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65 Evenings
 
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Chapter 65 - Evenings

The next night at sunset, Buffy was knocking on Spike’s door.

When he opened it, he frowned at her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Thanks so much,” she said, pushing past.

Spike closed the door after her. “I meant that you should be resting.”

“I can rest over here. But I’ve had enough of resting.” She flopped on the couch and crossed her legs. “I didn’t go to class today and I’ve watched all the TV I can handle. I feel fine now—Slayer healing. Mom came home early and just hovered. I had to get away. She only let me out of the house because I promised her you’d obey my every command and wait on me hand and foot.”

“That so?” he asked, standing over her.

Buffy uncrossed her legs, swinging them up in the air like she was going to use her momentum to bounce up. “Well, if I was wrong, I can always leave—”

He caught her feet, holding them for a moment before he sank down on the couch and pulled her legs into his lap.

“—or not.”

Spike lightly ran his fingers over her covered shin, then traced over the bones of her ankle. “Wait on you hand and foot, is it?”

“Yeah. Except I’m fine. Really.”

“So what do you fancy, pet?”

“You could take me out.”

“No.”

“Not fair.” Buffy pouted.

“Whatever you want to do here.”

“So if I leave on my own, are you gonna stop me?”

He grinned, squeezing her leg. “Could be fun.”

“If you didn’t want me to leave the house, you’re not going to fight me.”

“I could stalk you.”

“Then how is that different from going out together?” She sighed. “I don’t really wanna go out. I don’t know what I want to do. I just wanted to see you.”

For a moment, Spike was silent. He continued to rub over her leg, fingers fully against her skin now as his hand slipped under the hem of her pants.

He was always touching her lately. A hand here, a gesture there—always finding some way to be in contact with her. Spike seemed more affected by her near death experience than she was. He was sort of her treating her like she was made of glass, like he was afraid she was going to disappear right in front of his eyes.

“What would you be doin’ if you were home and weren’t restin’ or watchin’ telly?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Painting my nails, maybe, or trying the new makeup I bought. Washing my hair. You know, girl stuff.”

“We could do that.”

Buffy tittered.

Spike raised an eyebrow.

“Oh. You’re serious,” she realized. “You do remember you’re a vampire, right? And a guy?”

“Not girl stuff, necessary stuff.” Spike raised a hand to his head. “This look natural to you? My roots should be startin’ to show by now. Don’t want to use makeup again, but I could do with a new coat of polish.” He looked at his fingers.

“Yeah, and—wait, what do you mean ‘again’? You used makeup?”

“Used to do Dru’s for her, after we split from Darla.” He gave a rueful smile. “She tried herself, but just ended up lookin’ ridiculous. Used to take care of her—hair, makeup, whatever she needed.”

Buffy considered for a moment what it meant to have no reflection. Not being able to do everyday things, always relying on someone else to do what she took for granted. Plus, you would never know if you had something on your face. “I guess the whole no reflection thing really takes the fun out of being a girl.”

“Knew this one vamp a while back—took a Polaroid of herself every bloody day. High maintenance, that one was.”

Buffy frowned. “Spike, how do you shave?”

“Electric razors are a bloody great invention.”

“Didn’t Dru used to help you?”

“Dru could never seem to remember that the point of her doin’ it was not to draw blood. And wouldn’t trust Angelus not to cut my head off. Learned pretty fast to do it on my own.”

“How do you do your hair?”

“Carefully,” he said. “Easier with help, though.”

Buffy considered. Stay in Friday night and help Spike bleach his hair? “Why not?”

A minute later, they were in the bathroom. Spike was behind her, and Buffy stood in front of the sink, skimming the directions for the bleach. There was already an old plastic bowl in the drawer that he’d obviously used before. Buffy started to mix the solution up.

“Okay, you have an old shirt or somethi—or, that works, too.”

Spike had taken his shirt off.

“Er, are you going to use a towel, or are we trusting that I won’t drip any?”

He grabbed a towel—the only towel—and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Spike sat on the edge of the tub, and Buffy put on the flimsy gloves and applied the bleach. After she was done, she put the plastic cap on his head.

“Do you have a clock yet?” she asked.

“My phone. But should be one on the microwave.” He shrugged, standing and rifling through a drawer before coming up with a bottle of black nail polish.

Buffy followed him out of the bathroom. There was a clock on the microwave, but it wasn’t set, so she hit the timer instead. She looked back in the living room, and was suddenly struck with a feeling of complete silliness.

Spike was slouched on the couch, shirtless, painting the nails on his left hand while his head was wrapped in what looked like a Ziploc bag.

She snickered.

When he looked in her direction and arched a brow, she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Buffy burst out laughing. “I don’t know, I’m sorry,” she giggled. “This is all just so bizarre.” A snort. “I mean, I’ve seen people dye their hair before, obviously—but, I don’t know.”

Finally, she took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m over it.” She walked over and sat down next to him on the couch. “Really. I am. Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never had a laughing fit for no reason.”

“Can’t say as I have. Sober, anyway.”

“It’s just that I never thought about you doing this sort of stuff before. Though, obviously you must. Because definitely not natural.”

Buffy reached for her purse. She pulled out the nail polish that was in her purse, a shimmery sort of pearl color, and started her own nails.

There was something almost bizarre about the whole thing, but it was also comfortable. Obviously Spike dyed his hair and painted his nails—but she couldn’t imagine him being this casual about it with anyone else, much less doing it in front of them. At least he hadn’t seemed upset when she’d laughed. It wasn’t him, really, it was the situation. Somehow, helping a vampire dye his hair had become a part of her life.

Spike’s hands were dry by the time his hair was done, and although she quickly checked the roots, he seemed to have the timing down on exactly how long it needed to sit.

A few minutes later, he came back from rinsing, his hair damp and curling. And his shirt back on. Not that she was looking.

Spike went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Then he looked back at her.

“You hungry? I could, uh…” He glanced vaguely around the kitchen.

Buffy realized that Spike had probably never cooked a meal in his entire existence. The human food he ate was either pre-packaged or takeout.

“I can totally heat up my own soup,” she said, walking over.

Buffy got out the bowl and the soup. However, only as she was reaching for the silverware drawer (or the drawer where she’d put the cheap silverware she’d bought) did she realize that Spike didn’t have a can opener. She quickly glanced around, hoping to see an electric one attached to a cabinet. Nope.

Spike noticed her standing there with the bowl and the can. “We could probably get it open with a knife,” he offered.

“And get shards of metal in my dinner? No thanks.” She put the can back in the cabinet and grabbed a box of macaroni. “Next time we go shopping we need a can opener.”

“Whatever you say.”

He had pulled a bag of blood from the fridge and stuck it in the microwave. When the timer dinged, he took the bag out and slipped into game face, quickly draining it.

Buffy watched without comment as he sucked the bag dry.

For some reason, she suddenly thought of those juice bags she used to drink when she was a kid, the kind you had to spear the straw into.

She fixed her noodles in the microwave next and then sat down at the table where Spike was drinking a beer. The table wasn’t that big, and part of it was taken up by the TV, but there was still room to eat. She stirred the bowl and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Do you feel bad about the people you’ve killed?” Buffy blurted.

Spike regarded her for a moment.

She could tell he knew the answer she wanted, but she also knew that she wasn’t going to get it. And she didn’t want a lie, really. But she needed to hear him say it.

“No.”

“Do vampires have souls?”

He looked at her crossways. She took another bite of macaroni.

“Why, pet?”

“Wesley and Giles said that when you’re turned into a vampire, you lose your soul. Or, whatever it is exactly that we call the soul.”

“Does it matter? To you?”

With us? he meant.

Buffy considered, twisting her spoon around. “I guess not. But I want to know.”

“Yeah, you lose it. But it’s not like you wake up and just know. Not like you get a pamphlet on the metaphysical when you’re turned. You just sorta figure it out.”

“Giles said Angelus was cursed with his soul. That it drove him insane.”

“He got cursed with something, that’s for sure. Dunno. Didn’t pay much attention to him then. He was crazier than Dru.” He shrugged, taking a drink. “Darla said she could see it in him.”

“So, are you…you, after you’re turned?”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Vampires are demons, right?”

“Yeah…”

She frowned. “So does that mean that you change into a demon when you’re turned? Or like the demon becomes you?”

“It’s not a sodding body swap. You lose something. You get something else.” He paused for a long moment. “It’s like you’re you, but you don’t care anymore. Don’t really know how to explain it.”

“So, you’re sort of who you were before?”

“S’pose.” Spike tilted his head at her. “You didn’t know me before. What’s it matter?”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “So what about the whole killing family, friends, and acquaintances thing?”

“Some do, some don’t. Every turning’s different. Sometimes vamps don’t care either way. But even if they don’t go and hunt you down, they probably won’t let you go if you run into them.” He paused. “But if you got any sort of grudge, and most everyone’s got at least one—well, ‘I could kill him’ starts to have a whole new meaning. Nothin’ holdin’ you back.”

“So did you?” she asked.

“Did I what?”

“Did you kill your family?”

“Didn’t have much family. Only me and my mum by then.”

Buffy was silent for a moment. “That didn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“Did you kill her?”

Spike looked pained. He focused on the rim of the bottle. “Why?”

“I just…need to know.”

He sighed. “Kinda. Not so much. But yeah.”

“Can you vague that up some more?”

“I didn’t want to kill her or hurt her. I wanted to help her. She was dying, had been wastin’ away for months. Thought I could save her, take her with me and Dru. But she…it wasn’t her. She was so… So yeah, everyone wakes up different.”

“What—”

“I staked her.”

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said.

“It was a long time ago, yeah? History. Done.” He took a drink. “Now, acquaintances—yeah, I killed some acquaintances.” He said it almost like he was reminiscing, a vague smirk on his face.

“Friends?”

“Friends, I didn’t.”

“Because you liked them?” Buffy offered.

“Because I didn’t have any,” he said shortly. “Can we change the subject here, love?”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

It was silent for a moment. Buffy ate the last bit of her noodles, which had gone slightly cold.

Spike finished the bottle of beer, and set it rather loudly back on the table.

“So since we’ve gone all through my past, how ’bout you tell me yours?”

“Huh?”

He grinned. “C’mon, you had to have done somethin’ bad, at least once.”

“Not really.”

“Nothin’ at all?” He looked skeptical. And somewhat disappointed.

“I missed curfew.”

“Who hasn’t?”

Buffy considered. “I stole some lipstick once.”

“Such a rebel.”

“I made a boy cry in front of the whole cafeteria,” she continued. “I’d already told him no, but he wouldn’t stop asking me out. So I completely humiliated him.”

“Heartbreaker.”

“I drove without a license.”

“I don’t have a license.”

“When we were sixteen, Cordelia and I broke into someone’s house.”

“You did not,” he scoffed.

“We so did! Okay, so it was her boyfriend’s house and they were out of town. We climbed over the fence and went swimming in their pool.” She shrugged. “It was a dare.”

“Not so daring.”

“Once I almost got my arm stuck in a vending machine.”

“That’s just dumb.” He snorted. “How the hell did you do that?”

“I was at this hotel and the candy machine ate my money. It was late, so I got down on the floor and stuck my arm up the chute. And then I heard someone in the hall and I panicked and tried to pull my arm out too fast and it got caught. But I got it loose again,” she added.

“Obviously.”

“I couldn’t reach any higher than the first row, anyway. So I didn’t get what I wanted.”

He was silent for a moment. “So is that it?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Just stupid kid stuff. Boring Buffy.”

“Didn’t really expect you to have a record. Good to know you had some fun, though.”

Buffy shrugged, getting up to wash out her bowl.

Spike followed her into the living room. She started to sit down, but he stopped her, sitting down himself and guiding her to sit on the floor in front of him, her back to the couch.

“What…?”

“Time to do your hair, pet.” He took her brush from her purse, and started running it through her hair.

“It’s not like there’s anything to do—”

“Just relax,” he said in her ear.

Relaxing was not hard to do. Spike gently brushed her hair, and soon she was lost in the soothing feeling. He didn’t stop once the tangles were out, but only continued to slowly pull the brush through her hair—from the crown of her head down to the ends of her tresses, underneath and upward from the back of neck, over the sides as his fingers smoothed the wisps by her ear.

Buffy leaned back into the couch and draped her arms over Spike’s legs, which were planted on either side of her.

“What would you think about me getting highlights?” she asked, eyes still closed.

“If you like.” The brush swept over her again.

“But you really like my hair. Would you like it like that?”

“It’s your head, love.”

“I wasn’t asking for permission. I was just asking if you’d like it or not. Would I look good a little lighter? Or worse? People that don’t give you a real opinion when you look awful are not doing you any favors.”

“That so?”

“According to Cordelia. Which is why I always looked fabulous, by the way. She’d tell me straight out if I looked like crap.”

His hand paused in mid-stroke. “I think you’d look beautiful whatever you do to it,” he said quietly.

Buffy tilted her head around to glance up at him. The way he was suddenly looking at her— “Spike?”

There were so many things reflected in his eyes.

“Buffy, I—”

He froze.

Then he kissed her.

Bending down and twisting his head around, he drew her mouth to his in a sideways kiss, his hand cupping her cheek. It was soft and sweet, but barely disguising a desperate need. He hadn’t kissed her—like that—since they’d slept together.

Just as suddenly as it started, it was over.

He leaned back against the cushions, the discarded brush falling beside him. Buffy crawled up next to him after a moment, sitting across his lap and resting against the arm of the couch.

Spike looked at her for a minute before he wrapped both arms around her and buried his face in her neck. “I need you so much.”

Buffy found her hands reaching up to his shoulders. “I need you, too. I…I’m here.”

“You almost—weren’t.”

He really was taking what had happened with Angelus harder than she was. Of course, she hadn’t been able to see what she’d been about to lose. She wondered what she’d looked like when Angelus had had her, what Spike had thought as he’d carried her unconscious form to Giles’s.

She knew what he’d thought when he’d first seen her. “That you were going to die in front of me.”

“It’s okay. It really is okay.”

“It will be.”

He took a deep breath, pulling back and looking at her. He ran his hand over her hair. “I do like it long.”

A small laugh escaped her lips at his abrupt return to their previous conversation.

“There’s more of it to touch. It falls and bounces. Sometimes it just seems to float.”

“I like it long, too. Maybe a slight adjustment, though.”

Spike grinned. “I’ve got another box of bleach.”

“Don’t think I want to glow in the dark just yet.”

“Thanks ever so.”

“It’s a look. But not my look. Hey, when’s the last time you saw how you look?”

“Dunno.”

Buffy dug in her purse, pulling out her phone. “It’s got a camera on it.”

“Those are available?”

“Dad knew a guy in Japan.” She leaned in, pressing her cheek to his as she held her arm out in front of them. “Smile.”

She hit the button, and then flipped the phone around to look at it. “Not bad.” Buffy handed it to Spike.

He looked at the picture for what seemed like a very long time.

“I know you’re pretty and all,” she said, “but has it been that long?”

“Wasn’t lookin’ at me,” he finally said. “Was lookin’ at us.”

Spike still had his arm around her, but his attention was focused on the small digital image. Buffy settled in at his side, watching him as he stared at the phone and what he could only see in a picture.

Them together.
 
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