Author's Chapter Notes:
The companion piece to "Between the Lines", though you don't need to read it to get it (although it might explain Buffy's more tolerant attitude toward Spike). I love writing dialogue and had a lot of fun with this fic.




“Civility”





He was the one to break the silence. Clearly she didn’t want to talk about what was bothering her. Instead Spike decided the best course of action was to distract her from the sorrow bearing down on her soul.





“What I told you about being a poncey loser when I was human...could we keep it between us?” He implored softly.





Buffy heaved a belaboured sigh, “Oh god Spike, why the hell does it even matter? It’s not like anyone would believe me much less care.”





“Oh I don’t know,” Spike drawled, “I’ll bet your man Xander would milk that little tidbit for all it’s worth. Could you imagine?” He affected a sardonic, slightly nasally voice, “’Help, I’m scared, he’s got a pen! What if he starts writing again?’





Buffy choked back a strange sound. Something between a sob and a laugh. “Okay fine. Your secret’s safe with me.” Her expression sobered and she cut him a furtive glance. “Is that why you brought a shotgun with you? Thought I might need a little convincing?”





He could have lied. After all, he was pretty good at it. Spike opened his mouth, fully intent on telling her that he was just taking a new approach to his demon hunting. The truth came out unbidden. Hard, blunt, and to the point. “I was going to kill you.”





“You wouldn’t have,” Buffy murmured.





Spike sneered, “So sure y’got me wrapped ‘round your little finger, are you?”





“Nope,” Buffy stretched, “I just know you. A bullet wouldn’t have done a thing for you, Spike. Shooting me would have scratched the itch but wouldn’t have satisfied your Slayer bloodlust.”





Spike would have loved to tell her otherwise, but he’d spent most of the evening describing in great detail how he’d killed two Slayers with his bare hands. She would have seen right through that lie. He shrugged, “I was pissed. Went with the first impulse.”





Buffy shivered and abruptly changed the subject. “Is that why you tried to kiss me?”





“Eh?”





“Please don’t make me repeat myself, Spike,” Buffy replied irritably.





“I wasn’t trying to kiss you,” Spike denied weakly.





Buffy turned on the porch step and leaned against the railing. She looked him dead in the eye and, much to his surprise, appeared faintly amused. “Listen, I may not have a wealth of experience when it comes to guys but I know when I’m about to be kissed.”





Spike yanked a pack of smokes from out of his pocket, lit up a fag, and curled his tongue at her obscenely. “Can’t blame a bloke for tryin’, pet.”





Buffy made a face at him, “Don’t give me that crap, Spike. You never tried before. What’s different now?”





Spike heaved a huge sigh and wondered how to explain it without giving away his burgeoning affection for her. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is not to be able to fight you, Slayer? I guess...I was overwhelmed by the desire to make some kind of physical connection. Can’t hit you so I figured....”





“What? The best substitute to killing a Slayer is...kissing one?”





Her forehead wrinkled with puzzlement and she looked absolutely adorable. Spike shrugged at her analysis of the situation, not suicidal enough to amend her statement with a slightly different conclusion. Being that perhaps the best thing next to killing a Slayer would be to fuck one. Of course he knew even that wasn’t his motivation. If he truly just wanted to shag the living daylights out of her and nothing more, he’d be better off tracking down the other one. He didn’t doubt that Faith would be willing to give him the ride of his unlife, but Spike didn’t want any old Slayer. He wanted Buffy.





At that thought, he scowled deeply. Even if Buffy did give him a go, could he even give her the right proper shag that he knew she needed? Could the chip distinguish between ‘ouch it hurts’ pain and ‘ooh baby, it hurts so good’ pain? Not bloody likely if he couldn’t even shove a human without getting zapped. The thought of having to treat her like a china doll when he knew that she could take everything he had to offer and beg for more gave him one more reason to feel like less of man.





He’d be buggered if he didn’t admit that he would be perfectly willing to risk going into a coma just to see if his most x-rated fantasies were on the mark. And while he was going down one of his mind’s most oft treaded tracks, Spike had to wonder how the hell Buffy had dealt with her human boy toys. Could she have possibly gotten any kind of satisfaction while worrying about whether or not she was going to bruise tender skin or break fragile bones? He wondered if she’d ever let a man bury his face in her sweet little quim, knowing she could strangle him to death if she lost control in the midst, wrapped her legs around his neck, and squeezed.... Not that he thought any of the ponces she’d let in her bed would have known what to do with a pussy if it dropped from the sky and onto their faces.





Spike growled softly and flicked his cigarette butt out into the night. Well these were some fine thought he was having. Here he was, having a rare moment of civility with Buffy, and all he could think about was sex.





“Still mad at me?” Buffy asked, interpreting his growl as one of sullen aggression rather than personal frustration.





“Nah,” Spike drawled, “I mean, I get it. Me: Evil, soulless, bloodsucking fiend; you: Chosen One, protector of the innocent. We’re natural enemies. Should be battlin’ to the death, not snogging.”





Buffy sighed softly, “You know it’s not just that. Even if you were human, I wouldn’t be interested.”





Spike laughed. Oh that was rich. She may have been in denial of the fact that she was attracted to him but she couldn’t hide her physiological responses from his keen senses. He knew for a fact that before she’d pushed him away, her heart had skipped a beat, her breathing had grown shallow, and for one split second she’d wanted it.





“It’s true!” Buffy protested, “I want a nice guy not some wannabe Billy Idol punk rock relic.”





“Oi! Let’s get this right straight, Slayer. I was punk before it was even a bloody music genre!”





“Whatever, Spike. Cuz I’m so sure black nail polish and peroxide was readily available in Victorian England.”





He rolled his eyes, exhasperated by her ignorance. “S’not about bleachin’ your hair out, shredding your clothes, or piercing your body with safety pins. That’s just the fashion. I'm talkin’ attitude and the way you live! Drink, fight, and fuck; sodding anarchy, do what you want and no bloody regrets!”





Buffy tilted her head at him and smiled a little. “Is that why you like to kill Slayers? Because we’re a symbol of order and justice?”





“Weren’t you listening to me earlier? I kill Slayers for the challenge, the sheer bloody thrill of it.”





She just shrugged, “I know what you said but you know, I was just thinking maybe there was some underlying motivation driving you.”





Spike’s jaw dropped and Buffy just giggled. “What? I did take psych last year, remember?”





He snorted and shook his head. “Figured you were too busy slaying, keepin’ tabs on me, shaggin’ the farm boy, and preparing for the next apocalypse to stay awake during class.”





“Well sure,” Buffy ducked her head sheepishly, “but I absorbed some of it. Like osmosis.”





Spike hummed softly as he stood up, “Well, I’ve had a very long night, Slayer and I think I’m gonna use some of your blood money to get good and properly drunk.”





Buffy frowned, “Oh...okay.”





Spike detected a trace of disappointment in her tone and arched a scarred eyebrow at her. She looked vulnerable and sad. He thought she could stand to be kissed, but he’d tried that already to no great success.





“Unless...you want me to stay.”





Buffy looked at him, frowned, then turned her face away. “No. I’d...rather be alone.”





“We could go back to the Bronze, you know. You look like you could use a couple beers,” Spike offered, hoping she’d accept and open just a little bit wider to him.





Buffy wrinkled her nose at him, “You know I don’t drink beer.”





“Right, sorry. Well, a couple glasses of wine then,” Spike dared to be playful, “Maybe do some body shots.”








Buffy rolled her eyes as she stood up and dusted off the back of her thighs. “No thanks, I want to be sober when Dawn wakes up.”





He nodded, frowned, and picked up the shotgun almost as an after thought. “You ever gonna tell me why you were crying when I came up to you?”





“Maybe,” Buffy murmured as she slipped through the back door and disappeared into the darkness of her house.





Spike sighed, watched the kitchen light turn on, and then left. He stopped back at the crypt, relieved that Harm had gone out to hunt, dropped off the gun, and grabbed his duster. There was still a bottle of whisky calling his name even if he was drinking alone once more.





Finis.










Chapter End Notes:
The punk exchange in this story was directly inspired from the flashback in which Spike and Angelus argue, and Spike finds out about Slayers. His whole attitude even back then had me chuckling. Boy was following the oldest punk credos back in 1880! Awesome.



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