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"No Giles, you don't have to do that. Really. He's gone. Totally gone now."

Buffy was currently speaking to her surrogate father/actual cousin Rupert Giles. Long distance calls were never a concern, but at the moment, she was almost considering using the phone bill as an excuse to cut this conversation short.

She loved Giles. Really, she did, but his instincts occasionally got him into trouble. It wasn't always with the law or one of her boyfriends, either; sometimes it was with Buffy herself, and she hated being on the outs with him because he'd done something stupid or hurtful in the name of protecting her.

Buffy held the phone inches away from her ear. That familiar British accent groaned like whining couch springs. "The prat! Deserves a good kick in the arse-" he growled, "Perhaps a negative word with his prestigious boss in L.A. would teach him when to bugger off. Anything you'd like me to do and I'll do it straight away, Buffy, you need only say the word-"

"I don't want you to do anything!" she threw in for the fifth time.

Silence a moment, then, "I can always ring Ethan."

Buffy sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward. "No Giles. Angel is long gone, and there's no need to torture him."

"He needs quite a bit of torture, if you ask me!" He yelled, then continued in a descending mutter. "Dodgy little wanker..."

"You know, you get more British sounding the longer you're over there," Buffy pointed out.

A long time had passed since Giles rallied behind Angel's good graces. The day her ex left for California was the day Giles started keeping his negative opinions to himself for Buffy's sake alone. Mostly to himself. There was never again a quest for Giles' opinions, that was for certain.

When Angel flew in to check out Buffy's new boyfriend one year later, hatred couldn't have been thicker, or Giles' disdain more vocal. When Angel sent letters in the mail, and if Buffy happened to leave one lying around, Giles made faces like he was trying not to breathe through his nose in place of giving her a lecture. The few times Angel contacted her cousin to ask about her, Buffy's ex heard the sound of a dial tone faster than he could get his questions out. There were a hundred reasons why he was far from number one on her friends' and family's "Favorite People" lists; Giles probably hadn't even taken the time to write his name down.

Angel's constant presence in Buffy's life without actually being present was a large source of such hostility. He strung her along and Buffy let him. It wasn't as if this was a one way street, but Giles still hated the guy. Reporting the latest incident concerning her ex boyfriend probably wasn't conducive to managing Giles' blood pressure levels, but Buffy thought she should tell him. He'd want to know she was finally letting go.

His support would also be considerable. It might help Buffy truly understand her own decisions, though the need to do so was dwindling. She was definitely receiving a pat on the back for her choices, including vehement desire to enact revenge on her behalf, payment for Angel's supposed "gall and utter arrogance," which was making her a tad nervous.

She always knew Giles had a dark side, it just never appeared so evident before.

"Buffy," he sighed, after calming down some, "if he so much as calls you again, please tell me you will not give the pillock the time of day."

Frowning at his straightforwardness, and confusing British lingo, the woman nodded. "I won't. Told you, Giles, I'm... I'm done."

"Yes, well..." He sighed. Many unspoken concerns hid within that weary exhale. It may be the first time Buffy had really come out and voiced such a radical final decision, but Angel was a part of the girl's history, and Giles was only too aware of how hard it could be to turn away from one's past. "Good," he said, voice clear-cut. "You deserve someone better, Buffy. Honestly, the self importance that tosser exhibits in enough to shame a cock."

She snorted. "I take it you mean a 'rooster.'" God, she hoped so.

A nervous stutter. "U-Um, yes. Quite right. I do apologize." Stuffy eloquence was seeping back into place, and for once, she was grateful. "It seems my temper ran away from me there for a moment, didn't it?"

"Schyeah." Buffy smiled pointedly, even if he couldn't see her. Rolling green eyes landed on the window frame, and Giles tried to change the subject, reasserting questions as to find out how she was faring. But her thoughts shifted unconsciously. Tuning out sound, she titled her head with an unconscious frown, spotting a shape in the distance.

Walking closer, Buffy stood beside her sleeping cat, draped lazily across the windowsill. "Yeah, I'm really okay, Giles," she replied absently. The view consisted of leafy trees just beginning their annual fade to red and gold, a portrait of color outlined by her mother's floral curtains and wooden lines. A lily filled pond surrounded by hopping frogs and green cattails, the small red mailbox, and gravel driveway poking into the wild lawn of flowers, weeds, and tall grasses. Her home was amidst forest and fields, and off in the distance, wedged between trees lining the road, there stood a shadow.

It was the size of a man, and the more she stared, the more Buffy thought that's exactly what she was seeing. A man, wearing all black and feet treading circles.

She squinted. A man and... his car. He was pacing beside a car, and none too happy about the situation, from what she could tell. "Uh, Giles? I gotta call you back."

He said something in return, but she missed it. Buffy promptly winced when the man in the distance hauled back to deliver a kick to his automobile. She wished she could tell the make and model, but Buffy was hardly a car aficionado. Didn't matter, the only discernible qualities were dark color, boxy shape, and apparent angering abilities.

"What?" Buffy shook her head, looking away. "What did you say, Giles?"

He sighed as if talking with forced patience to a child. "I asked if there was anything wrong?"

"Oh! No, nothing." She peeked out the window again. "Just gotta get going. Stuff to mark off that to do list, ya know. I'll call you later."

"All right. Remember, Buffy, if you want to talk, or need anything at all-"

"I know where to reach you. Thanks, Giles." She smiled. "Talk to you soon!" The phone clinked into place when she hung it on the wall. Buffy quickly slid back to the window, eyes fixed.

It was too much curiosity and too few explanations that urged her out of the house. Nobody had reason to travel down that road unless their goal was to pay her a visit. Joyce had always enjoyed the seclusion. Still living within town limits, but people needed to search in order to find you.

Neighbors weren't close enough to be called neighbors. Buffy could easily recognize each and every car that ambled down her driveway for one reason or another. People rarely made wrong turns on clearly labeled Dead End roads, so she couldn't guess why there was suddenly a stranger pacing around out here.

He was behind a row of tall pines and maples that separated property, many yards ahead of the house. She threw on a pair of tall clunky boots and a denim jacket, absently grabbing keys and cell phone on her way out.

"No, no, get inside. Stay." Nudging Tabitha back with her foot, Buffy shut the door and strolled down her porch steps. A familiar protest grew in sound, muffled behind the window glass as a feline meowed insistent complaints, and Buffy shook her head at the notion of telling a cat to 'stay.' Tabitha had never let go of her grudge for being relegated an Indoor Pet.

Meowing ceased eventually. Buffy walked through short green grass and violets, burrs and thistle which grew closer to the road. The man's arms were lying at his sides, punctuated by fists. Buffy moved faster and took a deep breath when she noticed his white blonde hair, and the long dark coat. Distance eaten up by her strides, it was only a matter of seconds before she found herself face to face with the mystery man from just a couple days ago...

***

The bloody buggering car wouldn't start.

Here he was, stupid, stupid pathetic git, failing miserably in the element of living, watching her house again. Only two days after she had seen him. Was he surprised? Oh, hardly. That was the kicker.

Spike tried keeping his distance, tried damn hard, but as usual, his efforts were weak compared to his yearnings. Like a bloody glue trap, or something akin to that overused metaphor about the moth and the flame. He just couldn't do it. Couldn't stay back and remain home, keep busy at work without thinking of Buffy. Pencils found their way into his palms until he was scribbling art and poems down on the nearest scraps of paper. The dreams slipped him up every time, whether they be dirty, heartfelt, or just plain painful. Spike couldn't forget her, and it pained him to remain distant as a safety measure, even if the closest he'd ever come was spying like this.

Savoring every glimpse, taking in flashes as she walked back and forth, passing windows. It was worth it, each bittersweet second. Worth the chances he took, tagged with that possibility of getting caught.

Unfortunately, now his fucking car wouldn't start!

Spike unleashed his frustrations in the form of a kick to the already dented backdoor. Christ, he couldn't catch even a minute of a break. Normally, he parked far down the road, in shadows or a clearing buried within the forest that thickened and thinned all around this area. Today, he finally broke. He had work in an hour, but Spike needed to see her. Needed it like a bad nicotine fix or some kind of junk food he hadn't allowed himself to taste. Like a boxer needs his gloves and a moon needs the stars to help alight everything in the blackness. He just needed to see her.

That was where the problems began. Today, anyhow. He rushed down this one destination road and settled in the first place that would abide a swerving park job, as close as he could, without being noticed. He'd hopped out and behind a tree, finding her body immediately, standing against a candy colored backdrop as the sun set. Her hair glowed golden, and all he saw was her back until she went in, then it was her profile. A corner of a smile. Widening eyes while she spoke on the phone to someone nameless. Each and every shadow that bounced over Buffy's frame was his, and Spike's heart filled with contentment from the mere admittance to see them.

Admittance he hadn't been given. Shoulders fell, and Spike continued to stare at his temperamental hunk of auto parts. He was starting to feel guilty about that, but the reality was simple: He couldn't help himself. He loved Buffy, and there was no way of letting go, even if he wanted to.

Keys jingled in his coat pocket, the sound rankling his nerves back to irritated. He never should have shut off the engine, but a running car was not a good way to remain hidden. Of course, if he'd simply parked the bloody thing down the road, it could have sat idling. Not that he would have left it running, of course, but-

Footsteps. Soft, crushing dry sticks. They alerted him, then the hairs on his nape rose. The quiet descent of an anvil surely would render him out cold in any moment, but nothing plummeted downward or hit his head. Soon, Spike's shoulders had risen to cage his neck.

Her voice, questioning and gentle to him, ran down his spine, across his lungs until they stopped working. He had heard Buffy's voice before, on occasion, but never addressing him. Never so clear, so close.

It was no surprise he loved it, just like the rest of her.

Clothing rustled, feet paused behind him. "Hi. You having car trouble?"

A response wouldn't come, stuck in his throat like sour gumballs when Spike opened his mouth to, presumably, speak. Hot breaths sped out instead, shaking, turning cold as his lungs fought to steady themselves. His knees refused to follow suit.

*Good job, ya wanker. Keep makin' like a bloody mime.* Spike hastened to rail against himself. He didn't want to talk, didn't have the courage to say a single word. He didn't know how to talk to many people. Perhaps just one living person now that his mum wasn't around, and she was as unstable as a rocking chair without nine out of ten necessary screws. Took the pressure off. The others didn't count. He spoke a few lines, flashed a couple grins, then had them in bed with their legs high around his waist. Barely even remembered their names, or voiced more than he had to.

No, Spike wasn't sure how to properly execute ordinary vocal communication or hold conversations, and he wasn't used to hiding his emotions, either. Talking was difficult enough.

With her... Christ, he could only imagine. But he knew acting like a scarecrow, not even whispering a hello, would surely unsettle Buffy just as much as if he tripped over his untried tongue.

He was so terrified of messing everything up. Sighing without sound, Spike let his eyelids fall. He turned very timidly around.

Gazes clashed like cymbals, a powerful clap running through them- Through Spike, at least. He couldn't say she felt it, too, though the muscle beating all his blood through his system hoped.

Always hoping, and always looked through. Buffy didn't look through him. She found his face while a heavy tremor began to take root inside his ribs, and he couldn't have guessed she'd do that. This was the second time she saw him. Really saw him, and Spike felt his fingers trembling. He knew her face, could draw every line and curve of it from unhindered memories, yet he had never once been this close, or this shocked, in all his life.

His heart kicked and shuddered, working overtime. An anxious cough rose but he pushed it back down, swallowing hard. Her green eyes blinked and she looked as if she expected him to speak; when he didn't, Buffy tried again. "I'm guessing your car broke down."

Miraculously, he managed a nod. It was jerky and hesitant but sufficed to answer.

Buffy squinted. She was trying to figure this guy out. Logically, her guard was up. Approaching a stranger in a fairly deserted area, a handsome stranger wearing all black, no less, and probably in need of a tow truck, all summed up to one bad beginning of a horror movie or crime television show. However, Buffy wasn't getting bad vibes here, and once she realized who he was, there was no maintaining distance.

Only days ago she spotted him across a rain drenched street, and he stared like a hungry wolf then. Now, he was nearly doing it again, but she was the object of his attention; not a desk or a couch or any number of things you could predict resided in an antique shop. Buffy felt a shiver curl around her jacketed shoulders, and surprisingly, it wasn't unpleasant.

She uncrossed her arms, examining him from boots to scalp again. Doc Martens, bleached head of hair, scar slashing through one dark eyebrow, guy-liner, and a black leather duster. The whole combination should have screamed Punk Reject from the 80's, like she had originally thought two days before. It appeared not all things were so easily established.

Every inch of him was right in front of her, vivid in comparison to earlier vantage points, and if you asked Buffy the middle so did not match the outline.

The man wore all black all over, sure, but this was really the extent to his wardrobe's "bad attitude" mark. Dress slacks hung from a belt with a silver buckle. They were neat and unwrinkled, but a little too big for him. His shirt was an equally ill-fitting button up, plain and faded, unblemished but for a sprinkle of cigarette ash. "Um..." Buffy gestured to his chest, indicating the gray splash of untidiness. "You have, uh- On your shirt."

*Well, that was eloquent,* she thought silently. Diminishing the self mocking eye roll to a blink, Buffy soon found she had no reason to worry, as the stranger looked to where she'd pointed and brushed wildly at the cigarette remains. His eyes shot back up in what she could only describe as near panic, like he was two seconds away from turning to dust at her hand for committing some terrible crime.

She dropped her arm. Amusement suddenly crept onto her lips like a vine, and Buffy smiled.

She smiled.

No mockery, no sigh of disdain. No laughter either, though it looked as if she wanted to giggle without scorn. Seemed a mite confused, too, but Spike was carried away for just a moment. One warm second, his insecurity turned to a ghost, and he stared carelessly ahead. Within those mossy green eyes, the courage to speak arose. "S-Sorry. Wasn'- Um. Wasn' payin' attention I s'pose."

Her whole chest felt like it lurched. Accent, British. Never seen him around before. He must have just moved here. Had to be a newcomer. It would explain a mistaken turn down her dead end road, too, and so much else. His awkward behavior? Probably shy. Her suddenly pop-bubble filled stomach? Well, maybe not everything could be blamed on a New Neighbor label. "Don't be sorry," Buffy said, shrugging her own nerves off but hiding it. "Bad habit, though."

Spike nodded jerkily again. His hands felt clammy. Damn. "Right."

"So..." she hedged, face open and waiting, "are you new in town?"

"Oh. No." *Lovely. I've gone monosyllabic.*

"Oh," she returned. So he wasn't new. Just... odd. "I thought maybe that's why you turned on my road." He looked away, head ducked and fingers scratching at his nape. *Definitely shy.* "It's okay. It's not even mine, really, I guess. It just leads to my house, and nowhere else. Sometimes if you're new to the area people miss the sign," she explained.

The stranger nodded without even glancing up. A worry frown settled. Eyes falling to the vintage, shabby car only paces away, Buffy asked, "Think you should call a tow truck?"

He shook his hanging head. Looking in the same direction, then finally back at her, Buffy noticed his Adam's apple jump. "Just needs a mo' to cool down, then it should- should be fine."

Along with shy, Buffy decided he was also completely adorable. His warm blue eyes, the color of clear lake water, shined under thick lashes and over dark smudges. She had never actually met a man who wore makeup, it was a bit different, but definitely worked for him.

Tucking her hand into her coat pocket, shaping grip around her cell phone, Buffy said, "Is there someone you can call?"

He shrugged his tight shoulders, expression fixed, and locked. He was staring boldly again. Somehow, she didn't find it unsettling. "Don' need to call anyone," he said. "Already been cooling off for a few minutes now, should revive soon 'nough."

That was true. Too bad he couldn't say the same about himself, but Spike knew what the DeSoto's problem was; vapor lock. His car's fuel line likely needed some work done, but right now there was no help for it except to let the bloody thing cool off. In short, he was stuck here, because he should really take better care of his work-in-progress ride and actually work on its mechanics.

Buffy nodded slowly, and he noticed her other hand fall into her jacket pocket. Her arms winged her body on both sides. She shrugged delicately. "Not really car-girl here, but when engines overheat, don't they usually need water, or coolant or something?"

He smiled charmingly, crookedly, and she blinked. *That smile should be brighter. More assured,* Buffy decided. Then he was talking again, quietly as if they were in a library. "S'not that. Not really."

"Huh?"

Spike smiled again, this time not capping it. She was too lovely. His heart was still beating a mile a minute, and his hands were as wet as ice, but the woman of his dreams- literally -was here talking to him, talking with him; nothing could be better or more nerve-racking. "S'called vapor lock. Doesn' happen in newer cars, usually, but mine's... not exactly new."

There, that was a full description of his problem. The problem which with each passing moment was turning into a blessing, despite every self preserving instinct that was screaming at him to run.

He should be on the way out, getting away from her before she realized what he did, who he was. How he had found her and then watched like a hawk for two years.

It was those two years of yearning and stupid, unsanctioned hope born from wishful thinking that made Spike stay right where he was. He anxiously tapped one foot against the ground, reaching into his duster pocket for lighter and smokes as if on autopilot.

Buffy watched as he plucked, lit, and took a long inhale on prepackaged nicotine. He dropped his Zippo from shaking hands, and Buffy heard the curse as he fumbled to one knee. Grabbing it, and glancing up with pale cheeks just beginning to turn pink. She smiled at him, and not because she meant to, but he was almost too darn adorable to deal with.

Maybe it was stupid, and maybe it was reckless, unsafe, naive, but she couldn't seem to ignore his unwitting charm. And that's definitely what she believed it to be, a man completely unaware of how endearing he could be. She took a risk. "How long do you think you need to wait?"

Spike stood up, his jaw tight. *Stupid, clumsy... Ever use your hands before, moron?* Her words registered, and he shook his head to clear away some of the inner putdowns. "How's that?"

"The car." She gestured to the machine in question. "Are you going to be stuck out here for a long time? It's getting dark."

Spike threw a glance to the sky. Sure enough, yellows and reds were bleeding into indigo and violet. The shine had dimmed, golden light falling away so stars and blackness could overtake. He cleared his tight throat. "Not much longer. Be fine."

She chewed on her lower lip, too busy contemplating her next words to notice his eyes zero in on her nervous habit. His nostrils flared like a lion's, heartbeat racing and mind bellowing at him to just walk home. It all died down to whispers, then eventually tumbled into silence, when Buffy focused on him again and suggested, "Why don't you come inside while you wait."

Spike gulped noisily, sure he would wake up any second now.

***

He trailed behind her like a lost puppy, like a young man going to the gallows, like the saddest human being on earth finally discovering salvation.

It was the worst contradiction. Somehow, Spike's stomach had tied itself into knots on the short walk to Buffy's front porch. His lungs were constricted by a heaving rib cage. His tongue felt heavy. This couldn't be real. He couldn't control anything, so it was like Spike handed over the reins.

He hadn't known what to say after the initial invitation. Buffy's home, the place she slept and ate and lived, was always off limits to him. Sure, Spike imagined it, and knew every corner of the front, back and sides. Knew which bedroom was hers. He similarly knew he'd never step foot inside.

On second thought, he knew what to say to the invitation, but a flat out refusal was hard to issue to the woman you loved. The woman you were certain would remain the heart of dreams and hopeless hopes. The woman you could find happiness with by simply watching her go through a daily routine. A woman like Buffy.

Following many pulse jumps and a couple fish-mouth moments, she had only smiled at him again, and that sealed his fate. Spike nodded and said, "Thank you," before his mind could catch up.

It was catching up now, and thoughts were running into the walls of his skull.

"I hope you're not allergic to cats," Buffy said as she opened the door.

Spike was saved from using dry lips to ask what she meant when a furry creature no taller than his shin came running out of the house. It meowed loudly and trained focus on him. Buffy muttered something about cats being worse than kids, and scooped her up in a one arm hold.

Spike hesitantly followed. Buffy shut the large wooden door behind them. "This is Tabitha."

He tilted his head and watched the tiny animal squirm in Buffy's arms before settling, leaning up to lick her owner's chin. Spike smirked, remembering now. He knew his girl had a cat, but in the space of recent heart-stopping minutes, he had forgotten.

Tabitha hopped onto the floor like an acrobat. She made a beeline for the man in the house and started to rub against his leg, meowing for attention, and staring up with beseeching yellow eyes.

"She does that sometimes," Buffy said, filling the silence. She had long ago realized her feline was a girly girl. Cuddly, especially when it came to males. Every time a man entered the house, she was on him quicker than squirrels on peanut butter, and while Buffy found it amusing, guests didn't always agree.

This man, however, seemed unbothered by Tabitha's vocal appreciation and incessant nuzzling. "She likes you, and probably won't stop doing that as long as you're in her sight," Buffy joked. "Do you want me to put her in another room?"

Spike just shook his head.

"You're sure?"

Tabitha jumped into his arms, and Spike used a cautious hand to stroke her back while the other held her weight. Immediately, loud purring could be heard.

Buffy smiled, her heart enjoying the sight. Something welcoming, despite his shy behavior, resonated from William like quiet music, and it called out to her. She didn't exactly know why, but you couldn't blame a girl for being curious, right? Buffy was starting to realize that. "Have a seat," she said.

Spike almost jumped. He looked around and found several places to rest. He also found he was frozen in place. A stool, a few wooden chairs outlining a small kitchen table, a blue couch with throw blankets and pillows. He could even go for that desk in the corner, but it looked old and expensive.

He tried to focus on the soft fur beneath his fingertips. Buffy's home. She had welcomed him inside, told him to have a seat. Fuck, was that his heartbeat he heard?

Gulping, glancing helplessly at the cat for assistance, Spike remained unmoving. Buffy went to the stove. "Can I get you something to drink, William?"

Distracted from anxiousness, confusion like a ruler to the hand, Spike blinked stupidly. Had he told her his name? He recalled Buffy asking; he supposed he could have answered.

He was sure she told him her name was "Buffy Summers," and Spike thought he managed to hide the fact such was old news fairly well, given the circumstances.

Buffy slid out of her denim and turned around, hanging the jacket on the back of a chair. Her shoulders were bare, framed by thin straps of cream white, smooth skin glowing. Spike felt his throat constrict again.

She blinked at the man still paying devoted attention to her cat, mute and awfully dark looking in her simple little kitchen. "You're standing."

Spike internally panicked. Her eyes were kind, his were as wide as the moon. "Um..." a quiet mutter. "Wh- Where should I sit?"

Another sliver of affection dropped upon her heart, light as a wafer but there nonetheless. "Sit wherever you like."

Spike didn't reply as she turned away, smiling. He eyed the threatening furniture; table and chairs would suit, he supposed, as long as she didn't mind him being so close.

Tabitha curled herself over his shoulder, kneading the leather of his coat and putting tiny holes in it. Spike didn't notice. He watched Buffy fill a kettle with fresh water from the tap and set it on a stove burner. Moving fluidly, gracefully even in mere inches, her hands twisted a knob and fire lit.

Legs covered by blue denim flexed on the rise. "Do you want some tea?"

He was trying valiantly hard not to stare at her ass.

"William?"

"Huh?" Spike shook his head. "Sorry, missed that."

Buffy took the fib for honest nerves, and turned around. "I was going to make tea. Do you want some?'"

A smirk came out to play, and something inside her jolted with pleasure. *Wow. He's sort of really pretty.*

"All you can think to offer a Brit, eh?" Lead dropped into his stomach like a falling elevator once those words left his mouth. *What the hell is wrong with me?*

Buffy grinned. An obvious bolt of confidence, some teasing, a smirk of deadly ability, and she was wondering just how many women William had charmed unknowingly in his days; she also wondered how she affected the grand total. "Give me a break," she said, "my cousin is English. When he visits all he drinks is tea and the occasional 'nightcap.'"

Spike paused. She was... She was laughing at his joke. He found himself smiling. His rolling stomach calmed when Tabitha laid across his knees, and Buffy watched with rosy eyes. "Tea would be great, love," he said quietly.

She raised her attention and blinked. *Love? Hmm...* Buffy believed she liked that nickname, and even more, she liked how William's face was turning as pink as a tulip right before her eyes.

A disarming chuckle echoed throughout the room, a cadence, a melody. Spike caught Buffy with happiness etched onto her lips. Fondness in the way she said, "Tea it is. God only knows what happens if you don't have a cup at least every other hour, right?"

The man in the chair with the cat on his lap sucked a bottom lip between his teeth, lips quirking at the ends. "Don' wanna know. It gets ugly."

Buffy laughed again, and Spike's whole chest warmed. He'd done that. He'd conjured glitter in her eyes and sparkles across her face. A moment here, a split second there, but it was enough.

The sensation of hitting a very soft, fluffy pillow when you expected nothing but rocks to break a fall, spiraled through him. Spike gulped another bout of nerves with plucky willpower.

Courage could be addicting.

***

Spike was taking small mouthfuls of tea brewed excellently well for an American hand. Of course, Buffy explained that. She spoke all about how her cousin, Giles she called him, had taught her how to make a decent cuppa. Thank God she figured he'd prefer a steaming mug of Earl Grey to a peachy bag blend.

Spike thanked her three times before Buffy made a joke about being awfully grateful for a simple bit of leaf water. He choked and nearly ducked his head, but she smiled again and he didn't want to miss it.

They were both sitting down, and Tabitha had hopped onto the table, sprawled out between them like a furry road map. Spike held onto his cup rigidly, desperately needing the warmth, and fought to keep his hands from shaking. Being this close to Buffy... It was like a dream- Scratch that. It was a bloody dream. A miracle, and every second they shared together meant one more second he could store in his memory bank. Moments for mental images. Memories to be, ones he was sure would look more like unreasonable fairytales weaved out of spider webs soon enough.

Not right now, though. Now it was real, and it was here. Buffy was sitting across a short kitchen table from him with her own mug. She was smiling easily, and she was talking to him.

These were the better things he dreamed about, and whether they made a turn for sex or just a first-wake heartbreak, he cherished them. There had been too many. Dirty diary entries catalogued beside home sweet home visions. Living one was...

It was more than he had ever hoped to get.

Peace in something other than a bottle. Her attention, her time. It was only going on fifteen minutes, but he'd spent it with her.

Peace in the eyes of another. Green, glittering, laughing peace. Spike grinned into his cup as she took one more sip from hers. Silence did not have a place here. Silences were far and few between anecdotes, threads of stories and conversation. He didn't know how he was managing it, all Spike knew was that if he quit talking then she would, and then he'd have to leave. For so long he had feared being this close to her, and he wasn't fool enough to hope for a repeat performance.

If he learned nothing else today, Spike could at least say he believed in miracles, but there was a limit to such things. The first astounding position of the day remained when Buffy found him outside, and instead of assuming the worst, invited him into her home while his car cooled down.

The other miracles fit between his lips like cigarettes, the words he spoke without much stuttering. Sure, there were pauses, and muted, muffled whispers when nerves took control. Times when he hadn't a clue what to say next, how to hold the conversation without boring her, and so relied on the first thing that popped into his head. Wasn't always smart, but it seemed to work for now.

Didn't mean he would ever get this chance again.

He hadn't earned a damn thing. He was playing on stolen time. Buffy was here, they were talking and nothing had ever been so sweet. No one held a candle to her, and even though his bones were still rattling from the vibrations of his nerves, even if his heart did feel like there was a vise around it, there wasn't a single thing that could pull him away from this. From being here, sitting at this table, with her.

He may have thought of running, but the truth was Spike never had a chance.

"So, can I ask where you grew up?"

He was thrown by the question. Involuntarily clasping the empty mug tighter in his hands, Spike answered, "Here."

"C'mon, that accent wasn't Wisconsin born." Buffy tilted her head. "You had to live in England at some point, right?"

The fact she wanted to know an intimate detail about his life was enough to make a bloke's head spin. Spike blinked about ten times. "I moved- moved here when I was twelve. With my mum."

"Oh. Now see, that makes sense." Buffy lifted tea to her pink lips, and murmured against the rim of her cup. "What doesn't is why I've never seen you around before."

Spike knew he might break what he was holding, so he nudged the mug away from his hands. Cold enveloped a voice sometimes, and words could freeze up in one's throat. "Doesn't- I don't- I don't know. Not much of a people person, really." The table was smooth and tinted dark, Tabitha's tale swished back and forth across the surface like a fan. "I keep to m'self."

Buffy gave a curious frown. "Well, you must really hide out," she said jokingly, unaware of the tensing in William's muscles. "I saw you outside my shop, in front of the library? Couple days ago."

Spike didn't speak a word. He couldn't, as his tongue felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. Buffy carried on. "I thought you saw me, too, but- It doesn't really matter. I just find it weird, since this place is so small, why've we never met before."

He couldn't rightly tell her it was because he hid in the shadows. All those times he sought her out, only to be reminded that getting close was against the rules, and Buffy was never the wiser to a pair of eyes glued to her form. "M'older than you," he muttered, still staring at the tabletop. "Don' run in the same circles, I'd wager."

The lie was unpredictably effortless; likely had to do with self preservation. Buffy blinked, thinking on that as if William wasn't covering his tracks. To her the simple excuse was genuine. "You're older than me, by how much?"

Spike started, head jerking up. "What?"

"Sorry. Rude, I know. I just..." Buffy ducked shyly and bit her lower lip. He felt a tremor clash inside of him, running against the wall of his chest like a tidal wave. "I'm twenty-seven. You don't look a whole lot older than that."

A smirk came out to play of its own volition, softening the edges of Spike's face with careless truth while inside remained chaotic. "You don' look a day older n'twenty, pet."

Her eyes fairly sparkled with pleased shock. "Really?" At his nod, Buffy's cheeks became warm and rosy; Spike was too busy watching to pay attention to his own. She inhaled shortly and glanced away, shrugging, taking one more fortifying sip of tea. "If you don't want to tell me..."

He cut her off. "I'm thirty-seven."

If possible, Buffy looked thoroughly bewildered over the fact. "Seriously?"

He nodded.

"Well, then I'm not the only one who looks young for their age."

He smiled. "Thanks, love."

Buffy gulped. *Oh boy.* How come she never noticed this man before now? Spotted him in town, in a store, at a restaurant, or even at the lone barbershop? They were far apart in age- Ten years?! -but they both lived within the same miniscule zip code. If nothing else, someone could have mentioned him. She could had overheard a million different gossip-y things about this man from the way mouths ran, yet nothing. It was like he was a ghost. Surely her Angel-pining hadn't blinded her so thoroughly? Not to William's mere presence, right?

Nothing could have prepared Buffy for him, but nothing could have hidden him so well either.

Except maybe himself.

"What do you do?" she asked, before politeness could reword curiosity.

He frowned. "Meanin'?"

"For work. Anyone would go mad in this town without having something to do besides living in it, right?"

"Right." He trembled softly enough that she didn't see it, battling an instinct in his gut. Dread filled him up. "I- I-" Was he to tell her that he had two jobs? Yes, they kept the bills paid, made it so dipping into savings wasn't necessary. He didn't want to tell her about them. Couldn't. *Can't let her know just how ridiculous my life is.*

"I should get goin'." *Did I really just say that?*

Buffy stood hastily after he did, her expression surprised and confused. "Oh. Did- Did I say something-"

"No. Just... I should- Got things to, uh..." He avoided her imploring eyes, his heart clenching. "Right."

She followed him to the door. The disappointment was enough to shadow her questions. Surely she hadn't said anything to make him... But it looked like she had. Why else would he be leaving like this? Buffy didn't think her attempt to find out how he hid from the world, either in a job or behind the walls of his home, would drive William away.

"I'm sorry if-" Apparently it was her turn to stutter. "I didn't mean to upset you."

The personal statement, as if they knew each other better than they did, like twenty to thirty minutes of chitchat could equate or liken to months of association, shook Spike from the inside out. He faced her at the door, his boots on the other side of the threshold; and that fine line between them was more than adequate in reminding him exactly where he stood. "Don't be sorry," he demanded fervently, trying to be fast but needing to say this. "Please, Buffy. Being with- Talking with you was... I just gotta- The car. Figure it's cooled off by now."

She nodded, a pinched frown marring her soft face. "I liked talking to you, William. It was great- meeting you." His blue eyes had gone stormy, then paled. From intense to bland in mere seconds. She swore that if she looked down, he might be gone before she could lift her head again. "Maybe we'll run into each other soon. Hopefully without any car trouble."

Her laugh, the hope Spike couldn't imagine sitting in her eyes, and the apology in her voice for fear of speaking too plainly before, it all made him want to hold on.

Spike swallowed hard, jaw clenched. A nod, and, "Yeah... Thanks for the tea."

"You're welcome." He jogged down the steps. A porch light barely illuminated more than five feet of grass and dirt from her door. "Drive-" William's body merged with the darkness, "-safe."

Buffy's mouth filled up with silence, a hand dropping before it could say goodbye. Four hundred repetitions ran through her mind in the space of a second, every single one asked the same thing: What had she done wrong?

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