I don’t fuck liars
The words echoed in his head, hitting every corner of his mind like shrapnel.
He paled in shock as soon as he heard them come out of her mouth in spite of the fact that he knew he deserved them. It didn’t take a genius to work out exactly what she was referring to.
He’d hurt the girl and now he was getting his comeuppance. If he had a time machine he could go back and change his actions all those years ago but that just wasn’t possible. And it seemed that she wasn’t prepared to let him make amends.
He watched in slow motion as she unsteadily rose to her feet, placing her oversized dark glasses back onto her pointy nose.
“I gotta get out of here,” she mumbled, trying exaggeratedly to stay upright.
“Wait!” he called, torn between tackling her to the ground and dropping to his knees to beg. “Don’t go!”
“Why should I stay?” she sneered at him. “Well? I can’t just sit here with you like we’re some kind of talking buddies when we both know that we hate each other.”
“I don’t hate you, Buffy.”
“Right, ‘cause you’ve always acted so unhate-y.”
“I’m a wanker,” he admitted. “But there’s worse out there than me and if you wander out in this neighborhood in that state then you’re sure to meet them.”
Even though the alcohol was clouding her brain, Buffy could see the logic in his words.
Her instincts were still telling her to run but she didn’t want to end up hanging like a week old chicken on some crazy dude’s meat-hook so she reluctantly sat back down, making sure to glare at Spike as hard as she could when she pulled her sunglasses off.
During the next few minutes an uncomfortable silence descended between the pair of them, as they continued to sip on their drinks. They each ordered a refill but still sat in silence together, guzzling their boozy concoctions.
Without warning Buffy suddenly spun around with a flourish to face her companion. A peculiar look was etched on her face, and he felt like he was under scrutiny.
“I have something to ashk you,” she said, her voice turning serious, or as serious as a tipsy Buffy could sound when there was a pronounced slur in her voice. “I want an anshwer, Spike.”
He nodded. He didn’t know what she was going to say, but his heart still clenched in fear, especially considering her earlier jibe at him. He hoped she wasn’t going to bring up the past. But if she did he was prepared to take it like a man.
“Ask away, Buffy.”
“Why did you say…what you said?” she inquired, placing her drink down on the bar. Every word was becoming progressively difficult to understand and it took him a moment to figure out her question.
He looked at her with bewilderment. The mind of Buffy Summers was a rocky road to navigate at the best of times, but when it was clouded with alcohol, trying to understand her could be compared to attempting to climb Mount Everest on rollerblades.
“What’re you talking about, pet?” he asked.
“You know!” she exclaimed, clearly expecting him to actually know.
“’Fraid I don’t have a bloody clue. ‘What I said’ could refer to bloody anything.”
She rolled her eyes, convinced that he was just stalling her. “Why did you s-say that shtuff to Glory?”
He’d been prepared for something like that and yet the question was so unexpected that Spike almost choked on his mouthful of whiskey. He knew she was probably still sore about his behavior all those years ago, but believed it would be the last thing she wanted to discuss with him.
No matter how many indirect references Buffy Summers made to their past, she was, in her own words, ‘avoidy girl’ when it came to intimate discussions of matters of the heart. For her to broach a subject like that seemed so uncharacteristic.
Apparently all the Dutch courage translated into real courage for this feisty girl.
Or maybe he just didn’t know her as well as he thought he did.
“Well?” she prompted when he gave no response except for a slightly guilty grimace. “You went on that show and behaved all…assholish. What did I do to…to de-desherve that? I thought you cared about me and then…You betrayed me, Spike.”
“Can’t really explain it, pet,” he told her, suddenly desperate for a cigarette. He fiddled with his glass and drummed the fingers of his other hand on the bar to take his mind off of his craving.
Of course, it wasn’t true at all, that he couldn’t explain it. He knew exactly why he’d said it. He’d said it to hurt her, because he was wounded too.
He shouldn’t have done it, he knew that. He’d held her trust in his palm and crushed it.
More than once.
The irony was that it had all started out so well. If he’d known that very first time they met that it would end with him acting like asshole of the year maybe he would have done something different. Maybe he would have been honest, or just held his tongue.
She glanced to him, their gazes locking and her mind was suddenly thrust back to when she was a fresh faced eighteen year old, not yet quite so jaded by the world or Hollywood life.
Staring at Spike, she knew he was thinking back to the same fateful day of their first meeting, more than six years earlier.
Buffy stood alone as always, watching the rest of the partygoers enjoying themselves. Most people were wasted beyond belief and she was bored already. Hanging out with a bunch of drunk, high people wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time.
It wasn’t that she thought she was better than anyone else. It was just that she was bored of all the superficial wannabes that cluttered up the Hollywood scene these days.
She glanced around the room at the throbbing mass of people. Some were dancing, grinding up against each other as they drunkenly made out on the makeshift dance floor. Others were huddled together at a table, razor blades chopping rocks and dollar bills stuffed up their noses. The rest were in deep conversations with each other…probably about themselves.
She noticed Faith Lehane and Cordelia Chase, two of Hollywood’s rising hopefuls, slutting it up together on the dance floor. Their bodies were flush against each other as they pulsed together, their sweat mingling and pooling in the hollows of her chest.
Buffy glanced away, trying desperately to hide the distaste on her face.
Ugh, why was she even here? Well, publicity of course, but right now she felt like she would gladly forego the extra publicity of being seen at one of the city’s hottest parties for a cup of hot chocolate and a weepy chick flick.
She just wasn’t interested in doing any of the stuff that everyone else seemed to be into. Okay, maybe she would have liked to dance but no one seemed to want to ask her. Maybe they were intimidated by her? And to make matters worse, everyone seemed to be paired off with each other already and she was all undate-y.
In fairness, Buffy wasn’t even sure if she was ready to date again. She was still smarting from being dumped by her last boyfriend, Angel, who she happened to love more than life itself. After dating for a whole year he suddenly decided she was getting in the way of his career. He believed that girls wanted to see him single and only that would help maximize his popularity.
Actually, Buffy thought he probably just wanted to fuck around with some of those fan-girls.
Asshole.
She knew that Angel missage was a huge part of the reason that she was acting like bad-moody Buffy. Any girl who’s recently been dumped isn’t going to be overjoyed to see all the fun everyone else is having when she just wants to burst into tears every five minutes.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a bleached blond with luminous blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones to die for sauntered up to her and treated her to an exaggerated smirk.
The man in front of her was tremendously striking and she felt herself involuntarily blushing under his heated gaze. Her heart was already pounding a steady rhythm in her chest and he hadn’t even said a word yet!
His eyes seemed to burn into hers as he raised them to her face and she shivered under his heated gaze. Apparently he liked what he saw because a small grin turned up the corners of his perfectly shaped mouth.
“Do I know you?” Buffy asked trying to sound as nonchalant as possible and twirling a strand of hair around her fingers and she studied the man in front of her. Inside her chest, her heart was already pounding a merry tattoo on her soul.
He smiled. “Name’s Spike,” he told her in a baritone British accent. His voice immediately gave her delicious goosebumps and she returned his smile.
She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “That’s a name?”
He scoffed, clearly not having expected her to criticize his name. “SaysBuffy?!”
“Hey! Don’t you rag on my name!” She paused, chewing on a lip. “How do you know my name anyway?”
“You’re a star love. Everywhere.” He smirked when her shoulder subconsciously raised a little. “Even a lowly actor like me knows you.”
“You’re an actor?” Suddenly she perked up, her body language changing. Apparently it made a big difference to be an actor and not just a fan to this girl.
“I am.” He nodded and leaned one arm against the wall. “Not even close to your standard though, Princess.”
She giggled girlishly at the term of endearment and tilted her head, licking her lips as her eyes slid down over his bulging biceps.
“What kind of standard are you?” she asked flirtatiously.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” A grin spread over his face and he leaned in to her. “Maybe later I could…show you.”
She shuddered involuntarily. Even during her relationship with Angel, no one had made her react so…intensely. His deep blue eyes were boring into her and she suddenly felt totally naked in front of him. In moments he’d managed to strip away layers that no other man had even succeeded in chipping.
Their eyes locked and she felt herself instinctively drawn to him. He was the flame and she was a helpless moth. It didn’t matter that they’d just met. She was attracted to him, and she was young and free. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself?
Their faces drew closer, so close that she could smell the earthy cologne and cigarette smoke on him.
They were only inches away from each other when their moment was unfortunately interrupted by an intrusive coughing.
She glanced at the man standing behind Spike and sighed. Damn Giles always sending a chaperone to escort her home after parties. Buffy was eighteen years old now, not eight! And the stupid guy was supposed to just wait outside for her instead of coming charging in like a crazed bull.
The shortish man was standing with his arms crossed and Buffy rolled her eyes.
“Uh, Ms. Summers. We have to leave now,” the chaperone told her sternly, tapping his finger on his watch. “It’s after midnight and you have an appointment with Mr. Giles in the morning. Perhaps you can say goodbye to your…friend here and meet me in the car.”
Buffy nodded wearily and the chaperone’s gaze flitted disapprovingly to Spike before he walked away. Apparently peroxide blonde hair, guy-liner and leather were not on the approved list of attributes that a potential Buffy-boyfriend could possess.
She was pretty sure that Giles had made an actual list.
The actress rolled her eyes and flashed Spike an apologetic look. “Sorry. I guess we’re not meant to get that moment tonight.”
“Always other nights, pet,” he smiled. “Like…tomorrow night for example. I can pick you up. That is, if you’re allowed out without a bloody minder.”
“Of course I am!” she huffed, unconsciously echoing her earlier thoughts. “I’m eighteen, not eight.”
His eyes traveled down her body and he nodded approvingly. “Oh I can tell you’re all woman, love. So tomorrow then?”
“Definitely.”
Before Mr. Chaperone could come back and physically remove her from the party, Buffy and Spike exchanged numbers. She gave him the address of the hotel where she was staying and he promised to pick her up the next evening.
“Until tomorrow, Cinderella.” He kissed her gently on her tiny hand before waving as he melted into the crowd, coat billowing behind him, and out of her sight.
She felt a small fluttering in the pit of her stomach, and a tiny smile crept onto her face. After the heartbreak of her relationship with Angel, she’d given up on relationships. But maybe this bad-boy blond was different. Okay, the bad boy thing wasn’t exactly an asset, but she couldn’t deny that the James Dean meets Fonzie vibe definitely heightened his cuteness.
And it was possible that he was a crunchy outer shell with a soft center. Her mouth watered at that thought.
Lost in her own thoughts, she made her way out of the party to the waiting escort car, already immersed in fantasies of just how their date would go.
The blondes’ gazes locked as they were pulled back to the present. The low chatter of the bar seemed to suddenly flood their ears once again and they sighed in tandem. They both knew it could have gone differently after that. It would have unfolded in some other way if their actions hadn’t taken such a destructive path.
Okay if Spike’s actions hadn’t taken such a destructive path then maybe things wouldn’t have ended up so bitter between them. But he didn’t think Buffy was blameless either. Maybe if she’d been more understanding then…
Anyway, it was in the past now and things couldn’t be changed now. They were set in the stone of history.
But Buffy couldn’t look back at those memories without remembering the hurt she endured afterward. And Spike couldn’t reminisce without the sharp pain of regret at his actions that ensued.
“You weren’t the firsht one,” she confided, her nose scrunching up as a memory struck her.
“The first what, love?”
“The firsht one to hurrr…hurt me.” She scrubbed at her face with a shaky hand. “Firsht one to do that was that bashtard, Ange…Angel.”
“Angel O’Connor?” Spike stared at her with surprise. He vaguely remembered the two of them sharing some kind of angsty teen romance several years ago. It had been plastered all over the gossip columns. But he didn’t imagine that she would still hold a candle for him. “You still fancy him, pet?”
Buffy shook her head. “Hell no! Not now. But he broke my heart. Made me realize…it’sh not worth…and then you lied to me after. And you said those things to Glory! Ugh!” Buffy groaned, clasping her hands to her abdomen. “I don’t feel sho hot.”
“You look hot.” He grinned, curling his tongue behind his teeth in a way that would make sober-Buffy want to punch him in the face, but made drunk-Buffy want to lick him from head to toe.
“You’re an asssh,” she slurred. “But totally hot too.”
“I’m hot huh? So you’re hot…and I’m hot…What should we do about that?”
He grinned, closing in on the sweet smelling blonde and nuzzling her neck. Inside he was deeply thankful that they’d moved on from the recriminations about what he did to her. Even though he was well aware that he deserved them, flirting with the girl was definitely more fun.
He guessed she’d hit that point of drunkenness where she just quit caring and she didn’t push him away, in spite of her earlier harsh words. He could feel a slight tension in her muscles, but he wasn’t sure whether that was just due to the fact she was trying to stay upright. Whatever the reason, it was like heaven to be this close to her.
Her perfume was filling his senses and clouding his head. Or maybe that was just Eau de Buffy. Whatever it was, it smelled divine.
The only downside to her sudden change in behavior was that he knew she was wasted from all the drinks she’d imbibed. She wouldn’t be letting him nuzzle her neck right now if she wasn’t ninety percent alcohol to ten percent blood. But Spike wasn’t the kind of man who pretended to have morals about something like that. If he could get Buffy, even for a night, he’d jump on that opportunity like the greedy kid at a pie eating contest.
Hadn’t he spent all those years fantasizing about doing exactly that?
She leaned toward him, opening her mouth as if she was going to say something. However, her balance wasn’t at its best and she tumbled forward, only narrowly avoiding ending up on the ground thanks to the fact that Spike’s strong arms banded around her.
“Come on, Princess, I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”
“I can walk my-shelf…um self! Myshelf.” Buffy slurred, trying to maintain her dignity as she slithered off the stool. “Shit!”
“Too many nasties out there wanting to eat succulent little girls like you,” he whispered in her ear, deftly stepping back when she lashed out at him with a giggle.
Spike’s eyes danced with affection as he watched her clumsy movements. She was adorable, a hard outer layer with a caramel center that could just melt in his mouth like a tiny slither of paradise. It seemed that alcohol had the ability to drown out the ‘bitch’ part of her, and Spike’s heart was warming to the girl even more with every passing moment.
Of course it helped that she had been the center of most of his thoughts for the past six years. Not that she knew that fact, and even if she did she probably wouldn’t believe it.
As she drunkenly stumbled forward while still trying to successfully dismount the stool, Spike caught her and wrapped his arms around her middle. The near-fall took her breath away, and she froze in his arms. His thumbs were in contact with the bare skin of her waist and it felt strange, like prickles of electricity searing her delicate flesh.
Their eyes locked together and Buffy wasn’t sure whether to balk or wrap her body around his. He was a temptation being dangled in front of her and, as with any temptation, it would be so easy just to give in to those oh-so kissable lips. The fuzziness of her mind stopped any of her usual inhibitions from affecting her.
“I…um…” Buffy breathed softly. “Oh God!”
She lunged forward as she felt the bile well up in her throat. At that moment she didn’t care that she was about to toss her cookies in front of the man who she despised ninety percent of the time. She couldn’t help herself.
Spike’s face twisted in concern as he rubbed her back. He knew she would be mortified about spewing her guts in the middle of a bar if she was sober but he figured she probably wouldn’t even remember this in the morning.
So for those few moments he just stood next to the sick girl, holding her ponytail back as she puked up in front of him.
Not exactly Spike’s idea of romance. But any time that he got to spend with Buffy was worth it.
No matter what they were doing.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you for all the reviews! And here's the next chapter. Flashbacks are in italics.