Even with the heavy makeup and the silly, bleach-fried hair, she was so damn pretty.

“William?”

Spike started and nearly fell of the bed. “What?” he roared.

“Come downstairs. Your father and I need to talk to you.”

Spike scowled, clenching his fists, trying to ignore the impulse to find something to kill. His mum really couldn’t leave well enough alone, could she? “Fine. Coming.”

He found them both in the living room, arranged on the couch like they thought the Sunnydale Times might be snapping pictures of them any time. His mum had her hand on his da’s knee, something she probably thought made them look affectionate. It actually just made her look like the cradle-robbing bitch Spike had long ago characterized her as.

“Sit down, William,” his mother instructed. He eyed her suspiciously. When he didn’t move, she gave him a hard, uncompromising glare. “William. Sit. Down.”

He glared at her, but obeyed.

“Your father and I are concerned about you.”

“Yeah, got that bit.”

“This attitude you’ve adopted is unreasonable. You are impulsive, vulgar, crude, and unforgivably rude.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Spike glanced at the (military time) clock on the wall. Just how much longer was this going to last?

“You’re unreliable, son.” Oh, wonderful, now Da was going to go all soldier-boy on him. Spike sneered at his father as the soldier continued to talk. “That British accent you insist on keeping is ridiculous. It’s an affront to our country.”

“You guys are the ones who sent me off the that buggering school.” Spike raised an eyebrow at them. “Gonna ship me off again?”

“No, William, we are not going to ship you off again. We simply think that becoming involved in a structured activity would facilitate your psychological development,” his mother told him.

Spike furrowed his brow, sorting through the huge words his mum was so damn fond of using. “You want me to join a club?” Wonderful. Now he and his parents were gonna have a row. There was no way he was joining anything school-related.

“Not necessarily a club,” his father hastily assured him. “We’d just like to see you involved in some sort of extra-curricular.”

“One that doesn’t involve sitting around in your room,” his mother added, her lips pursed.

Now he was gonna piss them off. “Right, then. I’ll just be a cheerleader.”

“What?!” Just like he’d predicted, his father leapt to his feet. Spike watched with amusement as an expression of abject horror settled on the man’s face. Startin’ to think all those faggot-boy accusations were real, Da?

“You are not going to be a cheerleader!” Riley fumed. His mum put a calming hand on his arm, but he shook it off. “No, Maggie! I will not have a gay for a son!”

“Why can’t I do cheerleading?” Spike protested. “’s a perfectly legitimate activity. Our sodding president’s a cheerleader!”

“And look how well that turned out,” Maggie muttered.

Spike smirked. He was out of the woods now—he always was when his parents started in on politics.

“George Bush is a wonderful leader!” Riley yelled. “He’s spreading democracy everywhere!”

“At the expense of human life!” His mother was giving as good as he got. “Look at the statistics that the White House doesn’t give, Riley, and you’ll soon come to the conclusion that...”

Spike wisely took that time to exit.

Great. So ‘ve got to get myself a hobby. He knew that just because his parents got distracted didn’t mean they’d forgotten their orders. Bloody fantastic.

*

If this was the movies, Buffy would’ve been able to stay slumped against the door for however long it took for her heart rate and all that to return to normal. But this wasn’t the movies, and her little freakout was interrupted almost immediately.

Dawn flounced down the stairs. When she saw Buffy she raised her eyebrows haughtily. “Mom wants to talk to you. Bet you’re in big trouble.”

“Oh shut up,” Buffy muttered, running her hands through her hair. She really didn’t want her mom to know what had just gone on in her driveway.

“Well, it’s not my fault she doesn’t like you. If you’d concentrate a little more on school work and a little less on boys, and get rid of the stupid fake hair, maybe Mom wouldn’t have to be so hard on you.” Dawn smirks. “It works for me.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. That stupid, rat-faced, condescending little brat! But if she so much as yelled at Dawn, her mother would treat her worse than a convicted murderer. So instead of slapping the crap out of her sister, Buffy pushed past the younger girl. “I’m going to bed.”

“Mom’s gonna be ma-ad,” Dawn taunted, a huge smile on her face. “She’ll totally ground you tomorrow morning.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Whatever, brat.” She slammed the door to her room shut, just in time to hear Dawn screech. “Moooom!”

Wonderful. As of tomorrow, she’d have to deal with another don’t-be-mean-to-our-precious-baby-genius lecture. Buffy scowled at her reflection in her mirror.

Why, why, why couldn’t people just leave her alone? She’d just gotten done kissing Spike. As in, Spike Walsh’s lips had been on hers! For a long period of time! If the world was a fair place, she would have been able to lie on her bed and call her best friend and giggle about it.

Except that she wouldn’t giggle, because she hadn’t liked it. Nope. Not a bit.

Well, okay, maybe a little...

But still. Buffy frowned pensively. The whole kissing Spike thing could make hating him a little hard. That and the project-doing. How were you supposed to do a project with someone when you kissed them and you said you hated them?

Well, she could just stop saying she hated him. That would help, right? Except that everyone in Sunnydale knew about their rivalry. It was, like, the Eleventh Commandment, or something. Thou Shalt Not Steal, Thou Shalt Not Wear Cheap Drugstore Perfume On Thy First Date, Buffy Summers Shall Hate Spike Walsh For As Long As Their Lives Shall Endureth, and so on.

Okay. Thinking about Spike was gonna make her go insane. Buffy decided to settle on a safer topic: hating Dawn.

Why Mom thought Dawn was like the perfect child or whatever was completely beyond her. And why Dawn thought she had the right to criticize her sister was also of the non-understandable. Although...she squinched her nose at her reflection. Dammit. Dawn was kinda right about her hair. It was all fried and dry-looking from the number of times she’d had it bleached.

Oh no. Spike made fun of her hair, too. What if he didn’t like it? What if he thought it was stupid, or dated, or something?

Not that she cared, of course. But staring at herself in the mirror, Buffy decided that it was time for a change. And since there was no time like the present, she decided that this weekend was going to be Makeover Buffy Weekend.

Luckily for her, her mother still hadn’t caught on to the fact that the phone in her room was one of the things that made her a social butterfly. She even had her own phone line. God bless loaded dads. She grabbed her phone and plopped down on her bed, belly-first. She punched in a few numbers and waited for someone to pick up.

“Buffy! How have you been?”

“Hey, Lorne.” She let an easy smile come to her face. “Listen, I need a favor.”

~*~

“A-are you sure this is a good idea?” Buffy asked nervously, staring at the outside of the salon.

“Trust me, by the time you get out of here, you will look fab!” Lorne patted her cheeks. “They do my hair all the time. You’ll go in there, and vóila! No more California Fried Blonde ‘do!”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “California Fried Blonde?”

“Face what it is, honey,” Lorne advised, before giving her a little push toward the small salon. “Now go get ‘em!”

“Oh, boy,” Buffy muttered. She hadn’t changed her hair since, like, the seventh grade. She walked up to the door and tried to push it, but her muscles got all floppy. She glanced back at Lorne. He was gazing at her like all his hopes and dreams rested on her getting her hair fixed. “Stupid gay guys,” she huffed. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the shop.

She was immediately accosted by a familiar presence. “Buffy! What are you doing here? Did your horrendous sister put bubblegum in your hair, or are you attempting to make Spike even more sexually attracted towards you than he is now?”

“Anya!” Buffy hissed. By now, it was a familiar action. “Could you please stop it? People talk! And anyway, I have absolutely no attraction to—“

“Save it for the tourists,” Anya advised, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, why are you here?”

“I, um—I wanna change my hair.” She frowned. “Wait—what the heck are you doing here?”

“Learning,” Anya said brightly. “I’ve been told that in the cosmetology industry, people don’t care if you tell them they look awful, because it’s your job to fix it. Retail is of course fascinating as well, but cosmetologists make lots of money, and you never have to tell people you don’t like to have a nice day. Also, no one so far has told me that the customer is always right.”

Buffy blinked. “Uh.”

Anya didn’t seem to notice that her chatter was stunning the other girl—she continued blithely: “Anyway, Sweet’s the guy who owns the place, but he’s letting me take care of the simple things like dye jobs and cuts. Are you finally going to get rid of that hideous fake blonde hair?”

“Hey!” Buffy, suddenly verbal, protested. “My hair is not—“

“I can see your roots.”

Now Buffy was scowling. “Whatever,” she snapped, unconsciously pulling a Cordelia imitation. “Can we just get on with this.”

“Of course. Sit down.” Anya practically pushed Buffy into one of the chairs. “Now, what kind of look are you going for?”

~*~

Buffy was used to normal salons. You know, the ones with mirrors where you got to actually see what the hairdresser was doing to you. Anya, though, had a flair for the dramatic, so Buffy was mirror-less for three hours while Anya washed, dried, cut, and dyed Buffy’s hair. Buffy had told her that she wanted something a little more natural and a little less, in Lorne’s words, “California fried”. Anya had been so enthusiastic that Buffy couldn’t help but wonder if Lorne had called her beforehand.

After the three hours had passed, Buffy was way bored and dying to know what she looked like. So when Anya stopped she asked in a voice that was way whinier than it probably should have been, “Are you done yet?”

“Finished!” Anya said in a voice of supreme satisfaction. “And now, Miss Buffy Summers, may I present you with...well, you. But a better version, I promise.” She led Buffy over to a covered mirror and dramatically uncovered it.

Almost in spite of herself, Buffy gasped.

Her hair was still blonde, but now it was golden more than white, and it shone even in the salon’s fluorescent lighting. It had been cut so that it fell just below her shoulders, and Anya had styled it in loose curls. Instead of looking dry and unnatural, her hair shone like that chick from the Pantene Pro-V commercial.

“So, did I turn you into a sex magnet or what?”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Is that even a legitimate phrase?”

“Of course it is,” Anya said impatiently. “Now, you like it, don’t you?”

She stared at herself. She looked different. Less shallow, less insecure.

Strong.

When she smiled, she could almost feel a difference. It was only a change in appearance, but it felt like more. Now what she looked like showed who she was.

“Yeah.” Buffy’s smile turned into a confident grin. “I like it a lot.”

And when he sees me, Spike is so gonna eat his heart out.

~*~
 

Chapter 12:

~*~

That weekend was the longest of her life.

As it turned out, most of her shiny new friends were renegade geeks, which meant that when she called Willow Saturday to see if they could go shopping, the redhead told her that she was studying for a huge test Monday.

Geeks so never had any fun...

And it wasn’t like she could really go out of her room—Dawn had this conference thingy in Indianapolis and her parents were arguing about who should go, which meant that if she put a toe downstairs except when she had to eat and stuff then her parents would start in on her hair, her grades, her hobbies, blah, blah, blah.

So she stayed in her room.

She was almost ready to rip her fancy new dyed hair out by the time Monday finally rolled around.

She dressed in a red dress, small and cute but not overly slutty, and strappy red sandals. The red made her hair look pale gold, a big improvement on bleached blonde...although bleached blonde looked very good on some people...and once she added red lip gloss, she was done.

She surveyed her reflection in the mirror a few minutes before she headed for school. Spike was gonna drop dead when he saw her, and she really couldn’t wait.

Not that she was planning on that being the highlight of her day, or anything. Just a perk.

“Buffy! Get down here, those friends of yours are honking the horn!”

Her hands froze. Friends? She had them—in theory, at least—but since when did they come to her house and honk the horn?

“Uh, Mom? What color car is it?”

“How should I know?” Joyce snapped. “Get your lazy tail down here and look yourself!”

Buffy rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror. That was her family—wonderful people, all of them. She grabbed her backpack and ran down the stairs, barely pausing in the living room before dashing out the door.

And immediately halting in horror. Spike’s big, black, dented DeSoto was sitting in her driveway.

What the hell was wrong with him? Did he not get that she hated him?

Oh, wait. The last time they’d seen each other, they’d been kissing. Crap.

At least he wasn’t alone. She could make out Willow, Oz, Faith, Anya, and Xander, who looked terrified at being squished into the front seat next to Anya.

“Hey, B, get in the damn car, I gotta fit in a quickie before homeroom!”

“Faith! Not everyone wants to hear about your sexcapades, especially not your lesbian adventures!” Anya was snapping as Buffy slid into the car.

“Threesomes aren’t lesbian, they’re just mad fun.”

Willow wrinkled her nose at Buffy. “Are you as disgusted as I am?”

“Way past that,” Buffy said, staring at Faith.

“Right, then. We ready?” Spike sounded irritated, as usual.

“Hey, Spike,” Buffy called out. “Like my hair?” She coked her head and grinned at him.

He glanced at her in the mirror disinterestedly. “Looks nice,” he said. “Bit yellow, don’t y’think?”

Anya turned around. “He’s lying,” she informed him cheerfully. “He did a double take when he saw you. I watched him. And it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that he has an erection, too.” At her words, the DeSoto began accelerating dangerously.

“Ah, Anya? Remember the whole private/not private talk we had?” Xander said hastily.

Anya gave him a cold look. “Xander, when you become my boyfriend, then you will have the right to give me orders influenced by many orgasms. In the meantime, however, you’re not my boss.”

“Uh, guys? Let’s talk about something else,” Willow suggested eagerly. “Buffy, I really like your hair. I didn’t have a chance to tell you before because of the, um, lesbian action and—well, stuff. But I really, really like it. I think it fits you.”

“I thought so.” Buffy glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, satisfied—and caught Spike looking at her, an impenetrable expression on his face. “What?” Oops. Ladies and gentlemen, Uber-Bitch Buffy was in the house.

“’s nothing,” he said, mildly enough. “Think the do’s nice...get a lobotomy, pet, and it’ll be a real improvement.”

Her mouth fell open. “You—look who’s talking!” she exclaimed. “I’m surprised the bleach hasn’t made your brain trickle out of your ears—not,” she added snidely, “That anyone would notice, since your brain’s the only thing smaller than your dick!”

Silence. Complete, utter silence. Buffy felt herself go red. She’d been a little...well...

“Harsh.”

Trust Oz to be able to sum it up with one little word. Her face turned ever redder and she slumped down in the seat a little. Wonderful. Sucky Monday, mad Spike, bitchy Buffy, lesbian Faith. This week should be a merry-go-round of fun.

The rest of the (thankfully short) ride to school was made in silence. Willow was sending everybody worried looks. When they got out of the car, Buffy realized someone was missing. “Willow, where’s Tara?”

Willow looked at her in surprise. “You didn’t hear?”

“Um, no.” Buffy raised her eyebrows impatiently. “Wills—wait, did something happen?” She didn’t think she’d ever seen Willow look so serious—although, to be fair, she’d known her for like a week.

“It’s her grandmother—they took her over to Sunnydale Hospital Sunday,” Willow told her quietly.

OK. She shouldn’t have felt hurt. She really, really shouldn’t have been hurt.

Funny how she was anyway. Her throat closed up and she blinked rapidly. Not gonna cry, not gonna cry... “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” she forced herself to ask.

Willow’s expression immediately became sympathetic. “Oh, we didn’t know...I mean, you’re kind of new and Tara, well, she’s sensitive, we didn’t know if you’d want to be involved, or, or if it would be mean to tell you, or...sorry?” Her hopeful expression sounded like a question.

Buffy sighed. They were standing in the middle of the school parking lot—she couldn’t act all offended. “Yeah. It’s cool. I mean, it’s not like I really matter to anyone, or something like that.”

Willow’s look turned horrified. “Oh, Buffy, I didn’t want you to think—I mean, it’s just, Tara’s really shy, and—“

“Will, relax,” Buffy advised. “I was making with the funny.”

“Oh.” But she still looked nervous...good. Buffy was still hurt. “Right. Okay, then. See you later?”

Buffy nodded. “Yeah. Later.” After I finish being super annoyed.

“Well, okay. Bye, then.” Willow gave her another supremely awkward smile and walked off.

Spike’s car wasn’t exactly something she wanted to hang around, since that would probably mean hanging around Spike and hello, major, major badness, but Buffy didn’t really want to walk into school just then. So instead, she leaned against the car and stared after Willow.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“Huh?” Buffy frowned and focused on the very tall person who suddenly stood in front of her. Her frown turned into a scowl when she saw it was Spike.

“Since when did you think you ‘ad the right to go an’ attack me like that in my sodding car?” he snapped, his accent thickening in his rage.

Wait. No. She frowned. Not rage. Well, actually, she couldn’t really tell, since he was so close to her that she was staring at his chest instead of his face...she tilted her head up and looked him in the eye. His nostrils were flaring, his jaw was set, and his blue eyes were hard, but he didn’t look angry. Actually, he looked...

Hurt.

Great. Perfect. He could just join the club, in that case. “Hey, don’t look at me that way,” Buffy snapped defensively. “I wasn’t the one who was all, ‘Oh, you’d be perfect if you got a lobotomy.’”

“No instead you go off and get a completely new look, insult me, and ignore what happened Friday.”

“Because I don’t give a damn!”

That turned out to be a mistake. His eyes widened before narrowing dangerously as he grabbed her arms and slammed her forcibly against the car. “What the bloody hell d’you mean, you don’t give a damn!”

“I mean that it was a mistake, you bastard! Now get the hell off of me!” She tried to push his arms away, but he wouldn’t budge.

“No. I got the sodding hell offa you before, an’ then you go out an’ pull this.” He grabbed a handful of her hair.

“Oh, don’t even try it, Spike,” she scoffed. “You so totally liked it and you know it.”

He closed his eyes; she tested trying to move, even a little bit, but it didn’t work. He was gripping her tighter than Angel gripped his beer bottles on Friday nights with one hand, and his body pressed her against the car.

When he opened his eyes she almost shivered. Whoops—no, she really did shiver. His eyes seemed to burn into her, stripping away all her defenses, making her see that the words she was forcing out of her mouth were...well...lies.

“Yes, I like the hair, a’right?” he said finally. “The hair, an’ the clothes, and God help me Summers, ‘s the whole sodding package. An’ I try, an’ try, but the whole bleeding time, all I can think about is you. D’you get it?” His grip softened, along with his gaze—but though his anger was less, he was still staring at her more intensely than anyone ever had before.

All she could do was shake her head, because no, she really didn’t get it. All she knew was that he was staring at her and she really didn’t want him to stop, plus also she really, really wanted him to kiss her again which made absolutely no sense because she hated him, right? Except that after seeing his parents and hearing him talk and seeing him, for crying out loud, she really couldn’t keep up the whole Buffy-Hates-Spike thing. She just...couldn’t.

“You don’t—“ he plowed his hands through his hair before staring at her again. “Eighth grade, Cordelia’s pool party.” Now his voice was soft, flat. He seemed just as confused as she was. “Saw you...you were wearin’ red then, too. Your hair was different...shorter...made you look adorable, like a pixy. Saw you and I thought you were the most beautiful thing ‘d ever seen.”

Her mouth fell open. She maybe expected him to admit that she made him horny because, well, it was kinda obvious. She figured he’d tell her that she drove him insane, and that she ought to just go back to her stupid cheerleader friends. She hadn’t expected him to say...

“And God help me, Buffy, I haven’t been able to stop since then. I’m not—I was never anyone you’d wanna look at, much less be with, but dammit...” He pulled away abruptly, releasing her. She should have run away. She really, really should have. But all she could do was stare.

“D-dammit, what?” she asked, her voice quieter than it had ever been. She didn’t know why, but whatever was about to come out of his mouth—she knew it was important.

“When you moved here...sophomore year,” he said softly. “Dunno ‘f you remember...there was a big row between me an’ you...I stepped on your shoes, you spilled Coke on m’ coat....”

Oh, she remembered, all right. It was pretty hard to forget seeing a guy and thinking he was the hottest thing you’d ever seen in your life, and then two seconds later deciding—and announcing to the whole school—that you hated him for eternity.

And now this. She cocked her head at him. “I remember,” she whispered.

“Yeah, well, didn’t stop there, did it?” he said, his voice half-trembling. “Damn near three soddin’ years, Summers, of me swearin’ to all an’ sundry that I hated you, an’ then every Friday, every Friday just like clockwork, down at the Bronze...every Friday I watched you dance.”

His expression changed abruptly; it went from quiet and sincere to sarcastic and defensive. “Get it now, Summers?”

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, keeping her face expressionless. Something had just occurred to her...some niggling little thing that hadn’t wanted to reveal itself to her before was all of a sudden choosing to make itself known.

Two years ago, the spring dance. She’d known him for a little more than six months. He’d spilled punch on her cute red dress, and she’d been spitting mad. She’d been dating Angel at the time, and he’d tried to get her to calm down, but she’d screamed her head off at Spike.

”You stupid worthless punk, why don’t you just curl up in a corner somewhere and die! You ruined my dress!” she screamed, clenching her fists. The bastard has spilled so much punch that the entire front of her dress was sopping wet.

“Actually, I rather think it looks better now,” he said sneering. “Least you’ll end up changing...I dunno how Captain Forehead puts up with it, you’re dressed like a complete tramp.”

“You fucking bastard! I am so gonna—“ She took a few steps forward till they were almost nose-to-nose.

“Gonna what, Summers?” he sneered down at her. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were hard.

And in his eyes had been the same expression that lay there now: eagerness. Not for a fight, well, not exactly; eagerness to...to what?

“Look, are you going to answer me, or not?”

His voice snapped her out of her reverie. She stared at him, perplexed. “Do you like fighting with me?”

His turn to stare. “What?”

“Do you like fighting with me?” she repeated.

He shook his head. “I like anything involving you, Buffy,” he said. Her name sounded odd coming from his lips. She wished he’d say it more often.

“So...what is this?” she motioned between them. “I mean, I barely know you. I barely know me. But I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know your favorite color, or, or...your favorite, um, color...”

“Pet, after that interview you know damn near everything there is to know ‘bout me.”

“But not your favorite color,” she hastened to argue. Why she was pressing this point so eagerly was completely beyond her.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Think it’s a bit obvious, personally.”

“Black’s not a color,” she shot back.

He let out an exasperated sigh and stepped back, running his eyes over her. His hand, though, stayed in her hair.

“Hey! Stop staring at me...oh. Red,” she said, finally catching his hint. “Right.” She looked down. “Color of blood and death and gore and all.” She lowered her head. He was staring at her again, and it was wigging her out in the worst way.

“Also,” he whispered, stepping forward again, “The color of your lips, luv...something ‘ve spent considerable time starin’ at...” He moved still closer, until her bottom pressed hard against the black car. Her stomach was pressed against something even more hard, and she fought the urge to either squeal or jump him—she wasn’t sure which she really wanted to do.

Or, rather, she was sure, and it scared the hell out of her.

Which was why she stopped him right before he touched his lips to hers. She stopped him not because she didn’t want it, but because she did.

“Look...I can’t do this,” she said, trying hard to explain.

“Why the bloody hell not?” Oh, great, she’d made him mad. Mad Spike was just what she wanted to deal with...not.

“Because—well, for one thing, it’s like two minutes to homeroom. And plus this is majorly weird, what with the whole stalkerish thing, plus I’m just...I’m just really confused.” She widened her eyes hoping to God he’d understand. “I like you a lot. It’s a very like-ey situation, but...can we just...be friends?”

“Friends.” He seemed to be testing the words. “Been enemies for three years and ‘ve wanted you the whole time.”

“Um...yeah.” She licked her lips and looked away. “Same here.”

“That so?”

“Well, you know. With the leather coat, and the hair, and the body...okay, you can stop looking all conceited now,” she snapped, because he had this sexy little smirk on his face that even though it was way sexy was also really, really annoying.

“Right,” he said, moving away from her. He ran his fingers through her hair, brushing her scalp lightly, before finally releasing the newly golden locks. “By the way, I lied b’fore,” he told her. “I like the hair. Makes you glow.”

She smiled at him, slowly, sweetly, surprised by the pure niceness behind that statement. “Thanks, Spike.”

He cocked that oh-so-familiar eyebrow at her. “You’re welcome, Buffy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Does being nice feel weird to you?”

He grimaced. “Yeah.”

She nodded. “Just checking.”

They probably would have continued their odd little exchange if the bell for homeroom hadn’t rung. “Ah, shit. We’re gonna be late.”

Buffy cocked her head, looking at the school. It wasn’t all that far away, since they were in the parking lot and all. “We could run,” she suggested, earning herself an extremely sarcastic look from Spike. “Okay,” she corrected herself, “You could run, and I could...um...hop.” She looked down at her feet. “Or take the sandals off and run.”

“Right.” Wow. They were trying out the whole friends thing and he was still sarcastic. “What say we just get to class, pet?”

“Sounds good,” she agreed, and they walked to the school, Buffy darting glances and trying to ignore how thrilled she was that he’d called her “pet” the whole time.

~*~

 

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