Title: Happiness
Summary: Post First Date, Spike and Buffy share a moment on the back porch
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own a lick of Joss's genius.

Spike nods but stays silent. They both stay mute for a while, trying to figure things out. Finally Spike breaks the ice.

“Can I know one thing?” he asks, thoughtfully, afraid to lose her to the new guy.

“Sure,” she says, knowing that it might be hard to answer.

Spike sighs and looks out the window. The window that has been repaired too many times to count. The window he has spent long hours trying to look into. He wonders if the window will ever see them happy again. He knows she still cares for him, and it’s hard for him to acknowledge the fact that he can’t do anything to thwart it.

“Who’s second fiddle?” he asks, throwing her completely off guard.

Buffy stammers, knowing that he knows the answer, he simply wants to hear it. She knows he still cares for her, but she doesn’t want to do anything about it just now. Now is not the time to re-start their relationship.

“He is,” she says, laughing a little at his question.

He smiles, smirks even, just for her. He doesn’t smirk often anymore. Maybe it’s the soul that has made him aware of his actions. Made him aware that the smirk usually means chaos. He doesn’t know that for her, it means the world. That wolfish grin he owns is enough to melt her in mere seconds. And its working its magic here tonight.

“Nice to know,” he says, getting up, ready to leave, ready to make his way to the backyard where he’ll smoke his sorrows for the world. For her.

“Stay,” she asks, grabbing his arm tenderly.

He looks at her, dreading this release. He nods, and sits back down next to her. He takes hold of her hand and she immediately knows that he will. It’s some sort of connection they have. It might be a curse for her. The bad-boy curse. Wicked energy vibes that she longs for, that she needs to balance out her own goodness. The badness is less present now, but some of it is still there. And its enough for her. He is enough for her.

“Where’s your duster?” she asks, breaking the sensual tension building up.

“Misplaced it,” he says.

“We’ll have to look for that,” she says, getting up slowly, leaving him alone in the living room.

Leaving him alone, contemplating what he should do next. He stares out of the window again and sighs again: it’s unnecessary. His eyes close and he wonders just why he does stay. He stays for her, of course. He knows what would happen to her if he left. She’d be left alone fighting a losing battle. He’s her rock she can count on when everything is a mess.

He draws himself on the edge of the couch and lets his head slump into his waiting hands. He opens his eyes and stares at the floor through his fingers. This new found soul was a burden for him for some time. Now it seems its a burden for her. It’d be much easier for her if he still went soulless.

“It’d be easier to rid you of me when the time comes,” he says to no one in particular.

He stops himself when he hears the back door open. Slowly he gets up and joins the person out there. Surprise surprise, it’s the Slayer and she’s crying softly.

“Would you be able to ash me up if it needs to be done?” he asks, looking at her back.

The house is dark and it seems empty. Of course it’s full of little girls, a former watcher and his sidekicks, but it seems empty. They have all the time in the world to talk.

She sways her head left to right indicating “no” she could not.

“Why not?” he asks, sitting down next to her.

He pulls a cigarette out of a worn out Marlboro pack and searches for his lighter.

She doesn’t look at him when she answers.

“Because. I care for you,” she says simply.

He mulls this over in his head while he lights up. She killed Angel because he had done wrongful deeds without his soul. Yet she loved him. Spike frowns and wonders what makes her decide.

“It was different,” she says, as if reading his thoughts.

“Why,” he says, not in a question, just saying, enjoying the flow of the conversation.
She shrugs. Then she turns to him and brings her hand out to his cigarette. He knows that she’s going to put it out, but she surprises him yet again. In it goes, into her pursed lips. She lets it dangle there for a bit, while he looks on, fascinated.

“I didn’t know you dragged cigs, luv,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

She turns her head to the backyard and looks up to the sky. A long drag, and she offers him the cigarette back. He gladly takes it back, and leaves it in his fingers. He squints a little, examining the Slayer. His Slayer. There is something missing from her eyes, some fierceness he used to love. He turns his head to the sky and listens to the night. Crickets buzzing, distant cars driving too fast, police sirens in the distance, wind rustling the leaves in the trees. And he thinks. This is the best night of his life. Sitting on the back porch beside the Slayer in the middle of the night. No talking, only listening. Sitting and braving the summer night.

“I killed Angel because it was my duty,” she says finally.

He’s not surprised with her answer. He lets it go, knowing its paining her, just admitting it.

They sit in silence for awhile, passing the cigarette between them, taking long drags, filling their lungs with the nauseating smoke. It’s liberating, for them, just passing time together. It fills in the holes of their torrid affair. It makes it almost alright.

“About the principal,” she starts, but Spike wont let her finish.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I don’t care,”

She turns her head to him and her eyes strip down his own. She can tell that he does care. It makes her smile. It’s a genuine smile, one that hasn’t surfaced in awhile. She holds out her hand for his, and when it lands into hers, she holds on tight.

“Thank you,” is all she says.

Getting up, she lets go of his hand, although they are both reluctant to depart. When she’s reached the door, she turns to him and smiles again. This time, crying at the same time. Her tears stream down her cheeks as she giggles. Its a pathetic giggle, but to Spikes ears, its wonderful. After a little over a year, it is a parade with 76 bloody trombones. This. This is what she wants. Happiness.

Spike smirks and she walks in the darkened house, leaving him alone once more.

“Happiness is…a Slayers smile,” he says, leaning his head back against the railing, pulling another Marlboro from the pack.