CHAPTER 11 –
A/N: Well, you know what they say, “It’ll never happen to me.” But it did. I was plagiarized, ya’ll. Thank you to everyone who caught it. It’s called “Seperated” (she/he didn’t even spell “separated” correctly) by SpikeRock08. I know it’s posted at Buffy/Spike Central. I don’t know if it’s anywhere else.
A/N: When you get to the part in the story, Go here http://www.tothemaxusa.com/fall2005/index.html to see the dress Buffy is wearing.
“I’m going to have to go back soon,” Buffy stated, looking across the desk at Spike, studying his reaction. She was curled up in a comfy leather chair wearing a navy blue sweatshirt and drawstring pants she had borrowed from him, sipping at her cup of hot tea, watching him work. They’d been like that for almost an hour. Every once in a while he’d stop and they’d talk about this and that, but mostly they were happy to just be in each other’s company, comforted by the soft snap of the keys of his computer.
The weather outside was, not surprisingly, miserable. But Buffy, in spite of her love for the California sunshine, found the grey sky and storm clouds calming. It was the kind of weather that didn’t make her want to go outside, but stay right where she was.
“You what?” he glanced up from his laptop, peering over the top of his glasses. She had always liked his glasses, especially when he paired them with a crisp white button down and blue jeans like he had on now. He had stealthily hid the fact that he wore glasses for years. It wasn’t until they had been dating a year that she caught him with them on unexpectedly at home. It had made her giggle at first – the entirely black ensemble, the slicked back bleached hair, the leather . . . and those delicate little frames. He had shot her a murderous look while whipping them off and it had taken her all day and some *ahem* coaxing to break him out of the bad mood and agree to wear them around her.
She cleared her throat, “Have to go back, you know . . . home. The gallery, my house, my mom. I have to sort everything out with Dawn’s school if she’s going to stay here for a while.” The mountain of paperwork from every aspect of her life that awaited her arrival home made her inwardly cringe.
Buffy sighed, gazing out the window. Willow had already returned to the states the night before and she and Xander were already planning her trip back with girlfriend in tow. If Dawn was ready they would bring her back to Sunnydale with them on their return trip.
“Let’s go out tonight,” he said finally.
“Huh?” Buffy’s head whipped back, not the response she was expecting on word of her departure, if she was hoping for one at all.
He pushed himself away from his work, “Come on, Buffy, we’re barely been alone together since you got here and you and I both know it’s partially been on purpose.”
“We were just out two nights ago!” she argued. Maybe they had been avoiding situations together that could be potentially awkward in the beginning, but they had, in the past couple days, developed a comfortable friendship around each other, one that could consist of conversation that didn’t necessarily revolve around their children or work.
“To a noisy dance club with Red and Harris,” he replied. “Let’s go out by ourselves tomorrow,” he pleaded, “like we used to.”
Her eyes darted around the room and her mouth opened as if to object to his idea. She was hesitating and he could tell.
“I’ll plan the whole night,” he insisted, “I’ll make it worth your while,” his last comment let forth some of that innuendo he was known for, but had held back on around her until very recently. “If you play your cards right I may even put out,” a quick eyebrow raise accompanied his last remark, and Buffy let out a bark of laughter at his teasing. Apparently, he was now completely comfortable enough to let forth his pervy sense of humor.
Buffy couldn’t think of a good excuse not to agree, and she’d barely gotten to see the city since she’d arrived, confining herself to the house to spend some much-needed time with her son. But Connor and Dawn were currently out with their grandfather and had a moviefest planned with their Uncle Xander tomorrow night.
“Okay,” Buffy caved, “You plan it and I’ll be there.”
At seven fifty-five the next night Buffy was still standing in front of her full-length mirror, chastising herself for being so indecisive.
“It’s only one date, Buffy,” she muttered to herself, before crinkling up her face in distaste at the words, “Not a date,” she insisted to herself, “Just going out . . . somewhere . . . with the father of your children.” She looked at the clock, then back at her reflection. “Well, here goes nothing.”
She descended the stairs quietly, her heels barely clicking on the marble. Peaking around the corner she saw that Spike had his back to her. He had told her to dress to the nines and she observed that he had done the same. His black dress pants were neatly creased and the back of his jacket was smooth.
He was standing behind the couch, eyes on the television. Some horror movie flickered across the screen – number two on the long list of movies Xander and their children had planned for the night. Over the couch she could see the top of Dawn’s head and Conner’s legs poked out from the side, laid out on the floor. Blankets, pillows, and piles of candy were everywhere.
“Wow, Mom, look at you!” Dawn’s neck was now craned over the couch, nodding approvingly at her mother.
Spike spun around and two more sets of eyes joined him.
Buffy suddenly felt herself under close scrutiny. Granted it had been quite some time since she had dolled herself up, but with a credit card and some exquisite designer shops, Buffy had cleaned up nice if she did say so herself.
And if the four people that were now gaping at her were any indication, she had either done very well or really, really bad. She had on an aquamarine dress with barely visible straps and a v-neck that dove past her cleavage, which her A-cup allowed without looking slutty. The dress went to her knees, but had a slit up her inner right thigh. Buffy didn’t think the dress was that scandalous, but the looks she was getting made her want to go up and change.
That was until Spike broke from his stupor and approached her, his eyes never ceasing his up and down scan of her.
“Luv, you look amazing.” The other three called out agreements, but Buffy never heard them, as Spike had captured her eyes with his. “Don’t wait up,” Spike hollered back, his sight never leaving her. He smoothly ran his fingertips down her bare shoulder and arm until his fingers reached hers. Intertwining them, he led them out the door, whisking her into his car, and speeding down the road.
The whole trip there, Spike refused to tell her where he was taking them. Every time she attempted to ply him for information, he simply told her how beautiful she looked or some other distractingly flattering comment. After a while, Spike began to think she continued to nag him just to hear more eloquent compliments, of which he had an endless supply and every one sincere.
When he finally pulled to the side of the road, Buffy immediately craned her neck to spy the places they were near. Little shops and numerous swank restaurants lined the streets on all sides of them – all looked equally appealing to Buffy. She looked to Spike, who was currently opening her door and helping her out of the car, for confirmation on where they were headed. All he did was smirk and shake his head.
“Uh-Uh, Summers, I got something even better planned.” At that, he whipped out a deep red silk cloth from his pocket.
Buffy looked at the handkerchief, and him, quizzically, “Isn’t it a little early for bondage games?”
He gave her an impressed look for her suggestive comment, “Just turn around.”
She did as he told and he tied the blindfold securely around her eyes. “Isn’t it going to look a bit ridiculous walking through crowded streets with this thing on?” she argued.
“We’re not far from our destination,” he simply replied, and began steering her through the streets. He kept her left hand in his and his other hand on her lower back the entire trek.
Shortly, he stopped her and took off the blindfold. Her eyes adjusted to the synthetic lighting. She gasped as she read the sign, but quickly her excitement deflated, “Spike, the National Gallery closed at six o’clock,” she gestured to the sign.
“To everyone else, yeah,” he replied, rapping on the door.
She looked around warily, “Spike, when you said you wanted to take a trip down memory lane, I assumed you wanted to leave your lengthy history with authority figures out of it.”
He said nothing and continued to watch through the glass door. Seconds later a man, dressed in a suit jacket that signified he worked there, appeared and greeted them with a smile. He expertly unlocked the complex system, and gestured them to come in with a sweep of his arm.
“How . . .” she asked flabbergasted.
“I have connections,” Spike whispered in her ear, ushering her along. It wasn’t until they reached the first hallway of art that she relaxed, convinced that the police were not around the corner ready to jump them. She sagged against him, “I’ve always dreamed of coming here,” she sighed.
He gazed at her profile softly, “Well luv,” he placed a kiss on her temple, “now you are.” He offered her his arm and she took it with a great smile.
They strolled like that leisurely throughout a great portion of the gallery. Spike did not share her strong affinity for art, but what he did enjoy was her face as they came upon more and more of her favorite pieces.
At the finish of their exploration, they end up in front up her favorite painting, Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.” A wistful expression seemed plastered across her features. When she first laid her eyes on it (and the bottle of champaign and flutes that sat on a bench nearby) she grabbed onto his jacket and tie in surprise, dragging him over to it in giddiness. He poured the drink while she rattled off little known facts about the painting and its history. She accepted the drink from him, calming slightly.
Pivoting, she faced him and he looked down at her, “Thank you,” she told him, “for all of it.”
He gave her a queer look, “All of it?”
“This night, our children, everything,” she gave him a delicate smile.
Unable to hold back any longer, he ran his hand through her loose tendrils of hair, “Think you did most of the work, luv, but your welcome.” They lost themselves in each others eyes for a few moments, just enjoying the simplicity of being near and touching each other.
“It all ended so fast,” she whispered, a bit of melancholy in her voice.
“It all started so fast,” he replied with a dry smile.
“You got your dream of being a top journalist,” she told him proudly.
“And you have your own art gallery. Did you know your son is quite the accomplished artist?”
She nodded, “I know. He showed me.”
Spike looked surprised, “He showed you? He’s never shown me,” he grumbled.
Buffy grinned, “Well if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never been allowed to read a single word Dawn’s ever written.”
“She’s a writer?” he inquired smugly; glad to have handed down his trait.
Buffy sipped her drink, “Very much so. She always has her nose in a journal.”
“We were both young, stubborn,” Spike reminisced, hands running everywhere he dared.
“We were,” Buffy nodded with a faraway look in her eyes.
“But we’re not anymore. Well, young anyway,” he commented, earning a giggle from her.
She took a swig of her drink and a tiny drop began to trickle down her chin. Reaching out, Spike swiped the escaped droplet with his thumb and across her bottom lip. Buffy didn’t know what came over her, but she opened her lips and caught his finger, letting her teeth scrap gently across his finger while her tongue tasted the drink. He always did like it when she bit.
Glancing up into his eyes, Buffy saw heat reflected in them. Gulping, Buffy noted that he seemed much more confident in his feelings then she, but was simply waiting for the go-ahead. She thought back over the night – his roaming hands, his whispering in her ear. Now he looked like a caged animal ready to pounce – on her. It was both exciting and frightening. So she lifted her hand to meet his that was currently caressing her neck. She met his eyes boldly and uttered those three little words that she knew would have him breaking every driving law in England.
“Let’s go home.”
TBC
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Don't plagiarize me