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Author's Chapter Notes:
Oh, hi! Remember me (and this story)? Yeah, we're still around. I've been sitting on a couple chapters for the past, oh, year or so, so there will actually be a few updates coming. I'm really trying to kick-start my motivation for this story, because contrary to all available evidence, I know where it's going, what needs to happen, how it's going to end... I just need to sit down and write it.

Thank you to my lovely betas, KnifeEdge and Ryn.

And if you'd like to know who to thank for this totally unplanned update, that would be Puddinhead. She convinced me I was doing humanity a disservice by not at least sharing this particular chapter. Keep in mind that she's kind of a perv, and you'll probably figure out what led her to that conclusion.

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“Here you go,” Jason said. He pulled the car to a stop in front of the house.

“Thanks for the ride.” Dawn looked over at him and smiled. She would never, ever tell her friend this, but she thought Janice's brother was, like, the cutest boy ever. His gorgeous, dark blue eyes were fringed by ridiculously long eyelashes, and when he smiled just like he was right now, a dimple creased his right cheek. Dawn gripped her backpack tightly to keep herself from touching that dimple.

“Anytime,” Jason said. And then—oh, god—he reached over and brushed his fingers across her cheek. A shiver ran down Dawn's spine when he leaned closer to her.

Then he was kissing her. Jason's lips were pressed to hers, and they were so warm and soft, and he smelled so good. Before she could worry about how she was supposed to breathe, or which way to tilt her head, he was pulling away.

“You're coming over tomorrow, right?” he asked, again with that charming, killer smile.

Dawn nodded numbly. Jason laughed, and she realized she was sitting there staring at him like a big moron. “Uh, yeah, I-I'll see you t-tomorrow,” she stammered, and fumbled for the door handle.

Jason didn't pull away from the curb until Dawn had opened her front door. That sent a warm flush through her and, once inside, she leaned against the door for a minute. A goofy grin lit up her face. She wished she could tell Janice all about her Very First Kiss, but somehow, Dawn didn't think the news would go over so well.

“Hey, Dawn,” Buffy called. “Come up here, will you?”

Dawn's eyes darted to the stairs at the sound of her sister's voice. She clapped her hands to her cheeks; she could feel the heat of her blush against her palms. Would Buffy know? Could you tell just by looking at her that she'd been kissed?

“Dawn?” Buffy stood at the top of the stairs now, and was looking at her strangely. “Is everything okay?”

She dropped her hands to her sides. “Yeah,” she said. She smiled brightly. “I'll be … I'll be right up.”

Dawn rushed to the small bathroom next to the kitchen and turned the cold water on full blast. She splashed water on her face and then looked in the mirror. “Jason Penshaw kissed you,” she whispered. She grinned at her reflection, hugged herself tightly, and did a little happy dance in the cramped space between the sink and the toilet.  

It was a few minutes later that a totally-in-control-of-herself Dawn made her way upstairs. She poked her head into Buffy's room. “What's up?” she said. Buffy sat at the vanity that had belonged to their mother. Her gaze was focused on the mirror as she worked on her makeup. “Are you going somewhere?”

Buffy glanced up. “Hey, Dawnie,” she said. “How was Janice's? Did you get your homework done?”

Dawn shrugged and slunk into the room. She plopped down on Buffy's bed. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, we've got a lot of time before it's due.” Which was a good thing, since she and Janice had spent most of the school-day at the mall, trying on clothes and hanging out in the food court. They'd followed that with make-up and hair experiments at Janice's house. “How was work?” Dawn asked, hoping to distract Buffy from her lack-luster response to homework-related questions.

Buffy rolled her eyes before leaning closer to the mirror and wielding the mascara brush on her eyelashes. “Do you really need to ask?”

“Sorry you hate your job,” Dawn mumbled. Some of the glee she'd felt just moments ago faded. “So, are you going somewhere?” she asked again.

Buffy's eyes met Dawn's in the mirror. “Yeah,” she said. “I'm meeting Willow and Tara at the Bronze. You'll be okay home alone, right?” She leaned in again, a tube of lipstick in her hand this time.

Dawn watched, utterly mesmerized by Buffy's movements, as a sense of deja vu swept over her.

Her mother is sitting at the vanity, putting the finishing touches on her make-up, ready for a night out. Her soft brown eyes sparkle as she gives Dawn—Mommy's little punkin belly—a warm smile in the mirror. “Come here, sweetheart. I'll give you a little spritz,” she says, and the perfume bottle in her slender hand catches the light and flashes green into Dawn's eyes.

She closed her eyes, wanting to preserve that memory of her mother happy and alive and animated. But in the darkness behind her eyelids waited the picture Dawn couldn't purge, of Joyce's face still and waxen, and so pale but for the deep shadows below her blank, staring eyes.

Dawn shivered and blinked the image away. “I … what?” she said, catching the questioning look in Buffy's eyes. Her voice sounded small and tremulous .

“Are you sure you're all right, Dawn?” Buffy asked. “I can stay home, if you want me to.”

For a long moment Dawn wavered, battling with the desire to spill everything to Buffy. What she'd seen at the hospital, the dreams she'd been having. Heck, she even wanted—for just a second—to tell Buffy about the kiss. Then Dawn looked at Buffy, who had turned back to the mirror and was brushing her hair. A little smile played across her sister's face, and Dawn changed her mind.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Just tired. I think I'm going to go to bed.”

Buffy set the hairbrush down on the vanity and smiled at Dawn. “Okay. I won't be out too late,” she promised.

Dawn nodded and slipped out of Buffy's room without another word.


***


Buffy stopped just inside the entrance of the Bronze and scanned the crowd until she spotted a bright flash of red hair. She made her way past the dance floor to the corner of the bar Willow and Tara had claimed for themselves.

“Hey, Buff,” Willow greeted her over the din of the crowd and the band playing on stage. She lifted her purse from an otherwise-empty bar stool. “We even managed to save you a seat.”

“Thanks, Willow,” Buffy said gratefully. She sat with a sigh. “You have no idea how glad I am this day is over. And that you guys could go out tonight. I really need this.”

“What happened?” Tara asked.

Buffy placed her drink order with the bartender before turning back to her friends. Rather than letting flow a litany of complaints about her day, though, she simply shrugged in response to Tara's question. Now that she was here with her friends, she just wanted to have fun for a little while. “Just one of those days,” she said. Her drink appeared in front of her, and she took an appreciative sip of the fruity concoction. The band started a new song. Buffy's foot tapped in time to the rhythm. “Let's dance,” she suggested and downed the rest of her drink. She headed for the small dance floor in front of the stage, grinning widely when Tara and Willow joined her.

Buffy let her eyes slip shut and lost herself in the music, in the movement of her limbs, in the heat and noise of the crowd around her. It was only when the band stopped for a set break that Buffy realized she had not, in the past half hour, thought once about the worries that had plagued her throughout the day. The bills that kept arriving daily, the job that she fantasized about leaving, and most of all, the unending responsibility that was her little sister. All her concerns had been pushed out of her mind as she threw herself into the physical act of dancing.

Once she was standing still, though, they all came rushing back. She was overwhelmed suddenly by a surge of resentment for the obligations her mother's death had left her, and she struggled to hide the flood of emotion from Willow and Tara. She mumbled an excuse and hurried toward the dark hallway that housed the restrooms. She bypassed the women's room for the door that let out into the alley behind the Bronze. The cool night air was a relief against her overheated skin as she leaned against the rough brick wall. She pressed her fingertips to her eyes in an effort to stem the tears that threatened. It was several minutes before she felt calm enough to slip back into the club.

Her friends had reclaimed their spots at the bar, and Buffy smiled faintly as she joined them. She was grateful for the volume of the music playing on the PA system, making any meaningful conversation impossible. She ordered another drink, which Willow insisted was on her, and let her eyes roam over the crowd.

Her gaze paused on a man bending low over one of the pool tables. He was turned away from her so that she couldn't see his face, but what she could see was … nice. Definitely nice. Faded blue jeans rode loosely across his hips, and his black sleeveless shirt shifted as he leaned to line up his shot. Buffy was treated to a view of smooth, pale skin. Well, smooth other than the ripple of muscles as he moved. And really, how ripped was the rest of him bound to be if that was how his lower back looked? He straightened up, and she noticed the defined bulge of his biceps as he planted the cue on the floor next to him. Then the combination of chunky silver jewelry—rings on several fingers of both hands, and thick bracelets circling both wrists—and white-blond hair registered with Buffy, even before he turned and gave her a glimpse of one stunning cheekbone and the aquiline line of his nose.

Oh, god, she had not just been drooling over her neighbor. She quickly drained her drink and signaled to the bartender for a refill. Too bad the alcohol couldn't scrub her initial “hello, hottie” reaction right out of her brain.



***


Spike hid a smirk behind his pint of beer when he caught Buffy staring at him from across the bar. He'd seen her earlier, shaking her ass on the dance floor. Hard to miss her, the way she tossed all her shiny hair about. Not to mention the abbreviated skirt and scrap of material that was posing as a shirt. She was a hot little thing, he'd give her that, regardless of what an annoying prig she could be.

'Course, annoying was all relative, he reflected, glancing at the blonde cozying up to him.

“Oh, Spikey, you're so good at pool,” Harmony cooed in his ear. “Can you teach me how to … get the balls in the holes?” She fluttered her eyelashes coyly, and he found himself returning her lascivious grin. The chit might have about as much depth as a cardboard cutout, but she certainly knew how to wear leather.

“Sure thing,” he said.


***


Buffy watched, weirdly fascinated, as Harmony flipped her hair—again—and an indelicate snort of amusement escaped her. “Oh, give me a break!” she exclaimed. Tara glanced at her, a little startled at her unexpected outburst.

“What?” Tara said, her eyes drifting between Buffy's face and the object of her attention.

Buffy inclined her head toward the pool table. Harmony now leaned over the edge of the table, ostensibly taking careful aim, but in actuality waggling her leather-clad behind in Spike's direction. “That!” Buffy said. “It's gross. I just don't get what guys see in Harmony.”

“Really?” Tara said. She took a closer look. “I think it's her boobs.”

Buffy gaped at Tara. She was so taken aback by the other girl's matter-of-fact statement that Buffy almost missed the glint of mischief in her eyes. Buffy laughed then, while Tara and Willow exchanged a look.

“Am I sensing some vibes?” Willow asked, chewing on the straw in her drink.

“Vibes?” Buffy said.

Willow nodded in Spike's direction. “Is this like when little kids hit each other when they like each other? I mean, you've been complaining about him every time I talk to you and now with the, um, jealous of Harmony—” Willow's voice trailed off when she caught the expression on Buffy's face. “So, no vibes, then?” she added, finally, very meekly.

“Oh, ew. No, Willow!” Buffy protested. “No vibes. I am one hundred percent vibe-free.”

Willow shrugged. “Sorry, my bad.” She turned back to her drink, rattling the last few ice cubes around the bottom of the glass.

Buffy shot one last glance at her neighbor—and seriously, what was with all the safety pins attached to his shirt? He so needed to lose the punk look—then turned her back determinedly on the sight of him.

The girls chatted idly for awhile and danced to a few more songs before Willow and Tara started making noises about heading home.

“What about you, Buff?” Willow asked as she gathered her purse and sweater. “Are you going home?”

“Nah,” Buffy said. “I think I want to dance a little bit more.”

“You're sure?” Willow asked again. Buffy nodded. “All right, call me tomorrow, okay?” Willow hugged Buffy quickly, Tara waved goodbye, and Buffy turned back to her drink.

She was going to dance and have some fun, even if everywhere she looked people were coupled up, and she'd been feeling third-wheel-y all night long. She didn't need a boyfriend to have a good time, dammit! And as soon as this drink was gone, she resolved, she was hitting the dance floor. Without really noticing, one drink turned into another as Buffy thought about all the things she had sworn she wasn't going to worry about. Dawn, mostly, and things to do with the care and feeding of Dawn. Buffy drank slowly, but steadily. She absently watched the crowd of club-goers, and a pile of shredded napkins grew on the bar in front of her.

It wasn't until the lights flickered on, announcing last call, that Buffy realized the time. She thought guiltily of Dawn at home alone. Her sister may have been on her mind all night, but she'd still failed to make good on her promise not to stay out late. She reached for her purse and began the task of searching for her keys. It proved to be more difficult than she would have expected.

After a lengthy struggle with the clutter in her purse, she drew her hand out, clutching her keys tightly. A large, cool hand closed around hers. The fingernails were coated with chipped, black polish, and heavy silver rings decorated two fingers and the thumb. She looked at the hand, then up into a pair of blue eyes rimmed with dark eyeliner. Great. Spike. Her night was complete.

And when, exactly, had he perched himself on the bar stool next to hers?

“Going somewhere, princess?” he asked, mildly.

“Home.” She snatched her hand out of his grasp. He let her go easily. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“How convenient. I'm heading that way myself.” Spike stood and offered her his hand. Buffy stared at it, then at him, and hopped down from her seat.

Funny. It hadn't seemed that far from the ground when she first sat down.

Spike was talking again.

“What?” Buffy interrupted him.

Spike sighed and shook his head. “I'm taking you home,” he said. He took her elbow with a firm hand and steered her toward the door.

She yanked her arm away from him—well, she tried to, at least. “Oh, please, like I would go home with you!”

“Don't flatter yourself, kitten,” he said. “Just meant I'd drive you home. To your home,” he added. “You're drunk.”

“Psh, you are,” Buffy responded. Well, that was a pathetic excuse for a comeback. Hmm, maybe she was a little drunk. “And whatever you think you’re getting out of this, you’re not.”

Spike gave a little snort. “Nothin' I want from you. It's just that I’ve seen the way you drive sober, remember? I’m doing a service to mankind, not letting you behind the wheel when you’re pissed.” Spike opened the club door for her—who knew he had actual manners?—and escorted her into the parking lot.

The night air revived Buffy a little bit, and she managed to liberate herself from his grasp. “What the hell makes you think I'd go anywhere with you?” she snapped.

Spike regarded her seriously. “Wouldn't want Dawn to get a call saying big sis wrapped her car around a tree trunk, now would you?” That drove all the fight out of her, and she let him lead her to his car. She closed her eyes, just for a second, once she was seated in the passenger seat. The motion of the car lulled her into a light sleep, and the next she was aware of was Spike’s hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake.

Buffy blinked and looked around, disoriented until she recognized her house. She sat up and yawned and stretched. The car door opened, and Spike held a hand out for her. She took it after only a moment's hesitation.

He walked her to the front door, where she fumbled with the key. For some reason her hands weren't cooperating with her. He took the key ring from her and smiled as he unlocked the door for her.

“Stay out of trouble, Bunny.”

Buffy turned on him in a flash, cheeks red and eyes flashing. “My name is Buffy,” she ground out. “And you know it, you big, mean jerk!” She poked him in the chest and felt the shape of his nipple ring beneath her fingertips. Some evil impulse caused Buffy to grasp the jewelry between her thumb and forefinger. “How would you like it if I called you ... called you, um, 'Stake?'” On the last word, Buffy twisted her fingers and pulled roughly on the nipple ring.

Spike's eyes closed and he let forth a low, primal moan. His hands grasped her upper arms and pulled her closer to him. “Bloody hell, love,” he hissed, fixing her in a dark, smoldering gaze. “You keep on doing that, and you can call me any bloody thing you like.”

Buffy looked down at her hand, which was still tugging and twisting. “Oh,” Buffy said, her eyes growing wide. She snatched her hand away and looked up at him for the briefest of moments. The expression on his face, the undisguised lust in those blue eyes, took her breath away. Just like that, the fuzziness caused by too many drinks dissipated, and the reality of what she was doing—who she was touching and exactly how she was touching him—sank in.

“Oh, ew,” she said, pulling out of his grasp. “That turns you on?”

Spike laughed. His eyes were still dark and hooded and sexy. No. Not sexy. Skanky.

“Well, yeah,” he said, just as if she had no call to be shocked.

“Oh. My. God. You are … I mean, you're rude and obnoxious, and you play your awful, awful music way too loud, and don't even get me started on the way you dress! Like, do you own anything that's not black?”

Spike glanced down at his faded blue jeans and then back at her, his scarred eyebrow lifting sardonically. He didn't interrupt her, though, just lit a cigarette and watched her with a little smile as she continued.

“And, another thing, Dawn is not allowed to, you know, 'hang out' with you, so … so just stop being all cool and, and,” Buffy waved her arms at him, gesturing vaguely to his entire being, “sexy and mysterious, or whatever it is you're going for. No wonder she's always snooping through my closet and taking my stuff. And wearing makeup all of a sudden. I suppose I should just be happy she's not into black eyeliner and trying to be Goth-girl.” Somewhere in the back of her head, a little voice—one that sounded an awful lot like Joyce Summers—spoke up and told Buffy she was being unreasonable.

She took a deep breath and dared eye contact with Spike. He smirked at her, and she couldn't quite tell if he was honestly amused or simply masking his anger very well. She waited for him to say something—anything—but instead he took another drag off his cigarette.

Which reminded her— “And the smoking! Seriously? You can't wait thirty seconds until you're off my porch?”

Spike exhaled a lungful of smoke in her direction then, with an insolent shrug, flicked the cigarette onto her front lawn.

“See? This! This is exactly why I don't like you, and why you're not gonna even look at my sister from now on! I want you to stay away from her, got it? She's my responsibility, and I don't need you messing with her head.” She jabbed him in the chest to drive her point home.

“How, exactly, am I messing with Dawn?” he asked. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“She's got a crush on you. Stop ... stop doing whatever it is you're doing to make her like you!” And there went that little voice again.

“So you want me to stop … being nice to your little sis?” Spike chuckled, which only made Buffy angrier.

“Oh, and just so you know—Harmony? Will probably give you STDs they don't even have names for yet!”

“Thanks for the concern, pet,” Spike said. The slow drawl of his voice and the dangerous glint in his cold blue eyes made Buffy take a reflexive step backwards. Her cheeks flushed as all the things she'd said echoed in her mind. “But in case you didn't notice,” Spike continued, “I didn't go home with Harmony.”

Buffy scoffed, too embarrassed now to back down. “Yeah, tonight. What about all the other nights? I suppose you're not out every night?”

“Maybe I work nights,” Spike offered. “You don't know.”

“You're right, I don't,” Buffy said. She wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off his face. Preferably with her fist. “And your sex life is so not on my list of things to discuss with you.”

“You're the one who ... brought it up,” Spike pointed out, with a leer designed to make sure she didn't miss his little innuendo. “Why so interested? 'Cause you're not getting any, is that it?”

Something in Buffy snapped. The next thing she knew, her palm was stinging, and the sharp crack of her hand hitting Spike’s cheek still rang in her ears.

“You've got a real problem keeping your hands to yourself, pet.” Spike fixed her with a cold stare. “Anybody ever tell you you ought to use your words?”

“I ... I, uh, didn't mean—”

“Yeah, I think you did mean. 'Bout your sister, well, I didn't know the rules. You don't want her hanging out at my place, maybe you should've let me in on that. Or you could get cable. Pretty sure that's what the appeal is.” Then he did that thing with his tongue. Buffy could hear the silver barbell piercing click against his even, white teeth. “Or maybe it's just ‘cause I'm--what was it? Sexy and mysterious?” That insufferable smirk was back on his face.

Oh, god. Buffy thought back over the things that had spewed out of her mouth. She really had called him ‘sexy.’ Right to his stupid face. The realization made her itch to smack him again. What the hell was wrong with her? She was never this violent and ... grabby.

Then it hit her. It wasn’t her fault. It was-- “You just keep your smoking and bad music and, and ... weird kinks away from Dawn,” Buffy said suddenly. “Because you! Bad influence-y!”

Spike laughed. “Kinks, huh?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said. She resisted the urge to give his nipple ring another yank and settled for lightly flicking it instead. “Kinks.”

Spike's eyes went dark again, and his hand closed around her wrist, carefully moving her fingers away from his chest. “You about done?” he asked. His voice was very low. Spike didn't give Buffy a chance to answer, instead yanking her roughly towards him and covering her mouth with his own. His lips were firm but soft against hers; he tasted faintly of beer and more strongly of cigarettes. His tongue brushed lightly against the seam of her lips. Before Buffy could begin to process the sensations coursing through her body, Spike released her.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I— you— what was that?”

Spike shrugged. “Thought you needed that,” he said. “Night, Buffy.” He turned and jumped down the three steps to the sidewalk and strode—no, swaggered—across the lawn to his house, pausing only to snag the still-smoldering cigarette butt he'd tossed on the grass. Buffy stared after him, mouth and eyes still wide, until he disappeared inside. Only once he was no longer visible did she retreat into the safety of her own home.



***


Spike slammed the door behind him and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. The two shots of whiskey he downed in quick succession did nothing to soothe his ragged emotions. “Infuriating little bint,” he complained as he toed off his boots and stalked upstairs. “Mouthy, grabby bitch!”

He peeled off his t-shirt as he entered his bedroom and tossed it carelessly into a corner. The primary source of his frustration reared its head as soon as he popped open the button fly of his jeans. Spike glared down at the offending appendage. “A pretty girl slaps you, and you think it’s, what? Foreplay?” His disapproving tone had no discernible effect on his traitorous cock, which bobbed eagerly against his stomach.

“Fuck.” Spike gave in to the demands of his body and, shoving his jeans just past his hips, leaned against the bedroom door and took himself in hand. He forced himself to put Buffy out of his mind. No way was he going to have a wank while thinking about that smart-mouthed, stick-up-her-ass little blonde. Didn’t matter how hot she’d gotten him, putting her hands on him like that.  He was going to get the image of her flushed cheeks and big, angry eyes out of his head. Right. Sodding. Now.

He took a deep breath and stilled the frantic motion of his hand. Just needed to think of something else. He conjured up an image of … yeah, Angelina Jolie. She was sexy. Dark and tattooed, definitely into some weird shit. Nothing could be further away from Little Miss All-American next door.

“Bloody hell!” There was Buffy’s face filling his mind’s eyes again. The glint in her green eyes, the curve of her luscious mouth … yeah, never should have snogged the chit, no matter how tempting she was. He licked his lips and realized he could still taste her—tasted like honey and strawberries, probably from those fruity drinks she’d been downing all night.

Spike’s free hand crept across his flat stomach to his nipple ring. He twisted the piercing and thought of how her clever fingers had felt on him, thought of the way she’d slapped him, the little cu—

“Oh, hell!” His orgasm caught him by surprise. He slumped against the door, breathing heavily, and thought about just how much he hated Buffy Summers.


***


Buffy meant to tear her eyes away from her neighbor's half-naked body. Really. The only reason she hadn't fled in horror at the sight of Spike doing ... THAT was because she was drunk. Except she didn't feel all that tipsy anymore, truth be told. Hot and bothered, yes; but drunk? That sensation had pretty much taken a hike the instant she’d laid eyes on the view across the way. And dear god, was she never leaving her blinds open again.

Buffy’s fingers twisted in the cords of the blinds. Any second now she was going to let the window coverings do their job. Yup. As soon as Spike stopped looking like at least three of the seven deadly sins all wrapped up in one lickable package.

Oh god, she did not just think about her rude, immature, totally detestable neighbor as lickable, did she? Buffy was very much afraid she had done just that. She was also afraid there was no power in the universe strong enough to erase the image of Spike's hand--black fingernails a striking contrast to all that pale skin—wrapped around his ...

Yeah, that was a vision that would be emblazoned on her brain for all time.

Buffy sighed and finally gained enough control of her limbs to drop the blinds into place. It was a good thing she and Spike weren't going to be friendly neighbors, because she wasn't sure how she'd ever look him in the eye again.





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