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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you to Willow Trees.
They met in the parking lot of the McDonald's across the street from the Children's Hospital where Buffy worked. She didn't want to venture inside the restaurant, in case any of her co-workers had a late night yen for chicken nuggets, so she went to his car.

Buffy crouched in front of the driver's side window and saw him dozing against the steering wheel. She knocked on the glass, jerking him awake. Spike smiled at her before he reached across the passenger seat and unlocked her door. It was worth the humiliation of this whole situation for that smile, Buffy thought.

She walked around the car, a dilapidated black Bonneville that was five years older than Dawn. The bumper seemed to be held on with stickers for some bands she recognized and some she didn’t. She opened the door, plopped into the plush seat and slammed the door shut.

"Fancy. Did you car-jack a scrap dealer?"

"This is the type of luxury transport a man who pulls down teaching money can buy, pet," he said, moving his hands across the dash to elucidate its finer qualities like a spokes model on the Price is Right.

"I was expecting something little, red and penis-shaped. Figured it would go along with the whole mid-life crises vibe you're putting out," she said.

"Do you think that's what you are, my bit of stuff to make me feel young?" he asked through the smile that hadn’t left his lips since the first moment he saw her.

"Bit of what?"

"Stuff," he said, brushing a stray tendril of blonde hair away from her eye. They sat in silence for a tic before Spike leaned over the center console and kissed her.
The night air was cold, but his mouth felt so warm. She let her tongue answer his; she let herself enjoy his warmth.

The seat carried the scent of his hair where he'd pressed up against it a thousand times and the smell of long crushed out cigarettes. When their lips finally separated it sounded like water pooling after a rainstorm. She was so tired. She wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in Spike's arms. God help her, she did not want Riley, did not want to be understanding or accepting or patient anymore. Buffy wanted a secret place to hide that was hers alone, even if it was wrong.

Spike was looking at her through the dark tangle of his eyelashes, the low light from the neon restaurant sign tracing his severe cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw.

"Come home with me, I want you in my bed tonight," he said.

Spike thought she would ask about Dru again and he was ready to tell her everything, but she didn't. Instead Buffy just leaned toward him and kissed her assent.

"I'll follow you," she said, and got out of his car.

**

Spike’s house was only a few miles away and given that the streets were empty at that time of night, they arrived in less than ten minutes. During the drive she could see his dark profile. His shadow self was putting something in his mouth, then the flare of a lighter and the red cherry of his cigarette burning.

When she met him at the door he was chewing on a peppermint Altoid. It made Buffy smile to think he didn't want her to know he smoked. They went inside and were greeted by a fluffy, white dog.

“Down, Sunshine,” Spike said.

Buffy knelt and gave Sunshine love and pets while Spike turned on the floor lamp by the door. It had a dragonfly Tiffany-style shade made up of jewel-like glass. Buffy wondered if it was real. The room smelled of the books and polished wood. It was painted yellow with black drapes that had a slight sheen and filled with an overstuffed sepia-colored sofa upholstered with a tapestry print.
There were multi-colored oriental rugs on the hardwood floors and wooden bookshelves flanking an ancient television set.

Over the T.V. hung a poster for a band she didn’t know that had played at a venue called The Bronze. The poster showed an image of a naked, dark-haired woman draped over a white tombstone, her throat pierced by two round holes oozing with red blood. The band’s name, Slow Bleed, was printed in jagged red letters at the top.
Spike noticed she was staring.

“You like that?” he asked.

“It doesn’t really fit,” Buffy said.

“’Spose not. That’s Dru, she was singing with them when we met,” he said pointing to the girl on the poster.

“She’s pretty,” Buffy said.

“Yeah, well I glossed over a few things when I drew it,” he said with a wicked grin.

Buffy unbuttoned her baby blue coat and slid it from her shoulders. It was strange finally knowing what Spike's wife looked like, to be standing in her home. Buffy wanted to ask where Dru was, but at the same time didn't want to know. This was stolen time with a borrowed lover and it was rapidly going away.

Spike was easing out of his boots. When he stood up, Buffy grabbed the halves of his leather coat and pulled him into a kiss. She took his jacket off and it hit the ground with a heavy plop, like an overripe piece of fruit.
Spike stopped her when she was about to kick off her bright, pink clogs.

“Wait, baby, leave the Crocs on,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

She laughed.

“You are kidding, right, you don’t have a nurse thing, do you?”

“Course I'm kidding, not really turned on by needles or catheters, more into naughty librarians,” he said, as he gently tugged off the elastic holding her braid in place. Spike unwove her hair with cautious fingers, releasing a tension Buffy didn’t even notice had been there. When he finished, her blonde hair hung in soft, shiny waves. As he gazed at her, his narrow, blue eyes took on a soft, round aspect and his lips parted.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said.

They shed the rest of their clothes until they were as bare as winter trees. Sunshine was still pestering them for attention, so Spike grabbed the dog by his black collar to lock him up in a cage that was tucked away in a corner of the dining room. Buffy followed, because seeing him wrangle that dog completely nude was sort of hilarious.

Sunshine was yipping and Spike was trying to quiet him and all the while Buffy couldn't stop giggling. The dining room was the same color as the living room, the formal table covered in a white cloth with an empty, tulip-shaped vase positioned in the middle.

Her eyes traveled from Spike to the wall, alighting on a wedding photo. In the picture Spike was grinning in his black tuxedo, his brown hair was slicked back and he had a pair of wire rim glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. There was a black smear across the head of the woman at his side, as though someone had stubbed out his cigarette over her face.

Buffy’s laughter stopped and Spike glanced at her as he locked the dog's cage. His eyes followed hers. Spike wasn’t sure what to say, he hadn’t wanted Buffy to see that piece of ugliness.

The day before Dru had sent him a postcard from San Paulo. On one side was a russet-colored moon hanging over a black, sparkling ocean. On the other side was her manic scrawl asking for a divorce. She’d sent him a bloody postcard. That was very much Dru’s style as of late; insanely fucking evil.

So he’d started smoking again, and in a drunken snit blotted out Dru’s candy apple-colored smile. Even as Spike had done it he’d known full well it would only warp the glass but the picture underneath would remain the same.

Stupid.

In his haste to tidy up the rest of the house, he'd forgotten to clean off the picture and now Buffy was looking at him with so much sadness.
Buffy reached for him, held him close. They had maybe an hour, just an hour before she would be missed, needed and gone. He wrapped his hands around her waist and led her to his bedroom. He’d put the dirty clothes in the beige, wicker hamper, swept up the tumbleweeds of fluffy, white dog hair and put clean, red sheets on the bed to match the red comforter.

Buffy liked the room with its honey-colored, wooden furniture, the cream walls and the dark, red curtains. It smelled like him, it felt like him. She wished she could spend the whole night; she wished she didn’t want to stay. Buffy turned down the covers and got into bed.

Spike went to turn off the light switch on the wall.

“Leave it, please. I want to look at you,” she said.

Spike looked like she’d just offered to give him one of her kidneys. His eyes were glistening in a way that promised tears.

“Your abs are six flavors of yummy,” she said. It sounded kind of idiotic, but she had to say something to keep the moment from getting even more intense. He smirked at her, the mask back.

“Then have a taste,” he said silkily, and got into bed with her.

They kissed, she drank in his breath as he exhaled while her hands ran all over him with the abandon of water. She bit his lower lip, kissed his jaw. He kissed her shoulders until she crawled down his body, bathing his stomach with her tongue.

It must have tickled because he laughed, really laughed and his torso jumped under her. She loved the way his muscles rolled smoothly under his skin, she could just watch him move, watch him laugh. She wanted to remember what he looked like; she wanted to keep it for moments when she felt cold.

"Come up here, you silly girl," he said, dragging her along him until they were face to face.

"Can I have you inside me?" she asked.

Spike leaned over and opened the drawer of the bedside table, producing a condom. She took the package out of his hand.

"Let me do it," she said.

Buffy tore the wrapper with her teeth, pressed the sheath against his cock and unrolled it. He licked her neck, sending a shiver through her body. As she lowered herself onto him, his eyelids sank and he gasped. Seeing his face and feeling him inside was almost too much. Buffy couldn't move. Spike opened his eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She was in love with him.

Oh no, God no.

Buffy kissed him, sweeping her tongue against his and pulling him on top of her.

“Nothing, just fuck me,” she said.

He grunted and flipped them over, so he could be on top. Spike started pounding into her. She held onto his ass, guiding him, feeling the muscle tense against her hand.

Of course she had fallen in love with him. Bad childhood, thoughtful gesture, great sex, beautiful eyes. She was so easy, Buffy thought.

She wanted to see what he looked like from overhead and for a second she wished there was a mirror on the ceiling. Buffy could imagine all the coils of his back moving in concert, straining to a single point, to her.

Spike was touching her face and staring into her eyes with such affection.
I don't deserve this, Buffy thought.

She felt her orgasm building, then it was shooting through her. He could feel her tightening inside.

"Cum now," she said, so he did, letting out a buttery moan.

He collapsed on her and then slid out, mindful of the condom. Spike pitched the spent profilactic in the trash by his bed and then resumed his place on top of her, resting his head on her chest.

I love you, we should never see each other again, she thought.

"I need to go," Buffy said.

"Five more minutes," he said.

"I'll fall asleep," she said.

She felt him tense, then he turned onto his back, setting her free.

"Spike, I can't meet you Sunday," Buffy said as she stood up, the sheet trailing behind her.

"Thought not," he said, draping his arm over his eyes.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, love. I'll see you out," he said.

"Don't," she said.

He didn't move. She could hear him swallow hard, see his Adam's apple bob, but he didn't speak. Buffy walked out of the room, gathered up her clothes and left, praying Riley would be asleep when she got home.


Chapter End Notes:
Spike laughing is inspired by a comment from Behind Blue Eyes. Thank you to her and to everyone who's been reading. Comments keep me going.



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