Chapter 4 - Indications

The guest room more closely resembled a small suite at a hotel than a bedroom. There was a queen size bed, a recliner in one corner, and a couch positioned to one side of the television. A door on one wall led to a bathroom shared between his room and another guest room, and another door opened to a small balcony.

Spike had the balcony door open and the telly volume on low. It was close to dawn and everyone else in the house was long asleep. He was stretched out on the bed, actually reading the papers that the Watcher had given him.

Looking over the information that Wesley had been provided by Hank, he found very little of use. There were the standard form things—Buffy’s date of birth, her license plate number, phone numbers, addresses and more. There was what her father professed to know of her social life, which was probably not entirely correct, Spike thought, but sounded generally in line with what she seemed. There was also a schedule of her classes for the week.

Now the pages Wesley had put together on the family were more interesting. These sheets were copies of Wesley’s own scrawled notes.

There was nothing particularly interesting about Joyce, who worked at a small college and was in charge of the art department. Hank, however, had a high profile job at a large corporation, and by all accounts had numerous contacts in law enforcement, so why he would have gone to Wesley first was slightly puzzling. There were also some allegations from a few years back about his involvement in a white-collar crime, though charges were never brought. Earlier, it seemed he had possibly committed tax fraud. He’s hiding something, Wesley concluded. At any rate, he knows more than he professes.

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That morning, Buffy pulled on a dark green top, put the finishing touches on her makeup, and looked in the mirror. She was ready for today, she was. She was ready to go out and face the music. Whether the music was walking around with Spike in tow, or was the people hiding in the bushes, she wasn’t completely sure. But she couldn’t let them take over her life, couldn’t let what might happen make her afraid of everything. She felt a sudden confidence, which was something she wasn’t sure she would have after yesterday.

Buffy grabbed her bag and made her way to Spike’s room. She opened the door. “Are you ready, cause—”

She froze.

Spike was wearing nothing but a towel. It was a rather large towel, but a towel nonetheless. He looked up sharply.

“I…uh…” she started.

“See somethin’ you like?”

Buffy quickly looked at the floor. Why couldn’t she get her feet to move? “Um…I like your bracelet,” she blurted, making a swift exit and shutting the door behind her.

She leaned up against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Knock before you go into someone’s room! She knew that, she really did.

A moment later, she heard the door click open and saw Spike emerge fully dressed. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. I mean, it’s not like I…on purpose, you know—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted her. “No harm done. Though if you wanted to return the favor…” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Buffy opened to mouth to deliver a sharp response, but bit it back. “I probably deserved that.” Then she collected herself. “What sort of man wears jewelry?”

“You shoulda seen me back durin’ my punk days.”

“This isn’t a punk day?”

“Hardly, princess.”

“Okay, but an ankle bracelet? And, kinda gaudy for a guy.”

“Sentimental value. Had it for longer than you’ve been around.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, disbelief in her voice. “Well, you look good for your age.”

“That I do. Now, not another word outta you about my state o’ dress or undress, especially since I’m makin’ concessions here.”

Buffy abruptly realized that he didn’t have on the duster, though he still had the boots. As for the black…he was wearing a button up shirt so deep a red that it might as well have been black, and a pair of faded jeans that clearly used to be black. Normal enough, she supposed.

“Well, let’s go,” she said.

He followed her down to the garage, making no comment as they got into her white convertible.

“Do you mind if I put the top down?” she asked, backing the car down the driveway.

“It’s your car.”

Buffy started to push the button as she pulled onto the street. “Or do you think…?”

He turned to regard her. “Think what?”

“Well, that maybe with all the stuff going on that having the top down might not be such a good idea?”

“I don’t think it matters.”

“Why not?”

“The truth?”

Buffy nodded.

“Because they don’t want you dead.”

Yet. Realization sunk in. Oh God, this was worse.

“If they’d just wanted to kill you, they wouldn’t have been watchin’ or tried the kidnapping.”

Her hands tightened on the wheel.

“They want something,” she said in a small voice. “But what? I don’t have anything. Ransom?”

“Don’t know. Sorry, love.”

Buffy looked back, focusing strictly on the road. A few seconds later, she lowered the top, pushing the button almost defiantly.

After a moment, she glanced over at Spike again. He was leaning back in the seat with his hands folded behind his head and his eyes half closed. He reminded her for all the world of a cat basking in the sun.

“You do that a lot?” she asked.

“Only when I feel like it.”

“You’re not very dark.”

“I don’t tan easy. Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?”

No answer. Well duh, Buffy, he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t.

“Yeah, as long as I’ve got the top down you can,” she said. “But don’t blow it in my direction. And never in the house. Mom would kill you.”

He lit up with an easy movement and took a drag.

Buffy fiddled with her sunglasses. She couldn’t help looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He made smoking look so good. And she knew it totally wasn’t. She watched as he casually took the cigarette in hand again and exhaled, hanging his arm over the window. She noticed his fingernails had chipped black polish on them.

“You do know that every cigarette takes like seven minutes off your life, right?” she said aloud.

“That so? And where’d we learn this bit o’ trivia?”

“I don’t know, I think it was on TV. But it must be true. How many a day do you smoke anyway?”

“Enough to have been dead a long time ago.”

“Uh-huh. Are you always Mr. Vague Guy?”

“Are you always this nosy?”

“Fine. We can drive in silence. I can do silence. Can you do silence?”

Spike didn’t say anything.

“Fine,” she huffed again.