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Chapter 6

Spike started awake, the warm stuffy air licking his goose-bump covered skin. He rolled on his back and stared at the shadows dancing across the ceiling as his heart rate slowed to normal. Twelve years had passed since the day his mum and sister had died but he could still recount every gory detail. Nightmares struck as soon as his head touched the pillow, always waiting there in the darkness to pounce.

He was a sodding failure, wasn’t he?

Eline. Mum. Countless other people he’d buggered up saving.

Swallowing hard, Spike sat up and pressed the heel of his hand to his sweaty brow.

No use even trying to go back to sleep now. There were things to do, informants to stalk, books to retrieve. He wouldn’t stop until he got what he came for and he wasn’t above killing anything that stood in his path.

Wouldn’t be the first time now, would it?

Sometimes he wondered if he even had a soul anymore—or anything that passed for one for religious folk. If he still had it, the wretched thing was probably broken. Just like him. Nothing but a shard of glass, charred at the edges.

It didn’t matter. He was beyond salvation. Didn’t care for redemption either. He’d accepted it the moment he’d escaped that not-so-lovely place called a foster home, doing anything and everything to survive. To protect her. But he’d failed, hadn’t he? The only thing propelling him forward now was the urge to right the wrong, price of it be damned.

Nothing mattered but his mission. And he was going to take it right to the bloody end.

*******

Okay, this was ridiculous.

Just because he probably still stank up the old mansion with his insufferable presence didn’t mean she had to steer clear of her very favourite place, right? Right. This was supposedly a free country and… this just wasn’t fair! She’d been avoiding it for a week now. Damn him, it was her place, she thought sullenly and fidgeted with the strap of her bag.

She’d been staring holes into the forest path leading to the old house for ten minutes, trying to make up her mind. Go home and pout, or claim her tree spot with her chin up.

“Fake bravery it is,” she muttered and squared her shoulders.

First step in, a branch almost poked her eye out.

Go figure.

Heaving a sigh, she waded through the patch of trees until she reached the clearing.

For some reason she’d imagined he would jump from behind a random bush as she took the first step, but that was just silly. Still, she glanced around way too much like a startled rabbit ready to run at the first hint of a wolf. And he was, she thought, very wolf-y.

Two minutes later, she was about to climb her tree, mentally patting herself on the back for her sneakiness. No obnoxious men had to know she was there, see? She was the very definition of sneakiness. Maybe she could be a spy! That would be appropriate, and she could make up a story and say she had acquired her scars in a battle against a formidable enemy. Maybe he’d even have four arms. What? That could totally happen.

Probably.

Okay, maybe not.

“You know, if you keep seeking me out, it might give a bloke the wrong idea.”

Startled, Buffy sprawled down on her butt. Today was so not her day.

“Ow.” She lifted her head and shielded her eyes. The sun was blinding her anyway but she could see his shape illuminated in a misguided mockery of a halo. He was anything but an angel. More like Lucifer’s right hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the teasing edge hardening into something colder. Something not to be toyed with. Well, he could go intimidate someone else with his swagger routine. She wasn’t one to be scared easily.

“Do you always have to pop out of nowhere? It’s really annoying. Maybe you should think of hanging a bell around your neck.”

“Didn’t peg you to be a kinky one, kitten.”

For some reason the way he called her kitten made her tingle in the weirdest way.

And now the asshole was offering her his hand. Like she couldn’t stand up herself? Please, her bruised ego didn’t mean she was crippled. Not even looking at the offending limb, she climbed to her feet and brushed the stray grass blade off the seat of her dark blue jeans. And what was that about kinkiness?

“Well, not like you’d know if I’m… kinky. You don’t know anything about me.”

He dropped his arm. “Ooh, Betty’s got a dark side, has she?” he mocked and fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his jeans’ front pocket.

“It’s Buffy.”

“Gathered that.”

“When?” She frowned. “I didn’t tell you.”

He lifted his eyebrow and stuck a cigarette between his lips. “Pops mentioned it during my grocery run.” That grin on his face was positively sly. “I’m sure you remember. It was a riot and a half to see a little girl like you so… flustered. By yours truly, no less. Gotta say, I’m flattered.”

Her mouth opened to reply, vehement denial of being a little girl ready to spring off her lips. But then he lit up his smoke, took a deep drag and closed his fingers around the cancer stick. The bottom of her stomach plummeted to the soles of her feet.

“What? No smart ass come back? Come on then, show me that sharp tongue of yours.”

But her mind was elsewhere and her legs covered the already short distance in two long strides before she snatched his hand. That made him drop the cigarette and the glowing ashes landed on the skin above his knuckles.

“Fuck!” He jumped and tried to shake off both the burning ash and her hand. She tightened her grasp. His hand.

Oh God…

“Are you bloody insane? Let go of me, you barmy bint!”

He finally managed to dislodge her from his wrist and took a step back. If she wasn’t so hell bent on working through the sudden epiphany, she would have found his wariness amusing.

But she was on a mission, following his every step with her own, her eyes fixed on his hands that were now warding her off as if she was a rabid dog.

“Who are you?” she murmured, the question aimed at no one in particular.

“What are you on about?” He probably realised how silly it was of him to back away from a girl because he stopped, his eyes narrowing. She would have been offended by that sudden dismissal, but…

She knew those hands. Knew them as well as she did her own. Every vein and ridge, every crease in the palm of his hand. She knew them because they were the hands she’d been obsessively drawing for over a month now.

Before she’d even met him.

“Who are you?” she yelled, a touch of hysteria slipping through.

Shutters seemed to have slammed down behind his gaze, a protective gesture as he hunched his shoulders. His every muscle tensed and he subconsciously widened his stance as though preparing for a fight. Buffy wondered how such a simple question could trigger such a protective response. The only thing she was certain of was that he was hiding something.

“I know you,” she said.

Despite his protective shell, she glimpsed surprise flicker on his face before he put on that stone mask again.

“Doubt that,” he replied curtly.

Arguing the opposite wouldn’t get them anywhere but to a back and forth banter, each of them claiming their own truth. No, she’d have to get the confession out of this man in a different way.

“You looked through my drawings,” Buffy said, determined to trick him into a head-on confrontation.

“Yeah,” he drawled, wary and confused.

Good, that was exactly what she wanted him to be.

“Then tell me, why the hands in my sketches are the exact replica of yours?”

Stunned silence.

“Tell me!”

With a snarl, he backed her into the tree with his sheer presence, an inch of thick tension separating their heaving chests. God, he was an enigma. An unstable, unpredictable enigma.

“How the fuck would I know!” When he sucked in his cheeks in irritation, Buffy’s eyes were drawn to the hollows of his cheekbones. “You tell me. Fancy yourself a stalker? Should I get a restraining order against you? This isn’t the first time you’re trespassing my property, too.”

“This isn’t even your house! You’re totally a squatter!”

The vein on his temple started to throb visibly. “I’m bloody well not!” His palms slammed against the wide bark on either side of her head in forceful emphasis, making her jump. “I don’t owe you any explanations, but this house now belongs to me. So yeah, I’ve got every right to call the cops on you.”

Blood drained from her face but she’d be damned if she let him know his words had affected her. That his nearness made her heart skip a panicked beat. Last thing she needed was to get another panic attack and give him leverage. She hadn’t had one of those in years. It was all his fault!

“I’m not leaving until you tell me who you are.” Not even a tremble in her voice. She was driven to make him say it before her emotions burst through the dam.

His eyes bored into hers, raging with anger and something else… something guilty.

“I’ve never met you before,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes flickering away for half a second too long, confirming Buffy’s suspicions. He was hiding something all right.

“I don’t believe you.”

His nose was this close to touching hers. His breath wafted across her lips as he whispered, “Tough luck.”

He was about to push off and Buffy couldn’t believe her hands shot out to hold him in place, clenching around the lapels of the dark blue shirt he wore over a black T-shirt.

With more forcefulness and a lot less of the panic his nearness had stirred up, she said, “At least tell me your name.”

He stared at her hands on his shirt. “Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s only fair since you know mine.” The rough bark was starting to cut into her back.

His eyes shifted to her face and he tilted his head in a way that made him look even more… obnoxious. Not cute or any other gag-worthy adjective.

Why couldn’t he just tell her?

“Spike.”

“Huh?” Did he just British-insult her?

“My name. It’s Spike.”

“No, it’s not,” Buffy countered automatically.

“Yes, it is,” he said with barely repressed annoyance. “You’d think I’d know my own bloody name!”

Yup, there went the two seconds of his patience. Straight down the drain. And what kind of name was Spike anyway? Somehow, she doubted it was the one he’d been given at birth. Unless his parents had confused him with a dog.

“Care to take your paws off now, tiger?”

“What?”

He meaningfully glanced down at her hands.

She let go of him as if burnt.

Now that she’d gotten the answer, the proximity of his body registered full force and she didn’t know where to look. The longer he refused to move away, the more she had trouble controlling her breathing.

Oh, grass pretty. What a sunny day it was. No wonder she was beginning to sweat, right? All because of the stupid sunshin—

“Are we done now?” he asked. “Are you satisfied?” The whisper of his breath tickled Buffy’s ear as he leaned in even closer.

Her hands braced against his chest again, but this time to shove him off. It was like pushing a slab of stone.

“Get off,” she huffed, breath catching in her throat.

“Make me.”

Heat rose to her head, spilling red behind the closed lids of her eyes as she struggled to inhale. Her knees trembled and she felt she was spiraling out of control, her hands uselessly beating against his chest.

But he was still there, the heat of his body burning her like the time she’d held her palm over an open flame for a second too long. She couldn’t open her eyes and the colours swirled and spun together until she didn’t know whether her head and limbs were still attached to her body.

Slowly she could breathe again and realised she was sitting on the grass, someone’s hands gripping her upper arms.

“Come on, snap out of it,” came an urgent voice as if from the depths of a cave.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat the process. Calm down. Stupid paper bags were never around when she needed them.

Buffy blinked her eyes open. The first thing she saw was Spike’s face, his dark brows furrowed before he loosened the grip on her arms. Great, now he’d really think she was insane-o girl. Why did it always have to be him who witnessed her loss of control? Why did her cool and detached front always seem to crumble in front of him?

The pressure of his touch lifted. “Wanna tell me what was that all about?”

Buffy scrambled back to her feet, “N-nothing.” Steady voice? Un-check.

What she needed was to get out of here as soon as humanly possible, so she retrieved her bag from the ground where she’d dropped it the minute Spike scared the crap out of her with his sudden appearance.

“Didn’t look like nothing to me,” he echoed, observing her as though she was one of those unfortunate rare animals locked in a cage. Look at the freak that is me.

She was too embarrassed to face his mockery or whatever quip he was about to sling her way.

“Dad’s probably waiting for me.”

Why did she even say it? It wasn’t like she owed him any explanation.

She turned on her heel and made it four steps when he called out to her, “Don’t come here again.”

He didn’t have to worry. That was the furthest thing from her mind.

TBC


Chapter End Notes:
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