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CHAPTER 10 -- Here With Me

In the darkness of the kitchen, he felt her begin to stir in his arms. The storm had let up, all that was left was a light rhythmic drizzle. When she looked at him, it was as if she was locking eyes with a stranger. The shock and uncertainty was vivid on her face. Spike’s stomach made an awful turn -- God, please, no don’t reject me.

“Spike,” she began softly.

“Buffy, please don’t take this lightly, I couldn’t stand it.” His voice was raw with desperation.

She stared fixatedly on the tile floor, “I won’t.”

“Tell me tonight didn’t mean something to you,” he challenged.

“It did.” Her eyes looked far away.

He was losing her, he could feel it. “Go out with me tonight,” he requested quickly. He could sense the inner debate in her head, “Please, baby, don’t over think this,” his eyes pleaded with her. He was aching to touch her, caress her face and run his fingers through her hair, but he was afraid laying a finger on her would jar her out of their world.

She nodded, a little numbly. “Okay,” she agreed quietly. He let out a sigh of relief. She was shaken at the intensity of what they had shared and scared at how easily she had let things get out of control. She had never had such a blatant disregard for the repercussions of her actions. It was both liberating and frightening at the same time. She needed to think -- to get out of this kitchen, and think.

Without a word she gathered her clothes and shuffled past him up the stairs. To bed. With his brother. Spike screwed his eyes shut, his hands fisted, trembling with the need to hit something. He took a couple deep breaths, pacing the kitchen and running his hands through his hair. The sex had been incredible. And she was there with him in the moment, he knew. He felt more for this girl than he had ever felt for anyone in his life, with the exception of his mother, but that was completely different. He knew then that if he lost her, and to Angel and the sucking vortex that was the world of Wolfram and Hart no less, he would die. Spike could more or less safely navigate the evilness of the law firm -- he had been raised in it and, to a certain extent, pedigreed to spend the rest of his life in it. He knew the people and its workings as well as he knew the lyrics to “God Save the Queen” -- which he knew better than the back of his hand. But he knew that this sweet girl would be lost inside it. He knew Angel -- he’d turn her into some trophy wife to be pranced around in public and ignored in private. Spike had seen him do it both up close and afar. And Buffy deserved better.

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That night he met her at the bottom of the staircase. You would have thought they were going to the prom -- all the kitchen staff stood in a neat row smiling wistfully at them, as if it was the sweetest thing for Angel’s girlfriend to go out for a fancy night on the town with his brother. Spike pivoted when he heard Buffy descending the staircase. His hair was not its usual spiky mess, it was slicked back. He was in a navy blue pinstripe suit, the shirt under his jacket a deep mauve only he could pull off. His tie was a darker shade of the same color. She was wearing a slinky black dress, lace accentuating the deep v-neckline. Her hair framed her face in loose, gentle waves.

They took the BMW this time. They got onto the highway, then took a side road where there was no traffic. He parked the car across the street from Café Georgio’s.

Café Georgio’s was once a house and had been turned into a restaurant. The thin trees that lined each side of the winding pebbled walkway were strung with white Christmas lights. Two stories high, she could see a candelabra sitting on a table in the second story window. On the first floor, to the right of the entrance, was a glass bay window into which she could see the restaurant. The tables were decorated with simple elegance, each outfitted with a stark white table cloth and candles.

Buffy’s heels clicked against the shining wood floorboards. They were met at the entrance by one of the waiters. He wore a crisp white button up dress shirt, black slacks, and an apron tied around his waist.

“Mr. Giles,” he greeted, “Right this way.”

As they were shown to their table, Buffy took a moment to take in her date. This was different than their first outing together -- the club scene were Spike seemed so in his element. This was a different Spike -- he was more of a William now. And Café Georgio’s was more of a place to be expected from the older Giles son.

“Madame,” the waiter pulled out Buffy’s chair for her. He handed her a menu.

The fact it was the type of menu with no prices next to the listed meals worried her. If they didn’t give you a price straight out, it was usually because they didn’t want you to know.

“May I have you orders?” the waiter asked.

Spike began, “The lady will have the Winter Pesto and I’ll have the Veal Duck Goose.” He also expertly ordered a wine for meal.

Buffy was taken aback. Granted, Angel ordered for her all the time and it never bothered her, and Winter Pesto was what she had planned on ordering anyway, but this was Spike -- she thought of the two of them more like equals. She never pegged him for the type to order for a person completely capable of making their own decisions based on their own tastes. This was getting a bit surreal. He was acting so strange.

She looked at him, “What is this, Spike?”

He sat back in his chair, smirking ruefully. His mirage of high class sophistication hadn’t fooled her. “Wanted to show you I can be just like Angel.”

Buffy’s shoulders dropped, “But I don’t want you to be like Angel,”

“Maybe not, but part of you does want him, I can see it in your eyes -- the doubt. If I was completely what you wanted, we would be out of that house, on our own somewhere.” He gestured to their posh surroundings, “I wanted you to see I can play the part of the savvy businessman, same as him.”

Buffy considered his words. She didn’t want Angel, not in the way she wanted Spike. But part of her felt a connection to the older Giles -- he had been there for her when she needed him most. It wouldn’t be right to just leave him.

“There are moments in that kitchen,” he continued, “when I believe I have you. But then there’s some type of dual reality. It’s in the daylight hours when I see you with him that I realize you’re not truly mine.” He gave her a curious look across the table, his head tilting, “But you’re not really his either, are you? Torn between us, I’d imagine,” he continued to delve into her mind, taking a swig from his wine glass. “Divided between your mind and your heart, responsibility and passion, promises and lust.”

She almost interrupted him to tell him not to short-change what they have together, but he wasn’t really. They had some sort of concentrated affection that, if let go, could wholly consume. And she felt obligated to Angel and the history she had with him. He had hit the proverbial nail on the head.

“What are you trying to do, Spike?”

“Not lose you,” he replied. He glanced up from his glass. The calm and collected pose was gone. His eyes were back to the vulnerable love they showed her all those times they were alone in the kitchen -- the unguarded emotion reserved only for her.

She gazed into his azure eyes, reaching her hand across the table, firmly intertwining her fingers with his. “You have me.”

And for that moment, he believed her.

TBC





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