The Man of the Crowd
Watching her move was of the world’s simplest pleasures.
Spike stood at the balcony of the Bronze, only half paying attention to the drink in his hand. He didn’t know why he was surprised at the turnout; the popular club was the only place in town to go for anything that wasn’t another wasted night in front of the telly. Still, the horde did grow wearisome after a few years. Bound with the same overgrown faces that only served to attract the younger generation while the older steadfastly remained of their own judgment. The unchanged sort of sentiment that screamed, “Mine! I was here first!” He reckoned there ought to be a post proclaiming: THIS AREA AND ALL ESTABLISHMENTS HEREIN CLAIMED BY THE CLASS OF ’99.
At least it would be to the point.
As it was, the night was looking to be even less eventful than the past few evening’s patrol. Though she would deny it, Buffy had been ignoring him with even more fervor since their trade. She likely figured that since she had crossed some invisible line by letting him in at all, the only way to rectify it was by pretending, again, that he did not exist.
She had a birthday coming up within the next week or so. His Slayer.
She would never be his, of course. He could watch her from the balcony all he wanted, and she would never be his.
Righteous little holier-than-thou attitude…
He had no true reason to be bitter. It wasn’t as though she had ever been within reach as it was. He wasn’t daft—his feelings had a way of changing at random, but he was still the same old Spike. The same that fancied taking walks where old men died at bus stops and little girls were hunted in coal bins. He was a monster.
And she was radiance.
He could never hope to touch her.
Spike sighed heavily and downed the rest of his drink, flinching a bit out of habit. He placed the empty glass atop the banister and moved resignedly for a vacated seat. There was no point driving himself insane with something he could never hope to touch. Watching her was enough to…
Still. Couldn’t.
This was so beyond fucked up.
There wasn’t much he could hope to expect from her; be that as it may, he had been hoping for a little civility. Just a smidge. Idle thoughts of what could come were of the not. Those first few nights after having the initial dream that stirred his deeper subconscious awake to the tidings of his true feelings had been wrought with speculation. An endless ‘what-if’ that drove him rightly out of his mind. He couldn’t help himself. Presenting such feelings to Buffy was preposterous and he would never presume. Not to face humiliation; that much had been done in spades.
It irked him to think of all the exceptions she made, she never once spared a glance in his direction. Angel, Anya, and the Witches…she knew of the things that occurred down at Willy’s and didn’t exhibit an inkling of care. But when it came to him, she was all eyes and ears. She had to make sure he wasn’t doing anything that would merit a visit from her pointy stakes.
All the bloody time.
The only instances that ever valued her attention circulated around when he was acting the part of the Big Bad. Never mind the number of times he had been useful. Saved her life along with the lives of her pathetic pals. Their centric Scooby Gang.
Virtuous little group of judgmental ponces…
If he had any self-esteem at all, he would leave town.
As it was, his night looked to be rightly set in stone. Leave, take a sweep of every cemetery within convenient vicinity in desperation for something to kill, go home, shag Harmony, go to bed. Repeat as needed.
Yeah, this was living.
Spike snickered wryly and rolled his eyes at the inane comment that immediately sprang to mind in rejoinder. He stood once more, casually knocked the glass off the banister in the hopes that it would hit some co-ed, received a small shock for the execution of thought even though it smashed harmlessly next to the bar, and cursed all the way down the stairs.
Before running directly into Xander Harris.
“Bloody perfect.”
“Oh, Evil Undead. You’re in my space.”
He arched a brow. “Right. Sorry. Din’t see you markin’ your territory an’…for the record, I’d rather not. I’m on my merry way. Tootles.”
At that, Xander looked a little forlorn. “You’re leaving.”
It was the sort of statement that wanted to be a question, but wasn’t. Spike’s eyes narrowed further. “Yeh…” he said slowly. “What of it?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Give it up, mate. Now ‘m curious.”
Xander sighed. Heavily. The peroxide vampire could practically see the relief of the man hitting himself upside the head. The thought bore a wide grin to his face. “I was just…with the other night and the pool-shooting. Riley’s of the gone, and you’re sort’ve the only other male-shaped person around my persons that can shoot a decent game. Besides…” He made a face and glanced around. “This is so not Giles’s scene, despite how many times he decides to humiliate himself and us by making the occasional appearance.”
Spike blinked. Hard. “Did…” he began curiously. “Did you jus’ ask me to go a round with you?”
“Pool!”
It wasn’t hard to see his digression; Harris’s only source of amusement nowadays was trying to keep up with Anya and her various quirks, therefore it was impossible not to allow his own mind near the gutter. And though his meaning was perfectly clear, Spike couldn’t help but snag the line that practically begged to be issued. “Oh,” he said, nodding. “You wanna go a round in the pool, ‘s that it. I’d think with the thousand-plus years of experience, the Demon Girl’d know how to keep you interested.”
Xander made a face. “Fine. Whatever. Sorry I asked. Oh, and by the way, let’s never mention that part to anyone. Ever.”
“Give it a rest, mate. I could use a round, myself. You offerin’ to buy the drinks, too, or do I need to knick your cash an’ make like I’m makin’ a grand gesture of sorts?”
To his very rich surprise, Harris responded with a wry grin, signaling over to the table. “On account of this never happening again unless the moon is full or Hell freezes over,” he said, “I’ll buy. Once! That’s it. Everything else is on your ticket.” He stopped to glare. “And don’t think I won’t be watching my wallet, buddy! ‘Cause, oh, it’ll be watched.”
“’Course.”
“Right.”
“Uhh, mate?”
He turned. “Yeah?”
Spike flashed a wicked smile and brought the object of discussion into view, dangling it tantalizingly near his face. “Reckon you’ll be needin’ this.”
It was a rare night when Xander Harris treated any vampire like a human being, especially if said vampire was one William the Bloody.
It was an even rarer night when he had such a good time doing so.
Neither really knew how long they had been playing—score was not something of the kept. They made inane conversation about the drinks, updated food wish lists that included spicy buffalo wings, flowered onions, and peppered fried potatoes that could influence any man’s innards to liquid feces.
Spike laughed heartily when the other man gave the infamous flowered onion a go. “You really need to taste it with the dip,” he advised. “’S bloody brilliant.”
“Yeah,” Xander agreed, choking lightly. “For someone who doesn’t need to…you know…live.”
“Can’t help it ‘f you’ve plugged your arteries to the ‘no-pass’ lane, boy. You’re too young to need that kinda treatment.” He quirked a brow. “Though it is bloody hilarious.”
“And yet.” Harris favored the vampire with a suspicious leer. “You sure you’re not trying to kill me?”
Spike snickered appreciatively and rolled his eyes. “Oh right. Y’got me. My newest evil plan: death by indigestion.”
“It could happen,” he insisted. “Well, it would take a lot of time, a good specimen, and a load of planning, but it’s not like you’ve had the chance to go out and actually be scary over the past year. Between this and Passions, you’ve gotta be bored outta your mind.”
“Oh, I’m outta my mind, all right,” the vampire retorted, circling the table intently as he reached for his cigarettes. “Jus’ don’ know what sort is all. An’ trust me, mate, I’ve toured every bloody alley this pissant settlement has to offer. All for sodding rot.”
“You’d think a town with the reputation Sunnydale has would have a little more to offer its neutered undead society.”
There was another approving chortle. “Yeh. You’d think.” The platinum Cockney lit up and inhaled deeply, studying the position of his next conquest. “So, really, wha’s this all about? You makin’ with the chatties over a game or two…even offerin’ to share the wealth with the neighborly undead. More than jus’ what a good talkin’ to from the Slayer earns, I’d wager.”
“You’re questioning my tolerance of you?”
“Well, now that you put it that way…yeah.” Spike strolled intently to the other side of the table and twirled the pool stick once for good measure. “’S’not the li’l lady, is it? She an’ Red at odds an’ ends again?”
“No. Actually, they seemed to get that resolved.” He paused. “Though that doesn’t mean they’re not trying to kill each other right now for an entirely different matter that I—swearing an oath—have no part of, and therefore cannot choose sides. That leads down the pathway to ugly trolls and bargains that would make you look even more impotent than you do already.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Thanks ever so.”
“I meant the chip.”
“Right.”
“Not that I care or anything.”
“’Course not.”
“Good. As long as that’s clarified.”
The moment froze with sudden tactility, and it occurred to Spike on a not particularly momentous revelation that this was likely the longest he and Xander had gone without threatening to spill blood or reduce one another to dusty bits in…ever. Such awareness nearly merited a deprival, but he knew enough on some innate level that this was the sort of contact that he had been sorely missing over the past months. Moderately intelligent conversation that didn’t include death threats. A notion so thoroughly human that he knew he should reject its every fiber, yet couldn’t make himself back away. The boy was not one he cared to associate with and he very much doubted this encounter would alter that opinion in either direction; it was nice. Accommodating, if not a little bizarre.
And still more than that. Xander was obviously craving contact of the non-female variety. Someone to appreciate his bizarre sense of humor and line of thinking, even if it wasn’t altogether shared or of the other’s respected flavor.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Harris continued. “Anya is fantastic. I love her completely. But sometimes…”
“She’s gotta few screws loose upstairs?”
“Hey!”
Spike cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.
“Well, you don’t have to put it that way.”
He raised his hand, as though demanding acknowledgment. “Hello, evil.”
“It’s not even her fault,” the other man noted defensively. “After being a demon so long, a period of adjustment is only natural. There are things that come with…being of the functioning society variety of person that she is trying to be. It just takes time.”
The peroxide vampire blinked with a wicked grin, bringing his cigarette to his lips once more. “Din’t she pop into the mortal coil the year that Peaches an’ the Slayer went separate ways? Way I figure it,” he said, aiming his shot and snickering further when he sank another ball. “She’s ‘ad more than two years to adjust.”
“About the same as you, in other words.”
A self-protective look overwhelmed his features. “She’s had longer.”
Xander grinned tightly. “Yeah, Buffy mentioned that you were on some tangent about Anya and the number of ways we treat her like an equal while excluding our ever-present, apathetic member of the soulless community. The very same that’s plotted our deaths…how many times?”
Spike’s scoff was ineffective; it was impossible to hear anything in such a smothered atmosphere. “Oh, come off it. That’s been at least—”
“Two weeks.”
“Piffle. ‘Aven’t made a decent attempt in at least a month. Maybe two. Tha’s right progress.”
The man held up a hand, chuckling slightly. “Okay, okay. What do you wanna hear? That you’re no longer bad?”
“Oi!”
“Or…you are? I’m trying to keep up. Anyway, I’m here, playing nice. This count for trying?”
Yeah, of course. Bloody trying. Only Xander wasn’t the one he wanted to get close to. The object of his desire was on the other side of the dance floor, undoubtedly grinding provocatively against some brainless co-ed.
Bugger all.
“So is that it?” Spike asked sardonically. “Li’l pity for the capped Big Bad? An’ here I thought you cared.”
Xander smirked. “I would never lead you on like that.”
The vampire snickered favorably. “So the Slayer took to it to tell you all what we chatted about. Nice to know ‘to the grave’ doesn’ even apply to the pulseless ‘round these parts.”
“You asked her not to tell?”
“Well, no…but ‘s the thought that counts.”
“She was kinda wigged.”
Oh, that was interesting. “Was she?”
“Sharing her earthly woes with the Evil Dead? I’d say so.”
Spike grinned. “So she turned around to share her earthly woes ‘bout sharin’ her earthly woes with the likes of me…with the likes of you?”
“Well, yeah. That’s how we work, in case you haven’t noticed.” Harris absently leaned over the table to observe his opponent’s alignment, missing the slightly offed expression that flashed across the vampire’s face. “Sorry for pointing out the obvious.”
A snicker. “Well, ‘f you din’t do it…ehm, don’ exactly ‘ave a follow up for that, but I’m sure you get my meanin’.”
“Consider it gotten. Are you ever going to take that shot?”
“What? Anxious to lose some more?”
“No, I’m getting bored. And, unlike you, I don’t have forever to waste in dingy corners with myelin-deprived non-citizens.”
“Lest I remind you, this entire male-bondin’ exercise was your soddin’ idea.”
“Just take the damn shot, Spike!”
The vampire chuckled softly and chose his angle without reflecting it, circling the table once again in a manner that was, as all things, intentionally condescending. “’Aven’t we gone over this before?” he asked rhetorically. “You show that somethin’ bothers you, an’ I’m inspired to do it. You’re only hurtin’ yourself, Harris.”
“Yeah, well, Myself is getting pretty—”
“Anxious. Right. Caught it.” Spike took his shot and sank another ball, shaking his head. “Jus’ don’ see why you’re all eager ‘bout givin’ up more goods. You jus’ gotta wait for me to take another.”
“It’s not like we bet money.”
“Right. ‘Cause you know, you practically give that away for nothin’.”
Xander sighed and dropped his pool stick. “While you perfect your non-monetary compensating shot, I’ll be refreshing my drink. Notice how I said my drink, thus clarifying any potential misunderstandings concerning the reinstated non-you factors of my budget.”
“You do that,” Spike agreed disinterestedly. “Though I wager you’d prolly get a better response from the barkeep ‘f you have this on your persons.” Again, he flashed a smile and held up the other man’s wallet.
Harris grumbled irately and made a hasty retreat, snatching his purloined takings with an air that suggested more than simple discontent. “Stop doing that!”
Second attempt more successful. The vampire chuckled and shook his head, puffing at his cigarette as he measured his next take. The game was nearing completion and Harris had all but stood at the sidelines for the majority of its bearings. And while not much had come of it, Spike had to admit—however begrudgingly—that he was enjoying himself. With Stay Puft. At the Bronze.
Who would have thought?
“You know what I can’t figure out,” a voice said from behind, prompting him out of his reverie, “is why you gave the wallet back in the first place. Isn’t stealing sort of your thing?”
Spike snickered and pivoted, arching a brow as the object of his desire returned the favor. “I jus’ gave him the coverin’,” he explained, digging into his duster and retrieving the more-important cash with a showy grin. “’E’ll be back for the goods in a minute. How long you been there gawkin’, Summers?”
“You tell me. By last check, you’re still a vampire, right?”
“You askin’ for a demo?”
Buffy made a face. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and go right to the me ignoring you.”
“Oi now. Tha’s rich. You’re the one who came over here, after all.”
“Sorry. I just saw you and Xander, didn’t hear any loud yelling, and wondered if you two were A) Under a very bad spell or B) Very drunk and forgetting that you hate each other.”
His eyes narrowed. “’S that what’s got your knickers in a twist? Christ, Slayer, we’re jus’ playin’ a round of pool. Doesn’ require your policin’. No need to make a big thing outta it.”
She smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant. Rather it was the look he had grown overly accustomed to seeing over the course of the past two years. Bland, irritated, and completely repellent to his entire being. “I just wanted to remind you that a good dusting is still on the menu for any move you make that’s not to my liking.”
“Bloody hell, you must really be bored.” He grinned, taking a seat at the end of the table and tapping the end of his fag lightly against its end. “Patrol still as painfully dull as it was the last time I had the oh-so pleasurable delight of your company?”
A sigh rolled off her body and the counterfeit hostility waned. He wasn’t so daft as to believe it had taken a permanent hiatus, but this was at least progress. It wasn’t often that Buffy stepped down from her almighty horse to admit passage when no true fault was at the ready. “Watchers are coming,” she said. “For reasons that are going to remain well beyond me. They have information on Glory.”
She didn’t seem nearly as happy as she should, given that any leads were of the needed.
Spike gestured emphatically. “And…? Isn’t this a good thing? You are the hero of this bit, last I checked. Information usually leads to—”
“Did you completely go deaf and not hear the ‘they’re coming’ part? As in here? I hate the Watchers. They’re…” She made a face, and he found it adorable. Then he consequentially cursed himself for finding any aspect of her adorable, but the damage was irrefutably done; as was all damage for the rest of his existence. “Every time they come here, they try to have me killed.”
“Oh, my kind of gents.”
Of course, if any of them so much as looked at her in a way he didn’t see fitting, he’d kill them all. Chip be damned. But she didn’t need to know that.
Ever.
When he saw that his teasing wasn’t amounting to the casual candor he had been reaching for, Spike’s expression softened and he took a step forward. “This is jus’ a review though,” he said civilly. “’S not like they’re gonna try to keep you from doin’ your job.”
“I know. It’s just sort’ve…” Buffy paused, frowned, and looked him over. “Dear God, I’m doing it again.”
“Huh’s that?”
“Talking…just forget it.”
Spike froze, looked her over once.
And grinned.
“Slayer,” he cooed, taking a step toward her. “Don’ tell me you’re on the bloody prowl. Whatsa matter? Missin’ Captain Cardboard so rightly bad that you go out to chat up the firs’ vaguely male-scented—”
“If you value your existence, you will stop talking. Now.”
“Oi, I’m just tryin’ to help.”
“I don’t need you or your help.”
“You’re the one who came over here, luv.”
“To make sure—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me another one. Listen, Slayer, I’m frightfully sorry, but there’s about a thousand other things I’d rather do than listen to you lecture me ‘bout frequentin’ the bar scene jus’ because I suddenly make you skittish. Not my bloody problem.”
A look that could potentially freeze Hell and end world hunger in the same stroke overwhelmed her with such calm passiveness that it startled him into dazed, however unreflective submission. Had it not been for Xander’s random, “Spike! Money! Now!” call, the moment might have had chance to expand.
As it was, the vampire assumed his exit cue with a quick nod to his lady fair.
He didn’t register the shiver that rippled across his skin as he stormed through the doors. In that state, he wouldn’t have recognized its connotations, or the strings of familiarity it inspired within his already fluttering belly.
He was too foregone to notice anything right now.
And was halfway home before things at the Bronze became interesting.
To be continued in Chapter Five: The Black Cat…