Whispers in a Dead Man's Ear, Part 8

“Of all the gin joints in all the world…”

It was almost funny to see just how quickly Spike’s head whipped towards her voice, to watch his eyes widen in recognition and disbelief.  That same disbelief, however, took the edge off of her happiness, prodded her a bit in spots still tender more than a year after she’d last seen his face.  It told her that there had been truth behind what he’d said to her in the Hellmouth, that they’d lost time because she hadn’t had enough to convince him that what she felt was real.  Then again, it had been watching the last sands slip through the hourglass that had finally made her certain, that had thrown her headlong into the realization.

She had loved him just in time to watch him die.

Only it hadn’t taken, that death, like so many of her other losses; she had returned, after all, and Angel, and now Spike.  Hadn’t they all proven that death wasn’t necessarily anything more than another Big Bad, another villain to be defeated by learning its rules, by finding its weaknesses, or by sheer blind luck?  It should have seemed inevitable, the two of them facing each other, battle-scarred survivors forming an odd tableau amidst the brightly-tiled café tables, brilliant white coffee cups, and dark blue sea.

It felt anything but.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, this cross-continental chase.  A spur-of-the-moment seizing of the day that had left Dawn in a disapproving Giles’ care and Buffy living out of a suitcase as she chased down a phantom.  But now she was standing here, and he was still sitting over there, just staring at her.  He wasn’t moving, and she felt rooted to the spot, and so it seemed that they’d be this way for a while.

She tugged on her skirt, smoothing a ruffle made errant by being crushed into a carry-on bag, then flipped over her shoulder the blonde hair that now nearly brushed her waist.  She’d had the thought, somewhere over the Atlantic as she returned from a fruitless California side trip, that he would comment on it, but now he was silent, his mouth working ineffectually.  There was a flicker of acknowledgement in his eyes as she completed the gesture, however, an instant of appreciation that sent a little thrill through her.  She forced herself to quell her own anxiety and to ignore his, focusing on the warmth and not the dawning wariness in his eyes.

The soundlessness got to her and she began fidgeting anxiously, rocking her foot from side to side on one tall, pointed heel as she brought a hand to her throat, playing with the thin chain of her necklace, twisting it anxiously by the pendant.  “I think you’re supposed to say something, Spike,” she teased, voice quavering a little.  “At least, that’s the way it seems to go when I play this out in my head.”

Her concluding nervous giggle earned her the first sounds she’d heard from him, a husky chuckle rumbling from his throat; it was accompanied by the smile she remembered so well, that strange combination of knowing and shy that she’d been so certain she’d never see again.  She laughed along with him, inching closer, watching as his grin faded into a softer twist of his lips, the creases remaining in the corners of his eyes and reflecting the happiness she could sense within his shock.

“Gotta say, love,” he answered, clearing his throat when the words resisted his efforts to speak, “you never struck me as the classic movie type.  Least, not if your concept of ‘classic’ is anything pre-Molly Ringwald.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” Buffy answered, both unsettled and transfixed by the reality of him.  She’d thought that somehow it would be like picking up where they left off, that their reunion would mean nothing more than tucking herself under the comforting weight of his arm, but she hadn’t taken into account just how staggering his presence could be.  She’d gotten so used to him, so accustomed; a year without him, and she’d forgotten more than she had realized, more than she would have liked, and the thought put her on edge.   

Shaking herself free from whatever invisible bonds held her frozen, she took another cautious step forward, then another, and was suddenly close enough to brush her hand along his shoulders.  “I’m a lot of types.  In fact, I’m very well-rounded.  You could even say I’m a constant surprise.”

For the first time since he’d seen her, he moved, his hand raising from the cup in front of him, and Buffy noticed a slight tremor to it before his fingers ghosted across her hip to tangle in her hair.  “You’re not wrong there,” he murmured, voice hoarse.  “Think it’d be safe to say you’ve never shocked me more than right now,” he added, urging her towards him with a tentative press of his hand against her tailbone.

“Never?” she whispered, letting herself be drawn forward, enjoying the fact that at least one moment of her months-long fantasy was coming to pass as she’d envisioned.

“Don’t think so, no.  Not like this.  Look at you,” he answered, his eyes drifting closed as she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his.

“Looking generally requires open eyes, Spike.”  Buffy hesitantly brought one hand up to cup his cheek, ghosting across the rise of his cheekbone with her thumb.

“I’ll open them in a minute,” he muttered, sounding so much like a stubborn schoolboy that it made her laugh.  “It’s just… ‘ve had too many dreams like this to not want to take advantage, soak up every little detail.” 

There was a desperation in the way his arms tensed around her, and it encouraged her to give over to her own needs as well.  Taking her cue from him, she ignored the waitresses and their bemused stares, the smattering of customers at the miniscule tables who were watching the reunion with rapt attention; tuning it all out, she closed her eyes and took him in, let herself savor him.  The experience, the unrepentant basking in his presence felt altogether new and unfamiliar, a fact that stunned her, seemed wrong and disconcerting; seeking to overcome her sudden unease, she took another miniscule step into his grasp, lifting her face and brushing a kiss against his forehead.

The gesture broke the spell.  Spike tensed, pulling back quickly, and though he tried to mask the movement with a quick smile, Buffy wasn’t fooled.  She knew those eyes too well to not realize that they weren’t mirroring his lips.  She saw the hesitance and guardedness in him and stepped back, suddenly uncomfortable again, looking away from him to gaze around the small room.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.  “Or there’s coffee…  ‘m not sure.  How long have you been here?”

“I’m good.  Food-wise, I mean.  Wouldn’t say no to a drink, though, if you know a place,” she answered.  “I’ve only been here a couple of days.  It took me a little while to find you; you’ve gotten better at hiding.”

Spike arched a brow.  “Wasn’t really hiding.  No need when nobody’s lookin’.”  He cleared his throat again, shifting forward on his chair.  “So how’d you do it?  Spells or whatnot?”

“Not so much.  I did it the old-fashioned way—legwork, asking of questions, and following the breadcrumbs.  You kinda left them all over the place.”  She gave a self-deprecating little laugh.  “Kind of funny, me being the one grateful for your crumbs, huh?”

That earned a full-fledged grin.  “’s just lucky for you I was always was a messy eater,” he retorted, and she blushed her way through an appreciative smile.

“Oink, Spike.”

“And there’s the Buffy I know and…”  He trailed off, then stood and took her elbow.  “Come on.  Sun’s low enough now we can find our way to gettin’ you that drink.”

She let herself be led, something that was much the easier for the torpor that had seized her body the moment he’d avoided the word ‘love.’  She could hear him speaking, making random small talk about the weather, the bread from a certain bakery as they passed, the wine selection in a small shop along their path.  More than a year without his voice, and now he was here, talking.  And all she could hear was the ceaseless repetition of the one word he hadn’t said.

They came to a stop, and Buffy stood, lost in thought, until the feel of his hand against her shoulder brought her back to herself.  She shook her head and gave Spike a small smile as she passed through the door he was holding open, pausing inside and blinking as her eyes got used to the dim.

“You would manage to find the one place with no windows,” she said dryly, squinting as the door closed behind them.

“Well, yeah.  It’s a matter of self-protection,” he answered, shrugging out of his much shorter than customary leather jacket.  “I tend to be good at that.”

She didn’t have a chance to respond.  Spike was already gone from her side, standing against a mahogany counter nearly as dark as the bar’s gaslit interior.  She strode closer, in time to hear him murmur a few words of what she guessed was greeting to the bartender.

She perched on the edge of a stool, looking at him curiously.  “I didn’t know you spoke French.”

“Enough to pass,” he answered nonchalantly, only to prove himself a liar when the bartender returned and Spike rattled off what she assumed was their order with an ease, speed, and fluency that left her gaping.

“And that’s passing?” she asked skeptically, watching him lean back against the bar, his lips quirking upwards.

“It is if you’re making your way across Europe for better than a century.  Knowin’ the language is just another way of blending into the crowd.  Handy skill for a vampire.”  He gave her a grin.  “Besides, it’s getting you a drink, isn’t it?”

“I guess.  And what is it I’m drinking?”

“Let it be a surprise.”

“It’s not shots, is it?  I think we both know I don’t do so well with shots.”

Spike laughed quietly.  “No shots, I promise; remember all too well havin’ to clean up your sick a time or two.  Just give over a little; I know you well enough to take care of you a bit, don’t I?”

“All right.  I trust you.”

The light behind the guardedness in his eyes burned just the tiniest shade brighter, but it was enough to catch her attention, warm a little of the cold that had seized her the moment things in the café had gone from romantic to strained. 

“I have to say, I never really imagined finding you here,” she confessed, propping her arm against the bar.

“Yeah, well…”  He shifted uneasily.  “Had to go somewhere.  An’ lovely as California is, not much point in stayin’ about a place for the enjoyment of a sun you’ll never get to really savor.”

Buffy’s brows raised as she looked at him dubiously.  “Spike, this is the south of France.  There’s pretty much nothing but sun here.”

“True enough.  But there’s going to be a sun everywhere, and this one doesn’t beam the memories the one in California does.  Never been here before a couple of months ago; slate here’s as clean a one as I’ll ever have.”  A pause, and he continued in a barely-audible voice, “at least, it was.”

Buffy leaned back, mind racing and stomach clenching as the bartender left her wine and his beer.  As soon as the interloper was gone, she leaned towards him, her hand crossing the distance and brushing against his where it rested on his knee.  Keeping her voice as low and even as she could manage, she forced herself to give voice to the crushing thoughts that were now taking root in her brain, fears and suspicions that she had never before allowed herself to entertain.  “Do you… do you want me to go, Spike?  I will, if that’s what you want.  I just thought…”  He was looking anywhere but in her direction, and she tightened her hand around his in an effort to anchor him, to make him see her.  “I’m not here to… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s not…  Buffy, can we just—“  He sighed.  “Let’s just get a table, and then we’ll sort out the rest.”

“I’d rather…” she began, trailing off when she saw the slight narrowing of his eyes that indicated that his decision had been made and challenges weren’t welcome.  For once, she heeded the unspoken request. “All right.  It’s a deal.”

Spike followed her as she picked her way between the tables, settling on one in a far corner, well away from uninvolved eyes or ears.  They took their seats, Spike leaning back in his, Buffy sitting ramrod straight, held that way by her discomfiture.  She toyed with the stem of her wine glass, watching as he took a long, silent pull on his beer; the uncertain silence that hung between them seemed determined to outlast her patience, and so she gave in and started talking.

“So, what happened in L.A.?  We still haven’t really been able to piece it all together.”

Spike shrugged.  “Big fight; world tryin’ to end.  We didn’t let it.”

She waited for him to continue, then forged ahead when it was clear he wasn’t planning to say anything more.  “So you won?  Well, obviously, you won, but…”

He took another long drink of his beer, then picked at the edge of the label, peeling it off in strips.  “S’pose we did.  As much as you can ever win such a thing, yeah.”

Another too-long pause, and she sighed with exasperation.  “Did you take lessons from Angel on how to respond to attempts at conversation?  Because at least he voluntarily gives some info every now and then.”

That at least got a laugh.  “It’s not that, Buffy.  I just don’t know what you want to hear, an’ a lot of it I’m not so sure I want to talk about yet.  Can’t say that that’ll ever change.  Those last days were… well, it was us against everything and everyone, really, an’ it feels a bit like talking out of school to share with someone who wasn’t a part of it.”

“Oh.”  She fidgeted a little, took another sip of wine, and then ventured, “Can I at least ask about Angel?”

“Gone to Brazil, last I heard; chasin’ after his wolf girl.  Then again, he’s not exactly the best at keepin’ in touch, and he doesn’t really let a bloke know much about where he is an’ what he’s doing,”  Another strip of label hit the tabletop.  “Wanker.” 

The last word was spoken with an almost brotherly affection, and Buffy found herself smiling for a moment before her brain processed the conversation and her brow furrowed in confusion.  “Wolf girl?” she asked.

“Nina.  Cute little blonde thing; she’s a wolf, like Red’s mutt.  Was Angel’s girl up until he sent her out of the country to get her out of range of the apocalypse.”  He chuckled as he and Buffy gave synchronized snorts of amusement at the idea.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.  Tried to tell him that apocalypses tend to branch out an’ take in the rest of the world, but nothing would do him but to get her out of L.A., so now he’s got to win her all over again.”

Buffy sat back, processing the news.  “Angel’s dating.  And a werewolf, even.  That’s… new.”

Spike straightened in his seat.  “Yeah, well, can’t imagine that much you’d hear havin’ to do with this last year wouldn’t be new to you.  Didn’t exactly stay in the loop, pet.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes.  The words hit with the force of a slap, and she wanted to lash out; fighting the urge, she bit her tongue, determined that she wouldn’t give him the argument he seemed to want.  Not today, not yet.  Not so soon after getting him back.  “That’s true.  But there were reasons,” she added, keeping her tone carefully neutral, all-too-aware of the tick in his jaw, the flash of anger in his eye.  Seizing upon a change of subject as the next best plan, she gave his jacket an appreciative look.  “That’s nice.  The shorter jackets suit you.  I kept meaning to tell you—”

“What is this, Buffy?” he interrupted, eyes locked on hers and ruthless with their demand for answers.

And she was suddenly back to the fidgeting, the wine in her glass suffering for her nerves as it spilled over the rim while she twirled the stem between her fingers.  She bristled at the challenge in his tone, and a corresponding sharpness worked its way into her own.  “Small talk.  It’s what people do when they meet up after being away from each other.”

“And you don’t see anything odd about this?” Spike asked, brow raised as he regarded her incredulously.  “Last time you saw me, my skeleton was burnin’ its way out right in front of you, an’ now a year and one hell of an apocalypse later you want to look me up and discuss my fashion preferences and your ex?”

Buffy flushed, the frustration created by the strange tension welling up, demanding some sort of release.  “Well, one of us had to say something, Spike.  What else was I supposed to do?  You stopped talking as soon as we got here.”

“Because I don’t know what to say,” he answered, the words suspiciously strangled, his eyes slightly more luminous than they’d been a moment before.  “I don’t know what you’re doin’ here, what you’re expecting out of me.  Hell, you haven’t even told me yet how you know I’m back in the world, though I’m guessing that’s down to the boy.  All I know is, I turn around and there you are.”

Buffy shook her head disbelievingly, one hand coming up to rub at her temple as she stared at him.  “So what, you wish I hadn’t come?  Is that it?  Because I told you, I’ll go if you’d rather...”

This time it was Spike who shook his head.  “That’s not it, Buffy.  Seeing you there was a damned dream come true.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” she asked, hating the anguish in her tone as she reached for his hand, trying to hold to the threads that were unraveling with every word.  “You think seeing you wasn’t a dream for me?  You think I haven’t seen it a million times, every time I close my eyes?”

“The problem with dreams is that you wake up, Buffy,” he answered sadly, but he turned his hand within hers, allowing the contact to intensify.

She took advantage of his move, gripping his fingers.  “But you’re really here.  I’m really here, Spike.”

“And for how long?” he asked heatedly, pressing his lips closed and leaning back, pulling his hand from hers as a waitress dropped off another round of drinks.

The second the woman was out of earshot, Buffy went back on the offensive.  “Why are you… what has gotten into you?  This isn’t supposed to be this way.”

Spike snorted disdainfully.  “Yeah, well, the world has a funny habit of makin’ its own way when you don’t let on that you care which direction it takes.  People can do the same.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she challenged angrily.

“What does it mean?  It means that you never tried, Buffy; not once.  How long have you known about me?” he asked, leaning towards her.  “Even if Andrew didn’t tell, you knew well enough after L.A., what with the reports you lot were bound to have gotten.  But that was months ago, an’ not the first sign of you, and I had long since stopped looking for you to show.  And now you’re here and what?  What’s it for? Here to tell me you’re glad I’m not dead or that you’ve missed me and got an itch to scratch?  I’m not going to be a remembrance fuck, Buffy; we went too far to slide back into that.” 

There was something pleading beneath the anger he was expressing, something that broke her heart and built her resolve even as she felt her temper rising.  “God, Spike,” she hissed angrily, hands wrapped tightly around the edge of the table.  “What in the—Where are you getting this?”

“You following my trail ‘round Europe, for one.  No magic, no anything to help you along, just you channelin’ your inner Nancy Drew, and I’m willing to bet there’s no Watcher’s Council-linked credit card payin’ any of your expenses while you’re here.  All that tells me that more than likely your circle of friends don’t know what you’re doing, if they even know where you are, an’ all that spells dirty little secret.”  He sounded smug and resigned in equal measures, as though he was so certain that he’d figured her out, that nothing would ever change—even as he fervently wanted the change to have happened.  He was lost, scared—she could see it, hear it.

“So Wolfram & Hart handed out psychic powers to their valued employees?” she challenged.  “I found out about you when I found out that L.A. had become a river of fire and demon gore—that kind of thing tends to make even the international news, just so you know. And while I’m feeling generous with the debunking of all the crap you seem to believe, let me just fill you in on the details of my Europe and everywhere else excursion:  I live here now.  I want to travel, I tell the Council I’m going for whatever reason, and I go.  I try to make it legit, but occasionally they pay for me to lay on a beach because, frankly, I died twice for them and the least they can give me is a tan.”  Spike opened his mouth to interrupt, but she silenced him with a glance before continuing. 

“My circle of friends is spread all over the world now, and that’s why I didn’t have access to a spell to find you—Willow’s in Uzbekisomething for some reason no one ever told me, and I didn’t want to go there because I figured that wasn’t the most likely place to start looking for you.  Me doing the Nancy Drew thing seemed like an easier option.  And as a matter of fact, the Watcher’s Council card in my wallet isn’t being used for any of these expenses because it’s none of their damned business that I spent my official vacation tracking down my vampire.”

Spike gave a reflexive grin upon hearing her last words, then schooled his face back into a scowl.  “And what was the plan once you found me?”

Buffy groaned, frustrated.  “I didn’t think that far ahead, all right?  I’ve been looking for months, and I found out you were here and jumped straight to the getting to you.  But at least I tried, Spike.”  She looked at him, eyes suddenly more sad than angry.  “You knew I was alive; there was no doubt about that.  And you even knew where I was.  So why didn’t you try?”

“You really think I didn’t?” he asked incredulously.  “Couldn’t leave the city when I first made it back, an’ then couldn’t bear the thought of facing you and having the rug pulled out from under me after.  Not the bravest thing, but there you go.”  He leaned back, taking his beer bottle with him, avoiding her eyes by staring into its depths.  “And then after a while… I was a part of something, Buffy, that was all me.  Was Angel’s team, yeah, but I was stayin’ on and doin’ the right thing because I wanted it so, an’ nobody was tellin’ me I was doin’ it to get into a girl’s knickers.”

Her lips tightened into a thin, angry line.  “I saw what you did in the Hellmouth, Spike.  I felt that fire coming too, and I never thought that you did it just for me, and especially not for that.  How can you not know that I wouldn’t say that to you?”

“Didn’t really matter what you would or wouldn’t’ve said, Buffy.  By the time I might’ve been able to bear hearin’ you say whatever it was, it was done.  The only time I got myself within talking distance of you, you were wrapped around the Immortal, and your ear was the least of the parts that were otherwise occupied,” he added snidely.

Buffy reared back as if she’d been slapped, softer feelings fading in the face of her ire.  “Don’t you dare, Spike—don’t you dare throw that up to me,” she snapped, voice rising as she blinked back furious tears.  “I thought you were dead.  You’re the one who told me to run and leave you there, and who wanted me to have a life, so where do you get off making me feel guilty for living like you told me to?”

“You think I died so you could take up with that?” he sneered.  “So, what you’re saying is, you screwed him in honor of me.  Well, thanks for that.  Did you at least enjoy my memorial shag?”

“What is your problem?” she bit out through clenched teeth, hands so tight on the table’s edge that she was certain she heard a cracking sound.  By the widening of Spike’s eyes, she could tell that the noise hadn’t been her imagination and released her grip, flexing her aching fingers to get the blood flow back.

His jaw tightened, the bottle slamming down onto the table as he leaned towards her.  “You didn’t even let the bed get cold, Buffy.”

Her palm itched to slap him, but she shredded a napkin in her hand instead as she stared at him, mouth working soundlessly for a few moments.  Her words, when they finally came, were spoken much more softly than she thought possible, were fraught with tension and hurt.  “Do you think—honestly think—that any part of me could be really warmed by anything but you?  After everything?  God, you don’t know me at all.”  She threw the napkin pieces down and stood, shoving her chair back with the backs of her knees.  “This was clearly a mistake, and now I’m going to—”

“Wait.”  His hand shot out, banded around her wrist and tethered her to him. 

Buffy said nothing, just glared down at him through blazing, wounded eyes before staring pointedly at the hand he’d put on her arm to stay her. 

“Please,” he added, the word fragmented by emotion as he released his grip.

She sat back down, arms crossed indignantly as she waited for him to make the first move.

“Do you mean that?”  The hope in his tone, in the look he fixed upon her was almost a living thing, warring with a disbelief that was nearly as vivid.

“What?  That the Immortal was a fling, or that coming here was a mistake?”   She staunchly ignored the way her voice broke on the last word.

“The Immortal.”

Buffy sighed and settled back into her chair, allowing her shoulders to slump under the weight of her shattered expectations, her anguish.  “Yes, it was a fling.  I slept with someone else, Spike.  It’s called a rebound, and even Slayer reflexes don’t make you invulnerable.”

“That’s all it was?”  He was still guarded, but the walls were either slipping or becoming transparent; she could see straight through him now, into his heart, into the hurt and the fear.

“It couldn’t have been more than that.  Not after…” she trailed off, the angry lines of her face fading as she looked at him.  “Not after you,” she finished softly.

Spike nodded shortly, meeting her eyes and then looking down, beginning an assault on the label of the as-yet unmolested beer bottle.  A few more moments of silence, and then he began hesitantly, “I had one, too.  Rebound, I mean; s’pose you ought to know.”

“Really?” she asked, brow raised.  “Would I know her?”

He fidgeted uncomfortably under her inquisitive stare.  “You could say.”

“Who was it?”  She drew the question out, pausing between each word.

“Harmony.”  Spike winced even as he said the word.

“Oh, God,” Buffy groaned, elbows coming to rest on the table, her head tilting forward and coming to rest in her hands.  Within seconds, her shoulders had begun to twitch almost spasmodically, and Spike stood and moved towards her, crouching by her chair.

“I’ve got no right askin’ you to forgive me after what I just said to you, I know.  I just… It was a mistake, Buffy… bigger than you’d even believe.  An’ we didn’t finish.  Not that that should matter…”  His words trailed off when Buffy’s head lifted from her hands and he could see her tearstained face and, incongruously, her wide smile. 

Buffy continued to laugh, her breaths coming in hiccups as she tried to calm herself.  When she had enough breath to continue, she reached forward, running her thumb along his cheekbone.  “God, Spike, don’t you… Don’t you see how completely cracked all of this is?  Both of us have come back from the dead how many times now?  We have the worst possible luck when it comes to falling in love and having somebody stick around.  And then all of a sudden, here we both are, and we have a chance at a happy ending, and instead of taking advantage of it, we’re wasting all our time and energy on a discussion of whose rebound hookup was lamer.”

Spike raised a brow, beginning to laugh himself.  “Well, there was more to it than that, at first.  Besides, the lamer hookup would clearly be yours.”

“Really?” she challenged, wry smile curving her lips, her fingers tracing the lines his smile carved into his cheek.

“Well, yeah,” he answered dismissively.  “At least with Harm, there was a history.”

“Spike,” she said warningly, hand sliding back into his hair as she leaned forward.

“Fine.  Equally lame, then?” he sighed, acquiescing. 

“I can deal with that compromise,” Buffy agreed, smiling as he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers.

“So where does all this leave us, Buffy?” he asked as he pulled back, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.  “What’s next?”

Buffy laughed.  “Stumbling along, giving it a try?  Whatever we do, it’s never going to be easy, Spike; you know that as well as I do.  We’ll fight, and we’ll shag, but we’re going to find a way to bring it back together.”  At his pointedly raised brow, she said, “What?  I learned to listen.”

“Yeah, well, took you long enough.”  The grumble was thoroughly playful, accompanied by a smile that took her breath.

“Yeah, well, better late than never,” she replied just as teasingly.  “So,” she ventured, sobering a little, voice anxious, hopeful, “we’re really going to do this?”

Spike let his hand move from her shoulder, tangled it in her hair.  “Oh, Buffy… how could we not?”

She let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding, along with a choked sob, as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, following his lead as he deepened the kiss ever so slightly.  

“Can we go now?” she asked as they separated, grinning as he nodded, stood, and took her hand, tugging her to her feet. 

He threw a few bills on the table to cover their tab, retrieved his jacket, and then they were weaving their way back out into the night, kissing heatedly against the bar’s outside wall the moment they crossed the threshold. 

Buffy ducked under his arm as he pulled back from her, dancing back until she was just out of his grasp, ignoring his pout.  “So… wanna chase me?”

He stalked closer to her, movements pantheric, and she gulped as she took tiny steps back in an attempt to maintain the distance.  “If it’s all the same, I’d much prefer not havin’ to.  Thought those days were behind us.”

Her eyes glinted teasingly, and she gave him a look that was pure vixen as she came to a stop, allowing him to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her against him.  “Wouldn’t be much of one,” she promised.  “After all, I’ve already done a lot of chasing after you…”  She paused as his grin grew cocky with the final absorption of that knowledge.  “And you’ve already caught me,” she added, wiggling a little in his grasp to demonstrate her point.  So really,” she explained, lips a fraction of an inch from his, “I just thought it might be nice to… get the blood pumping.”

“Is that right?”  He tilted his head away from her, giving her a playful leer.  “In that case…”  He let her go, then took off at a lazy jog, turning to laugh as Buffy huffed in annoyance before following after him. “Better catch up, Slayer.”

“I’m in heels!” she objected.

“’s what you get for not wearin’ sensible footwear.  Really, Buffy, how many times must you be told what’s considered proper attire for chasing vampires?”  He slowed his pace even further, laughing as she landed on his back after what must have been an impressive flying leap.

He came to a stop and she slid back to the ground, keeping one arm around him all the while.  “That wasn’t fair,” she complained as she moved to face him, shivering a little in the breeze from the water.  In a matter of seconds, Spike had shaken out his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, earning another soft kiss.  Her hands came up to hold the leather in place, and she stroked it appreciatively.  “This really is nice, you know.  The jacket, I mean.”

“Serves its purpose,” Spike shrugged nonchalantly.

“I guess.”  She put her head against his chest for a moment, enjoying the feel of his body against hers, his arms around her.  “So… where’s the duster?”

“Got destroyed in Italy.”

Buffy bit her lip and burrowed further into the comfort of his embrace.  “That’s… it was the only thing that did, right?” she mumbled against his chest.

“What’s that, now?” he asked, stepping back and tilting her face up towards him with one hand.

“It’s just… when you were in Italy, you saw… the fling thing.  So I guess I’m asking…”

“Yeah?” Spike prodded, brow furrowed.

“Was it the only thing that got destroyed there?  Or did the way you feel… about me… did that get ruined, too?”

“What?  Buffy, what did we just decide in there?  Do you honestly think that I’d sign on to this with you if I didn’t still feel the same way about you?  Bloody hell, kitten… how can you doubt it?”

She gave a little sniffle as he ran a finger playfully down the slope of her nose.  “You haven’t said it since I’ve been here.”

“Said what?”

Her mouth goldfished for a moment before she saw the mischief in his expression and realized that he was playing her.  She narrowed her eyes, then leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear, murmuring softly, “I love you.”  Pulling back, she repeated, “I love you, Spike,” smiling as his eyes shone suspiciously.

“Oh, that.”  He looped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, then vowed, “I love you, Buffy.  I swear to you that I never stopped.”

He kept his arm around her shoulder as they started walking, making their way together towards their hard-won second chance.  It had taken so many years, so very many whispers, but at last they’d found the right words to make it real.

Whispers in a Dead Man's Ear Main

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