He always closed his eyes when he played, as though he was trying to see the music. Buffy thought it would make a lot more sense to open his eyes and try to see his fingers on the strings, but he seemed to be doing just fine sightless.
The song was one she didn’t recognize, and it seemed an odd one to sing. Something about murdering a lady with a hammer, set to a jaunty tune. She made a face and shrugged to herself. *To each his own,* she thought.
She stood in the hallway with her head peeking into the living room as the house began to settle for the night, watching him. The muscles of his shoulders shifted beneath his shirt as his hand moved up and down the neck of the guitar. Perhaps she should have felt a little ashamed, spying on him like this. But she reminded herself that it was her couch, thank you very much, and it wasn’t exactly the most private spot in the house. What was more, Buffy really enjoyed having a moment to observe him from this vantage point.
In the month since ‘that day’—what was she to call it? Riley’s Death Day? Like it was a holiday of some sort?—when she had come to Spike for comfort, things had definitely changed. At first, she had tried to blame it on him, convincing herself he was too immature to handle dealing with the aftermath of her making with the water works, and was therefore behaving strangely. But even Buffy’s powers of rationalization could only hold that one for a couple of days.
He never mentioned ‘that day’ directly, but the way he looked at her every morning when he asked, “How are you today, pet?” communicated so much more than pleasant cordiality. And when he would briefly touch her elbow or the small of her back in passing, she couldn’t deny the warmth that would linger in that spot, or the soft comfort that settled through her.
No, she had to admit, Spike had not changed. He was still his charming, kind, smart-assed, cocky old self. It was she, Buffy, who had been affected so deeply by that afternoon. She had let him see her completely stripped, naked and vulnerable, without any walls to hide behind. And now, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t quite seem to cover herself back up when he was around. Terrifying as it was, there was a part of her that liked it, a part that was grateful to be exposed.
Since she had realized she hadn’t wigged him out permanently, they had talked every day. Not just polite chat, but long, substantial conversations, often lasting late into the night. They had discussed everything from embarrassing high school stories and politics, to music and books, to hopes and fears for the future. There was flirtation and chemistry between them. So much so, that at times she was sure if they touched fingertips, sparks of electricity would fly between them. She wasn’t blind—or stupid, for that matter. Buffy knew Spike’s feelings for her were more than simple friendship; which only made things that much more complicated.
Thus, she was grateful for this opportunity to be around him, but not with him, listening to his strange little song. He struck a final chord and she took a purposely noisy step into the room. He was startled, and she smiled at the surprised look on his face as she moved toward him.
“How long you been standing there, luv?” he questioned, returning her smile.
“Long enough to know you have seriously morbid taste in music. What the heck was that song, anyway?”
Spike feigned a look of shock. “How dare you insult one of the greatest bands of all time! Why, that song’s an unsung classic.”
Buffy stared at him in confusion. “Um…let me guess. The Sex Pistols?”
He laughed. “No, but good to see you’ve been paying attention. That was a song called ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ by The Beatles.”
“Really? Huh. Their other stuff seems so normal.”
“You’ve obviously never seen ‘Yellow Submarine’. It’s like an acid trip without the crash.”
She shrugged. “Well, Beatles or not, that song is creepy. Hi, morbid, much?”
He bowed his head to her over the guitar in a grand gesture. “I apologize for offending your delicate sensibilities,” Spike said solemnly.
“Huh?”
Rolling his eyes, he sighed in defeat. “Um…my bad?” he attempted.
“You talk funny,” Buffy stated with an accusing look.
“It’s called English, luv. You should try it some time,” he retorted with a smirk.
“Hey,” she countered, “my English is just fine. Just because I don’t go all proper and accent-y doesn’t mean I can’t speak.”
Spike just lifted an ironic brow. “Not even going to touch that one.”
She squinted menacingly at him and poked him in the chest with a petite finger. “You’d better be nice to me, you know. Or else.”
“Or else what?” he snorted, looking her up and down. “You’ll flay me in your adorable little outfit?”
Buffy playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Watch it, bub. I could lay the smack down on you, yummy sushi pajamas or no.”
“No pajamas, eh? You could lay whatever you like on me like that,” he said with a lecherous grin, grazing his tongue across his teeth.
Raising her face to the ceiling in an attempt to hide her blush, she made an exasperated sound. A sudden thought occurred to her and she looked at him inquisitively. “You’re not wearing pajamas.”
He looked down pointedly at his faded jeans and worn, form-fitting white T-shirt. “Clever observation, Sherlock. Any more big revelations you’d like to announce?”
“No, I mean, here it is bed time and I just realized I’ve never seen you in your pajamas before. Are you embarrassed to be seen in them or something? What, do they have Spiderman on them?”
“Not exactly,” he said slyly. “But yeah, there’s a reason you’ve never seen me dressed for bed. I don’t exactly like to make a habit of runnin’ round the house starkers.”
Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. “What does star—oh,” she finished quietly as she caught on.
A cheeky grin spread across his face. “We wouldn’t want the whelp feeling bad ‘bout himself, now would we? And it’d be unfair to you and Red. You’d be spoiled on any other men.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m so glad to see there’s no fear of you ever having self-esteem issues.”
“What, with all this?” he said airily, gesturing to himself. “Not a chance.”
“Sometimes I wish you’d just stop talking.”
“Well, there’s one thing I can think of that’ll shut me up, Goldilocks,” he rumbled with an indecent look.
Ignoring the thrill his words sent through her, she fixed him with a sultry stare and gave a throaty laugh. “I think our minds are on the same track, Spike.”
“Yeah?” he practically squeaked, then cleared his throat.
She leaned toward him, then abruptly grabbed the pillow behind him on the couch and plopped it into her lap. “Play for me,” she said innocently as she sat back. “I know you’re incapable of passing up an opportunity to show off.”
He chuckled. “Right you are,” he agreed as he shifted around to a better position for playing, surreptitiously moving closer to Buffy in the process. “What’ll it be, then? Your wish is my command. So long as I know the song and it isn't tripe, that is.”
Buffy pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Just not another creepy song about bashing peoples’ heads in,” she offered, snuggling the pillow as she made herself comfortable.
“Oi! No more insulting The Beatles,” he scolded. “I suppose I’ll have to redeem them now, eh? Something a little less violent?”
She pouted at him. “Less talky, more strummy.”
“All right, hold on to your hat,” Spike said and squeezed her knee gently.
As he began to pick out an introduction, she looked down at the spot he had touched, reveling in the tingling that radiated throughout her entire leg. Buffy wondered—not for the first time—just what it was about him that made her feel this way. The sound of his voice and guitar laid a soundtrack to her musings as he began to sing.
There are places I’ll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
The tune was sweet and beautiful. She knew it wasn’t just his stunning face and mesmerizing body that made her heart pound and her head feel fuzzy every time he was around. He was more than easy on the eyes, but she had seen attractive men before and had never felt as though she were slightly tipsy. Spike was different.
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all
He was far from perfect, she knew. He was lazy, which annoyed her; and stubborn, which could aggravate her to no end. And when he got stressed, he smoked, which simply made her sick to her stomach. But much to her surprise, she found she really did appreciate the fact that he never let her get away with things. He always called her out. Still, despite his sarcasm, he viewed the world with such passion and hunger, she couldn’t help but admire him. Everything he did, every emotion he felt, he dove into head-first. Was that called bravery, or stupidity?
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
His voracious appetite for life made him the kind of person that was hard to ignore and impossible to forget. Buffy felt trapped in an old cliché: drawn to him like a moth to a flame. But for all his intensity, he wasn’t the type to burn bright then die out quickly. Spike knew when and how to simply be content with his surroundings. He was just a good person, and being with him made her happy.
Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love your more
She watched his long, calloused hands move gracefully for a long moment, and moved toward him a bit to study their movements more closely. Her eyes trailed up the powerful tendons of his hands and wrists to the tanned expanse of his sinewy arms, until they met his broad shoulders, which stretched the well-worn shirt slightly. Buffy’s fingers itched to travel where her eyes had. He always closed his eyes when he played. But now, as the song came to its final verse, she found his captivating gaze holding her own, and she realized he wasn’t singing for her, he was singing to her. Thoughts ceased as she gave herself over to the moment.
Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
Spike plucked out the last few notes, never breaking eye contact. He rested his palm against the strings and smiled faintly, the only sound in the room being the crickets chirping their lullaby outside. A pleasant evening breeze drifted through the open window and blew a few strands of hair across Buffy’s cheek. Before she could brush them away, his hand was there, tucking them behind her ear, letting his hand linger gently on the side of her face.
There is a look that every boy gives just before he kisses a girl. His eyes dart from her eyes to her lips and back again, and there is a certain softening of his features. No matter how many times a girl sees that look, it will invariably make her feel thirteen years old again. Buffy knew the look well; Spike was doing it now. She leaned closer to him, even as butterflies erupted in her stomach.
Everything seemed to slow, giving her time to take in his scent, the cool, hard wood of the guitar between them, and the warmth of his breath on her lips as their faces almost touched. She thought there could not have been a more perfect moment for two people to kiss.
“Goodnight, Xander!”
Buffy and Spike both jumped slightly, pulling apart as Willow’s hollering startled them both.
“Goodnight, Willow!” Xander yelled in reply.
Spike could have joyfully killed Willow in that instant. She couldn’t have started the bedtime ritual thirty seconds later? “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, knowing the moment was gone. The redhead upstairs wished them both a loud goodnight, and they answered back in kind.
Buffy smiled at him rather shyly and failed miserably in her attempt not to blush. “So when do we work on the DeSoto again?” she asked, pretending nothing had happened, but not quite meeting his eye.
“Tomorrow evening, maybe?” he replied. “Promised Clem I’d teach him how to play good ol’ Texas Hold ‘Em. But after that, hopefully, if there’s time.”
“Weaning him off kittens, huh? That’s…helpful of you.” She got up from her seat on the couch, stretching dramatically. “I’m beat. See you in the morning,” she said as she made to leave the room.
Spike reached out and grabbed her hand lightly, and she turned back to him. He had been so bleeding close tonight, there was no way he wasn’t kissing something. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, savoring the feel of her skin for a moment. He met her eyes, finding an indiscernible look in them. “Goodnight, Buffy.”
She gave him a half smile and left the room, heading upstairs for her bed. The moment had been lost, and while a part of her was slightly relieved, most of what she felt was disappointment. She’d been aching to kiss Spike—without the influence of alcohol—for some time and suddenly felt a pang of loss. Willow's voice echoed in her head, then, as she recalled their conversation from the previous afternoon. “Don’t be afraid to live your life, to get what you want; to be happy,” she had said.
Abruptly, Buffy stopped, halfway up the stair-case. Making up her mind, she took a deep breath and turned around, nearly stumbling in her haste to get back to the living room. He was standing with his back to her, gently returning his guitar to its case.
“Spike,” she said breathlessly, as she strode quickly to him. He turned to look at her quizzically, and before she could lose her nerve, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head to meet his lips with her own.
Quickly recovering from his momentary shock, he responded in earnest, one arm settling around her waist as the other hand stroked her neck. His lips were enticingly warm and soft against her own and she tasted even better than she remembered. There was no aftertaste of whiskey this time, but somehow she still felt slightly intoxicated.
*Pretty much perfect,* she thought absently.
Before she could let herself get too carried away, she pulled back, opening her eyes slowly to meet his. He grinned so widely at her, she thought his face was in danger of breaking. But it was contagious, and she returned the smile, even as she stepped reluctantly out of his arms. “Goodnight, Spike,” she said quietly, then left the room.
The moment Buffy stepped into her bedroom and closed the door behind her, she leapt onto her bed face first and squealed into her pillows like a teenager.
A/N: Like it? Hate it? Want me to shut up? Tell me.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This chapter got deleted when the site switched, so here it is again. I don't own any rights to The Beatles, just using the song for a story. Don't sue me, por favor. Thanks as always to my beta Flibble.