Never Ever Tell by Lilachigh
No. 3
Go Home
He flung himself in from the dark Los Angeles street and slumped into a chair in the corner of the café. He could feel the weight of the little parcel in his duster pocket as if it was made of lead. Silver bracelets. But would she wear them? He doubted it. He doubted so much these days, including her faithfulness.
He shut his eyes and leant back wearily in the chair. God, he needed coffee. He hated L.A. but he hadn’t been able to get what he needed where they were living.
He sensed a waitress standing at his side. ‘Coffee, black, fast, thanks.’
No movement.
“Tonight would be good, sweetheart,” he muttered, then when there was no response, “Come on - don’t tell me you don’t speak English. That’s all I need.” Sodding foreigners. “Coffee - black - fast - thanks.”
He said the last four words very slowly and very loudly, as if that was going to make a difference to being understood. You could take the vampire out of England but never take the Englishman out of the vampire.
He opened one blue eye a slit. She was still standing there. He could see her fingers gripping a pencil and order book. That was a weird way to hold a pencil. She’d never write a thing like that.
He opened the other eye and squinted at her name badge. ‘Anne’. Nice name. He’d always liked it. His mother had been called Anne.
Then an odd thrill ran over his body. The name badge was pinned to material over a breast that his body knew. He stared down swiftly at the table top. He knew that if he once looked up and found a pair of angry green eyes gazing down at him, that pencil would end his unlife once and for all.
‘Not hunting. Been buying Dru a present,’ he muttered. ‘Driving back tonight.’
“Angel’s dead.“ The voice seemed to come from a long way away. “I killed him after you left.”
Spike poured sugar from the container into a pattern on the table top. “So I heard. You or Angelus, luv, heard that, too. No choice. We do what we must. He’d have known that. Wouldn’t hold a grudge. Well, actually Angelus would hold a grudge, Irish as the bogs, but as he’s gone, you don’t have to worry. That why you’re here playing waitress? Out of guilt?”
“Mum has problems with the whole Slayer scene.”
Spike shrugged. “Nice lady, your mum. She’ll come round. Bet she’s worried about you. I’d go home, if I was you, Slayer. L.A.’s a dump. Can’t imagine who’d want to live here.“
He couldn’t help it - he risked a flashing upward glance, then wished he hadn’t. She was gazing into nothing and the green eyes were awash with tears. Deep, deep inside him, passion stirred, yawned and woke up.
No! The feelings he was having were ridiculous. He was just tired from Dru’s behaviour, that was all. He pushed his chair back with a screech on the tiled floor. “So, don’t worry about the coffee, then,” he said. “I’ll be off.”
He edged round her and dived out of the door, back into the night where he belonged.
Buffy wiped her face with the back of her hand. It was trembling, she noticed, absentmindedly. Was he right? Should she go home?
She smiled. Fancy seeing Spike of all people. And what was really ridiculous was that when she’d first seen him sitting there, she’d been pleased. How weird was that? All her feelings of homesickness had vanished at the sight of a platinum head and a black leather coat that meant home.
Obviously she was far more tired than she’d thought.
She put her pad and pencil away and frowned down at the mess Spike had made on the table.
Then she froze. He’d been drawing with his finger in the spilt sugar. A heart with a B and a S and an arrow linking them together.
more meetings on their way
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