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Author's Notes: Okay, so heads up, this chapter involves a slight crossover. There are two characters from another tv show which has sadly gone off the air, but they are my absolute favorite pairing in that show, and I can make them canon end-game in my head and heart... so, while this chapter is certainly important for Spike, I used two characters from Hart of Dixie in it; here ends the crossover warning.

Disclaimer: No publicly recognizable characters in this story belong to the author of this story. This story is simply written for fun. There is no profit being gained from this story, and all publicly recognizable characters belong to their respective owners.
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The wind was soft, like you would imagine butterfly wings fluttering against your palm. Leather whipped his boots, a neon sign lit Spike's hair in a red glow. Sunday night partiers who didn't work tomorrow morning crowded the bar and bled into the parking lot. Thick smoke, from trucks to motorcycles to cigarettes, surrounded the entrance like a murky arch. Music and drunken laughter ruled the air, dancing on lukewarm breezes.

Spike stared at the neon sign above with bag weighted eyes. He'd never been inside this joint, merely passed it on occasion during late night runs to forget things and imagine, enjoy a few too many drinks. Whatever they had available was good enough for him, so long as it was alcoholic.

Yeah, never the healthy choice. He knew it. He just couldn't find the will to care.

Locking the car, Spike tossed his cigarette away and stepped it out on the way to the door. People watched him, those wearing leather coats, skimpy skirts, heels and biker boots. This particular crowd looked to have been out all weekend long. They probably lived for nights like this.

What a thought. Spike’s biggest thrill amounted to one girl in a small town easily ten miles away from the nearest biker bar, really a Mayberry kind of place, and bittersweet dreams that didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of coming true.

Spike wouldn't give her up for the world.

He pounded through the doorway and the crowd made way, suddenly reminded of why he was here. Buffy wasn't his to give up, not really. She wasn’t his anything.

Spike kicked down the frustration. He was starting to think in circles, and each rotation left him dizzier than the last. "Hell, I need a beer."

The bar was dim and the crowd outside made things appear much livelier than what was actually true. He could hear the echoes of his footsteps if he listened hard enough. The music was country, but he was able to tune that out, and the tables were practically empty but for a total of six. Three barstools out of fifteen were occupied. There was a petite brunette running around with a cleaning rag, looking much too chipper for most at one a.m., and a lone bartender earning tips, chuckling with a patron on the end.

Spike eyed the waitress. She was cute. Short, but nice legs. Nothing real special about her, looked a bit young to be working at a place like this, though.

He sighed, turning away. No. Someone blonde would be better.

If only he could summon the desire to actually pursue the idea.

He'd have to force himself through this. Alcohol would make it easier, always did. Made words come smoother, smiles appear real. He could find a chit with green eyes, maybe, and then it'd be fairly uncomplicated to imagine.

Sometimes, Spike just tried to forget, to lose himself in pleasure no matter how temporary, and let Buffy's face slip away. Hardly ever worked, of course, but sometimes… he could distance himself.

Others, he deliberately chose women he could pretend with, birds with pouty mouths and blonde hair. A tendency to smile made it all the better.

Spike ran a hand over his face. There was no envisioning sanity. He was sure he'd go completely fucking nuts one of these days. Hell, if a single half an hour meeting with Buffy was enough to keep him up until the noon hour arrived, despite the agonizing exhaustion that embedded itself inside, then this yearning was sure to do him in, by way of sleep deprivation if nothing else.

Eventually.

At the moment, he'd settle for being half as barmy as his ex. Maybe a bit more than just half, but at least he wasn't talking to pixies.

Spike fell into a stool with a sturdy back, and drummed his fingers against the bar rail. He read the neon sign over the mirror ahead of him. It was identical to the other out front, if dimmer, the title Rammer Jammer glowing in cursive letters.

Spike caught sight of his reflection, and admitted that without much sleep, he looked like a ghost.

Well. He'd forgotten to put liner on today, too. Fortunately, all the darkness under his eyes hid that oversight pretty well.

Someone blocked his view. "What'll ya have?"

The southern offer of liquid comfort rang like music to Spike's ears as he glanced dispassionately at the bartender. "Beer to start."

"Preference?"

"None." A draft suddenly appeared at his fingertips, and Spike nodded in thanks.

"How're ya paying?" The Brit slapped a credit card down.

"Keep it," Spike said. "Jus' do me a favor an’ remind me you 'ave it 'fore I slip out."

The bartender said, “Okay,” though his frown went unnoticed; it wouldn't have been deemed important anyway. "Let me know if you want anything else."

"Will do." Spike took a swig, already planning what his next drink would be.

Somewhere into the forty minute mark, blessedly drowning his taste buds in a cold, dark stout, Spike felt brave enough to start envisioning the night ahead. Start making peace with his intentions.
There was a conveniently located motel about a block away, and that would likely be where he ended up.

A tip of his drink, and cold, bitter hops trickled down his throat. A bandage on the necessary places. It made it easier to force a bit of charm, a little interest, just to achieve artificial satisfaction and convince a woman to spend the night with him.

It had never been this hard before, so Spike took another rich gulp to deaden the nerves.

It appeared spending time with Buffy had only made this worse. Which was fairly ironic, considering the occasion was precisely what drove him here. He was trying to finagle an antidote out of yeasty beverages and failing. He had practically beaten his pillows into nothing more than down and cotton when struggling earlier to find rest; fought to stay under the sheets when only the want to be near her was constant.

Spike couldn't even convince himself to fuck some stranger in the name of forgetting her for a bloody minute, and the idea of choosing someone like... his jaw clenched. He had done this before, but he wasn't sure anyone could fool him now. Not now that he'd experienced the real woman up close, talked to her, been in her home. Everything else felt cheap, like a robot, circuits and wires versus a human heart and soul.

Spike ran fingers through his hair. Fuck he missed her. He hadn't seen Buffy since last night, and the itch to go and rectify the situation was like a never ending burn.

He pressed the beer to his lips again, making an unacknowledged fist at his side.

*All right, mate. Sooner you do it, sooner you can dull this pain.* Fortitude traveled through veins with a cool, slow seep, sticking inside like molasses. It felt as sickening to him as drinking castor oil.

Spike took a deep breath. He'd come here for a reason. It was a logical thing, always helped, always took some of the strain out of his back and shoulders, not to mention his damned stubborn heart. They always got something out of it, both he and the chosen lady...

As if right on cue, Spike noticed a woman's reflection in the mirror over the bar, tall and slim, closing an unlabeled door as she advanced.

A dark eyebrow flicked up. She was leggy, feminine. Long blonde hair, closer to Spike's color than Bu-

He shook his head. Don't think about her.

The stranger in the mirror was pretty. She was, honestly. Fair skin like snow and ruby red lips that slid into a perfect curve. Her body was a runway model design, and she walked like one in her short heels and peach cream skirt. A dark red halter hugged her breasts and slender shoulders.

Spike turned fully, not knowing whether a chit with that much cat-like self assurance would look twice at him or not, but willing to find out. She bobbed straight on over with a confident gait, and glanced once, then a second time at Spike's head, but otherwise seemed uninterested.

He'd not noticed until right then that she was carrying a clipboard, and despite the sleepy look on her face, those elegantly high shoulders did not sag when she set it down.

"Workin' late, pet?" The words slipped out effortlessly, like he was used to saying them, like he could without the added confidence alcohol provided. The lady was in the middle of a sigh, but she sucked the exhaustion right back into her lungs upon being addressed.

A surprised, not overly welcoming expression turned his way. There was a smile Spike could only describe as lemonade sweet and neon bright. "Always workin'," she said, with a slight tilt of her head.

He was almost thrown by the southern drawl. It'd been a long while since he met anyone who wasn't a native of this Midwestern junction of America, but she and the bartender made two tonight. "You own this place?" Spike asked curiously.

She looked away from him. "Nope. Just help run it."

"Don' sound like you're from around here."

She finally let out that sigh, loud and as pointed as her next words. "Neither do you, but you don't see me asking a bunch of questions."

He shuffled in his seat, but forced his lips into a firm smirk. "Didn' mean to rile you, love."

Her expression went from impatient to miffed in the space of several quick blinks, dark lashes fluttering with annoyance. "I don't get 'riled,' thank you, I'm not a dog or a raccoon."

Spike's smirk became heavier, along with his heart as the flirtatious drawl grew thicker. "No," he replied, looking her over from shoes to shoulders. "That you're not."

She was a moment from biting off his head with her pearly white teeth, and Spike finally realized this was a woman who wasn't about to be impressed anytime soon, and he should probably leave off. Then a fairly recognizable voice cut in, and said, "Just 'cause she ain't a raccoon doesn't mean she can't get ticked off now and again. Trust me." Spike turned, and found himself under the steady gaze of the bartender. "I see you've met my girlfriend," the man added.

A groan clogged Spike's throat. With a self-depreciating head shake, he muttered, "Balls!" The lady on his right jumped and made a scoffing noise. "Sorry, pet. Didn't know you were attached."

She gave him a pinched smile. "Now you do, so please, quit talkin' to me."

Busy drying a highball glass, all signs of the domineering beau hidden for the moment, her other half smiled crookedly and said, "C'mon now Lemon, guy can't help he has good taste."

She pressed those rouge lips together and rolled her eyes. Unexpectedly, Spike became the object of Lemon's full, undeterred attention, and immediately wished he wasn’t. "I'm sorry if I offended you, but I am simply not in the mood to be hounded by Billy Idol impersonators tonight."

It was the first time he had ever been insulted by a southern belle. The experience was rather mystifying.

Lemon's snapping blue gaze shifted again. "Wade darlin', did you forget to place an order this week?"

She spoke so sweetly that Spike wasn't sure how the words managed to sound as slighting as they did.

Wade's amused hazel eyes lost their carefree light, his crooked smile turning down. "I- No! I didn't! I double checked everything." He tapped the clipboard lying between Lemon and himself, setting the highball down. "Look again."

She sighed impatiently. "I triple checked. Don’t you remember how we were goin' to try those new-"

"Martini glasses," he finished suddenly. Wade released a groan that muffled the radio's pop-country beat. "Damn it!"

Lemon took pity on him, irritation draining away to be replaced by the face of a woman wholly comfortable handling responsibility. "I can call 'em tomorrow, place a rush order if you want."

He nodded earnestly, gratefully. "Thank you." Then, Wade smiled a little bashfully, and turned to the one customer who had just been privy to their entire conversation. "Don't know what I'd do without this woman."

Spike almost snorted when Lemon replied, "Probably forget how to breathe along with leavin' your head lyin’ around somewhere."

Wade sent her a mildly cutting glare, to which she smiled jauntily. He watched her trot away with her long legs and proud shoulders, and his attention remained fixed on his girlfriend's backside as he said, "You ever dated a chick who could probably run the world singlehandedly, and knows it?"

Spike settled further into his seat and cast a quick glance in the retreating bird's direction. His heart and mind immediately thought of Buffy, though he wasn't sure she fully recognized her own greatness. "Never dated, no." His voice was cauterized by one final sip from the bottle. He shoved it aside.

The bartender did his job very well, Spike decided, as a fresh beer suddenly appeared at his fingertips, cool white mist rising from the open lip. "Thanks."

"No problem." The man with a scruffy chin popped open a brew for himself. "Word of advice; if you do ever date a girl like that, check your boots at the door so they don't yell about the carpets gettin' dirty." Wade slanted him a dry look. "Then make peace with the arguing."

Spike stared into his dark swirling bottle. "Sounds like the life to me, mate."

Yet another crooked smile. "Yeah, well... you'd be right." His beer found a place on the shelf behind him. "Wade Kinsella," he said by way of introduction, holding out one hand.

Spike eyed the proffered hello critically, warily, before they shook. "William Pratt," he nearly muttered.

Wade nodded. "Got a nickname?"

The smirk righted itself onto his face. "Spike."

"Spike?" Two dark blonde eyebrows met in the middle, mocking disbelief clear and honest. "I was thinkin' something along the lines of 'Will.'"

"You thought wrong."

A rueful shrug. "It's definitely not the first time. So, how'd you get it?"

The interest being shown him might have bothered Spike more if he didn't partially believe it was in the bloke's job description; or if he was feeling a little better about life in general. Right now Spike simply didn't care. "Long story, that."

"Ya know, most come in this place, they say their stories are long. Or they just talk." Wade crossed his plaid dressed arms. "Between you an' me? All meant to be a lot shorter, but most people tend to get carried away when they have an audience."

Spike gave him a dubious, one arched brow of disdain. "An' you're bettin' m'different."

"You don't like talking very much, I can tell." Wade placed both hands flat on the bar, sighing dramatically. "'Sides, unless you're in a biker gang like the rest of my customers, I gotta hear the story behind that name."

Spike was silent... but then decided to play. It was a harmless thing anyway; wasn’t like it was Buffy in front of him. "Dated a bird when I was barely out of high school," Spike started. "'Bout two years ago, we tried it again. She wasn't all there," he gestured to his head, "you know? Forever spoutin' rot you couldn't always grasp no matter how hard ya tried. Came up with the nickname after I fought with some wanker who’d been harassin' her."

He wasn't going to explain how the moniker was darkened by the fact he'd used a stray railroad spike to win that fight, pounding the weapon right through his opponent's shoulder, effectively scarring the bastard for life. William Pratt had never felt strong before that day, never felt powerful, and while Spike realized the active search for bar brawls that followed, and midnight challenges in billiard rooms which would undoubtedly bear fruitful excuses to fight, wasn't exactly healthy or intelligent, at the time it made him feel alive. It had made him worthy of the nickname his ladylove bestowed.

Since the need for violence abated, no matter the wimp he felt, or the coward, or the lonely freak, William could always rest against the title he'd earned, the one thing in his life he felt meant something. The only thing that reminded him day to day he could do something.

Wade didn't read into what he offered, and didn't seem ready to dig any deeper, for which Spike was grateful. "Must've been a special woman." At the lack of affirmation, the bartender added astutely, "Wasn't your perfect endin' though, huh?"

Spike gave him a critical look. "Used to think so. When she dumped me, felt like the end of the sodding world..." Blue eyes fogged over. "I was wrong."

Wade watched him swallow another gulp of beer. This guy reminded him sadly of himself several years past, and while it wasn't a twin to twin situation, Wade couldn't help from following a hunch and saying, "You found someone knew to drive you crazy, didn't ya?"

Spike was silent. His whole saggy demeanor changed, back whipping into a hunched hill of muscle, arms and hands curling inward; stiff, hard, coiled. The brokenhearted sigh that flew through his lips thoroughly surprised his current audience. "More like me drivin' myself 'round the bend. Girl barely knows I exist." *Heart bloody well wants what it wants.*

Wade frowned at this. "Well, can't say I ever had that problem." The Brit scoffed and the bartender discovered his curiosity prodded to life. "You know what I think ya need?"

"Another drink?"

Wade rolled his eyes. "Some female advice." Before his new acquaintance could stop him, Wade bellowed across the room, over gentle conversations and low toned Kenny Chesney. "Lemon! Get out here!"

The model blonde poked her head out from their small office room. "Why are you yellin'?!"

Wade smirked and ignored the glare from a barstool. He cupped one hand against the side of his mouth. "Boy needs a little advice, uh... of the feminine sort!"

While Spike shook his head continuously like a defective bobble-head, Lemon stomped over and crossed her arms. Ignoring the curious glances from a few surrounding customers, she peered down her nose at her boyfriend.

"Oh, don't give me that look, baby. C'mon, have some compassion." His southern drawl came out in full force, softening, deepening. "Man's got some real heartbreak issues, and we thought you could help."

Spike finally spoke up. "No, actually, your honey here thought you could help. I jus' decided it's better when I keep my trap shut." He would have left right then, but the beer was only half gone, and far be it from Spike to waste alcohol.

When faced with a challenge, Lemon always rose to the occasion. When someone didn't think she could tackle it, well... She sat down, right beside her boyfriend's new pal. "I'm inclined to agree with you on that," she chirped brightly, hands folded precisely in her lap, "but when it comes to Wade's intuition about my ability to help in a situation, he is usually right. So go ahead."

Spike stared at the expectant woman. His nerves were dancing again from the attention, and he couldn't decide whether he should say sod all and hightail it home, or actually give in. He supposed he'd already scrapped the night in regards to getting his mind off Buffy, or pretending his heart wasn't little more than a useless muscle if it wasn't hers, so why not? Wasn't like he had anything to lose.

He didn't honestly believe this couple could help, but then again, maybe he would garner something else. Something like understanding.

Even though Spike wasn't sure he would get any from this Lemon chit. In some very weird way, he felt like he was talking to a drill sergeant when he finally spoke up. "The girl... She doesn't know- know I-"

She shook her head when all he did was stutter, patience depleting quickly. "Know how you feel?" Lemon asked, then looked to Wade for confirmation.

He gestured vaguely. "Uh... apparently, she doesn't 'know he exists.'"

Lemon balked and whipped her head around. "Well make it known to her that you exist!"

Spike glared at Wade again, gritting his teeth, jaw muscle popping in his cheek. "It's not that bloody simple."

"Why?"

"Well-!" He stopped, tongue tied. "What?"

"Why isn't it simple?" Lemon wore a look that clearly said she believed him to be hardheaded or rather slow. "Women are intuitive, but we aren't psychic. If you want her to notice you, you have to talk to her. Let her know you're around, ask her out. Somethin'!"

Spike took another swig of beer. He sat up straighter to meet Lemon's eyes, and mumbled, "I did talk to her. She- She-..." A familiar wave of sick nerves bombarded him at the recollection, giddy remembrance directly following. "She's too good for me, all right? S'not like I can jus' waltz up and-"

"Whoa, hang on." Lemon raised a hand, successfully cutting him off. She asked Wade, "What's this guy's name?"

He smiled. "William Pratt."

She squinted, then flipped back to attentive listener mode when the man in question amended Wade's answer with, "It's Spike."

Lemon paused, shook her head, blonde hair bobbing around her shoulders before she said, "Ya know what, I knew a guy named Meatball, so I'm not as shocked as I wish I could be. Besides, it's irrelevant."

Spike refrained from mentioning that she'd been the one to interrupt. However... "Yeah. An' 'Lemon' is the cream of the crop, right?"

Wade snickered. Lemon allowed one acerbic glare. "It's a flower," she bit off. Spike said nothing and watched as she flattened her pale hands across her skirt again, calm restored easily across her face. "You, sir, have one problem here. You'll never get the girl if you don't quit bein' so afraid."

Wade brushed his hand over Lemon's forearm in silent communication as he left to wait on a customer, while Spike sat there gobsmacked. The bint could make a philosopher feel stupid, a scientist retest his theories a hundred times, and a football coach shuffle plays. Her brows were high and her mouth was a hard line. She held no sympathies, and Spike suddenly found himself doused in shame and respect.

"I have good reason to be afraid," he replied thickly.

Lemon suddenly appeared concerned. Spike also got the distinct impression that she wanted to smack him. Little did he know, bartender Wade was more than used to this combination of expressions. "Only if you believe that," she said. Shock was Lemon's reward. "It's as simple as it is hard, but it's what you have to do if you want to change anything."

She had a matter of fact way of speaking that sincerely irritated him. Yet, sugarless advice couldn't have been drilled harder into Spike's head than if it had come from his own mother, but just as forcefully, he recognized the futility of the words. It wasn't that simple, just that difficult.

Buffy was out of reach. She always had been, and he always watched from a distance.

Lemon's voice replayed. Change...

Change what you think.

A sad scoff. It couldn't be that easy.

Unless...

...could it?

A lump the size of Alaska lodged itself inside his throat. Air was heavy, the beer suddenly abhorrent to his taste buds. What if she was right? What if he put himself out there, flaws and all, he could get closer somehow. Welcomed into an area of Buffy's life? Likely it'd be a small one, but that was safe, and anything, anything was better than where he stood now. On the outside, looking in.

He feared if he kept following her like a shadow, he'd become nothing more than that. His previously solid commitments to stay back were all falling to pieces after one thirty minute confrontation; who was to say never getting that again wouldn't drive him into the ground?

He knew he was asking for what constituted too much with this hopeful notion, but the more he considered it, let it gain roots, the more possible it seemed.

Perhaps... perhaps he could become a part of Buffy's life if he set boundaries. If he was careful not to cross them. If he held himself back, but allowed himself the pleasure of her smiles again. Spike would take a crumb to the whole cake any day. Maybe he- No. He would fight the odds and make certain nothing happened to get him kicked out of her life.

"Where..." Spike cleared his throat. Lemon blinked like an expectant feline, and caught his eyes on a dipping glance as he looked down again. "Where do I start?"

It was amazing. A blinding grin spread across her face. It was almost warm, if you squinted. "How 'bout you try an' be her friend?"

Wade returned, a thankful smile on his lips, as he picked up on the fact Lemon had succeeded in making a point. Even though at the moment, it appeared Spike was having a coughing fit.

"Friends?!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, friends!" she shouted back. Lemon threw an impatient hand against Wade's arm. "Tell him!"

He looked between the two people sitting- he'd thought -a safe distance away, on the other side of the bar. Wade rubbed his arm and realized he should have thought better. "Tell him what?"

She huffed. "How we were friends long before we ever started dating." A blink and then a squint of cornflower blue eyes. "Well, really dating."

"Ah." Wade fell into a leaning position against the bar, his smile parallel to the angle. "She's right, ya know. I found after living with her, she usually is. We were best friends-"

"Still are," Lemon clarified.

"-a long time 'fore we ended up where we are."

"A very long time." she added.

Spike looked between the two of them. Cautiously, something long buried fought to climb into his heart; he had the distinct sensation that it was hope. He wasn't looking for love, because he already had it, and the idea Buffy would feel for him what Spike did for her was a pipedream in a fairytale. Still, the man couldn't help what he said next. "How'd you manage to... to want each other at the same time?"

For an instant, neither had anything to say.

Wade and Lemon shared a speaking glance, then they looked at Spike in joint determination, and answered in unison. "We talked."

Well, he had to admit, it might be a good start. Spike took one more swig of beer, wincing before he rose from his seat. Wade was already handing over the credit card, and Spike pulled a couple crumpled twenties out of his pocket. The plastic rectangle met with leather and the bills met with cherry stained wood.

Picking up the cash, Wade said, "Hey, you know I charged that card, right?"

"Keep the money." Spike waved offhandedly as he stepped towards the exit.

"Wait-"

"Consider it my thanks, for listenin'."

The couple watched him leave, a billowing coat and thoughts so loud they were certain they could hear them from across the room. Then, like a flicker one sees out of the corner of their eye, he was gone.

In a rather timely fashion, Hard to Love by Lee Brice started playing over the radio, and they shared a meaningful look.

Wade sighed, his arms stiff and crossing over the bar. "You know that is one of the only times I tried to convince a heavy tipper to keep his money?"

She smiled a little sadly. "And one of the only times I was gonna let you."

***

Spike did not sleep at a motel that night, and neither did he share his bed with anyone but the woman of his dreams- in his dreams. Come the morning, he would wake with just as much terror and craving as he had the day before, that which had nearly consumed him whole, until entering that country bar.

Sunlight had a nasty tendency to highlight fears previously covered by night and alcohol, thoughts of hope that can sprout in a garden of advice dug by strangers. Happy strangers. Strangers in love.

Spike woke the next morning, a terrible chill crawling over his naked skin as he realized it was only eleven, and what on Earth was he doing up at this time when he didn't have to show up at the school until two?

All at once he decided it didn't matter, and rose to go to the bathroom. He made it three steps from the door when his toe came in contact with a mess of paper, and Spike looked down. Five different pictures, all of the same woman, but none quite identical to the other. Snow sheets strewn across a dark floor, like a star on a worn ship deck, and all he could think was how the pencil lines were never quite right.

Spike sighed, then scooped them up, sifting through one at a time as he headed downstairs. It was amazing. No matter how hard his heart beat, his chest still managed to hold it in.
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