CHAPTER 8 -- At the Café
A deafening static resounded in Spike’s ear. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, folding over in his iron cast chair outside Café Ross, clutching his ear. The packed café porch glanced over their coffee and muffins nervously at him.
“Blondie-bear, blondie-bear, do you copy? Do you copy?” Xander’s voice filtered through his ear.
Spike sighed, “Harris, are these ear pieces completely necessary? And do not call me blondie-bear, you twit.” Spike looked at the worried expressions of the families and couples around him, all of them looking at the weird guy sitting alone at a table talking to himself. Some old grandma looked particularly upset. Spike rolled his eyes.
“Oh, come on!” Xander continued. “These James Bond ear things are great! I just got ‘em from Cordy and I want to try them out. Think of all the undercover operations we could pull with these things.”
“You do remember this is it, right? Once this job is done there is no more operations, let alone undercover ones.”
Xander sounded deflated, “Could you not let me live out a boyhood dream, just once?”
Spike smiled, “Sorry mate.”
Xander interrupted, “Slayer, one o’clock,” he stated urgently.
Spike furrowed his eyebrows, “Who?”
“The Slayer.”
“Who?”
“The Slayer -- it’s codename.”
“Codename for what? Harris, generally the idea of code is that at least one other person besides yourself knows what it means.”
“Buffy Summers!”
“What!? Where? I thought she went into that clothes store?” Spike hissed.
Xander sighed, “One o’clock. Do you see her?”
Spike took in the form of his nemesis. Her slender legs peeked out from her white A-line skirt, he watched her stride towards him in her black strapped sandals. “Yeah . . . I see her.”
She saddled up next to his table, directly in front of him, whipping off her sunglasses. Spike looked up at her, “Fancy meeting you here.”
Her voice was annoyed, “Yeah, fancy that. Now can we get this whole thing done soon? ‘Cause frankly, I’m getting sick of you stalking me.”
Spike leaned back in his chair nonchalantly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, luv.”
“Oh I think you do.” She sat down in the seat across from him. “Ever since the warehouse fiasco you and your boyfriend have been following me around,” she spat.
“Buffy, please put your hands on the table,” Spike said calmly.
She was instantly suspicious at his request, “Why?” But his tone had Buffy moving her hands slowly into view. He smiled at her subconscious compliance. He quietly crept his hand towards her slim digits.
At his movement her hand whipped away towards her waist that held her hidden pistol. He caught her wrist and tsked at her, “You don’t want to do that pumpkin.”
Buffy’s eyes were wide at his quick reflex, “Why not?” They were starting to get looks for their tense movement and heated words. Granny looked temped to call the police. Spike looked down, her hand still rested in his. Buffy’s jaw twitched in agitation as Spike gently, but firmly pulled her arm towards him. Her eyes locked with his as he brought her wrist up and caressed the sensitive skin to his cheek. Buffy fought her reaction to the gentle, yet dangerous touch. She had to argue her body’s automatic relaxation, reminding herself she was not safe with this man.
_______________________________________
Meanwhile, in the bushes ten yards away . . .
“What are they doing?” Willow asked. Xander jumped at the noise, wobbling on his haunches before stumbling onto his ass. He had been hiding behind a thick section of bush that divided the café from the park across the street. Willow had spotted him when Buffy had left her side to confront Spike.
Xander, more concerned about getting seen by a cop thinking he was some kind of perv, was strangely relieved it was just the accomplis of the girl trying to kill his best friend.
Xander reinstated his previous position, poking his binoculars back through the hole he had created in the brush, “Don’t know . . . but my assassin just called your assassin ‘pumpkin.’”
Willow crouched over him, getting her own view of the show being put on by their respective partners, “Potato chip?” she offered, holding out the shiny yellow bag.
“Sure.”
___________________________________________
Her smell was intoxicating. The jasmine she was wearing had his blood pumping. Spike swiped his tongue against her pulse point, her eyes went comically wide. He sealed the searing heat from his tongue with a chaste press of his lips to her heated flesh. Buffy may have looked calm, but in her mind she was struggling with whether to make a scene or keep a low profile. He distracted her further with kisses and licks up and down her arm. The crowd around them seemed convinced that the blonde couple were having a slight marital spat and that there was no need to alert the authorities so they turned back to their lunches.
“Why should I not pull my gun out right now and shoot you?” she asked quietly. Her question brought Spike out of his delusion -- the delusion that they were here to be together, not kill each other for money.
Spike locked his scorching eyes onto hers and answered her calmly, “Because, my love, Xander has a gun trained on you right now and if you even try to pull the knife out from your boot, he’ll pull the trigger. I’d hate to see that pretty little head of yours scattered all over the pavement.”
Meanwhile, in the bushes . . .
“Do you have a gun?” Willow gasped.
Xander shrugged, “Not that I know of. But I do have these really cool ear things.” He handed on to Willow so she could better hear the conversation they were eavesdropping on.
Willow brightened, “Neat!”
Xander sat back for a minute shaking his head, looking nothing but utterly perplexed, “I don’t get it. My assassin should of killed your assassin by now. At least try to anyway. All they’ve done is talk.”
Willow nodded in agreement. “Buffy’s never taken this long to get a job done before. I think they’re turning it into some type of game.”
Xander grumbled, “Game? More like foreplay.”
TBC
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