Spuffy: What You're Waiting For -- Chapter Four

CHAPTER 4 –

When Buffy opened her eyes the next morning, she was immediately met by expressive blue ones that must have been studying her for quite some time.

“ ‘M sorry about last night,” he rumbled, his early morning accent thicker than usual. He was sitting on the floor with his chin propped up on her bed, looking like a guilty little schoolboy with a riot of curls. The word “adorable” flittered through her sleep-addled brain.

“Me too,” she replied honestly, pulling back the covers and scooting over, inviting him to snuggle. This wasn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed. But it was usually when one of them had drunk too much or was forlorn about some aspect of their lives. They’d lie in bed, commiserating, before drifting off to sleep. He’d tried to cop a feel several times, but that was beside the point. “You’re nice enough to come all the way out here with me and then . . . .” she drifted off as she looked around her childhood bedroom. “Wait, how did I get here?”

“You better cut back on those pancakes your mum makes, luv, you weigh a ton,” he joked.

She shoved his shoulder, “Shut up. You just want to keep me in you debt.”

“And one of these days I’m gonna cash in,” he said rolling out of bed, feet hitting the floor. He stood before her in grey sweatpants and a green t-shirt. He clapped his hands together, “So, itinerary for today? There has to be an Apple Festival or a clog dancing performance to go to or something.”

Buffy smiled at his sarcasm and flung herself out of bed and quickly shifted through a drawer before settling on an outfit and taking it into the bathroom in her bedroom to get changed. She continued their conversation through the closed door.

“More like dress fittings. It’ll be me, Dawn, my mother, and some mysterious girl named Janice who I’ve heard everything about but have yet to meet. All would be very boring to you. You can hang around at the house and I could meet you afterward for lunch, though.”

He nodded, “Sounds good.” Buffy gathered her things and opened the door to reenter her bedroom, only to almost drop them on the floor when she took in his state of undress in the middle of her floor. His pants were just being pulled up over his hips and his chest was bare.

“What are you doing!?” she averted her eyes a little. Not like she hadn’t seen him shirtless or in his boxers before, but every time she did get a glimpse, she didn’t like the summersaults that assaulted her stomach.

“Getting dressed,” he replied, like she was a complete idiot.

“What if my mother walked in here?” she bent over and threw his shirt at his bare chest, which he caught.

“Then she’d get a free show,” he twirled his shirt around his head like an expert, then laughed when she turned three shades of red. “And since when have you been a blusher?”

Buffy gasped, “I am not blushing,” then felt a new wave of heat radiate down her neck. Since when WAS she a blusher? She shook her head violently, “Agh! You’re impossible. Get dressed, find yourself something to eat, DON’T snoop through my things, and I’ll talk to you in a couple of hours.” Instructions complete, she turned and left the room, and the house, and him.







Three hours later found Spike reclined on the Summers’ couch; his bare feet up on the coffee table and eating chips. He was home alone and taking full advantage. He glanced around the living room. He could honestly say he felt at home here. The big house with its worn furniture and years of memory scratched into the hard wood floors. It was such a contrast to his rather sparse, antiseptic living space in his rent controlled New York apartment. Granted, it was rather posh where city apartments were concerned, but it didn’t feel like home – just a place where his bed happened to be.

Unlike Buffy, Spike could see himself living in a small town someday. One where everyone knew their neighbors, births and weddings were town affairs and babysitters were trustworthy and easy to find. In New York, his neighbors were an up and coming rock star who was never home and a few beatniks who had yet to realize that communism was just not happening in this country. But he didn’t have any plans on telling Buffy about his warm and fuzzy feelings. She’d castrate him. Buffy was still pretty bitter about where she came from but Spike couldn’t see how. Seemed like an alright place to him. Don’t get him wrong, Spike loved being a big city boy who knew how to quickly and correctly place an order at Starbucks and was in no particular hurry to slow down. Sunnydale was just a nice change of pace, is all. He ruminated on all of this during commercial breaks of an A-Team marathon. Five episodes in, a knock on the door tore him away from Mad Murdock and company.

The door opened and a burly, Boy Scout type stood on the porch. White teeth and a bouquet of daisies met the look of indifference on Spike’s face. This must be one of the townies Buffy talked about, come around to see the bride-to-me most likely.

“Is Buffy in?” the guy asked, a hopeful little look in his eye as he desperately tried to hide the look of disappointment that came over his face when Buffy didn’t answer the door.

Spike stood a little straighter. Well if this pillock was here for Buffy, Captain Cardboard wasn’t getting far. Besides, he thought, sneering at the spray clutched in the man’s big knuckles, Buffy preferred roses, not daisies.

“No. Who are you?” Spike asked, squaring his body to further block the doorway when the boyscout’s gaze wandered over his right shoulder.

The boy flung out his hand, “Riley Finn, I’m an old friend of Buffy’s. You must be Buffy’s city friend in for the wedding.” At Spike’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Word travels fast in this town,” he offered.

“I bet it does,” Spike replied in monotone. They stared at each other in silence. Spike watched as Finn rocked on his heels awkwardly. And Spike wasn’t about to save him.

“I offered to help set up for the ceremony,” Riley explained. The statement was met with silence. “So . . . when is Buffy expected back?”

“Don’t rightly know. She’s going to call when she’s done and I’m meetin’ her for lunch.” Spike purposely left the answer ambiguous. Let ‘im come to his own conclusions. Spike got his desired response when Finn’s eyes narrowed in what must signal his thinking process.

“I’m sorry, you said you were . . . ?”

“Spike,” he answered, purposefully using his nickname. There, let that spread around Small Town, USA. “She’ll see ya at the next barn raising,” Spike closed the door in Finn’s face and turned on his heels, pacing back to the couch.

He had changed his mind.

Small towns blow.







“I don’t like your boyfriend, pet,” Spike slid into the shiny, red diner booth across from Buffy.

She looked up from her plastic menu, puzzled, “My boyfr . . .”

“Ranger Joe came to call this afternoon,” Spike announced, interrupting her. God as his witness, he was not going to utter that name.

“Ranger Who?” she shook her head, her lips still puckered at the drawn out ‘who.’ “Spike, what are you talking about?”

Spike sighed, “Some guy named Finn,” he ground out.

He was annoyed. Walking around downtown Sunnydale was delightful, what with all the little, independently owned mom ‘n’ pop shops. But he couldn’t enjoy any of them because all he could concentrate on was this Finn character and who he was and what he meant to Buffy.

“Riley? What did he want?” Buffy’s slightly annoyed tone please him immensely.

“Don’t rightly know, don’t rightly care, what’s good here?” he picked up the menu and began to debate the merits of the BLT versus that of the grilled chicken sandwich.

Buffy put down hers, “Well he must have said something,” she insisted.

“Nope,” Spike answered instantly, continuing to peruse his menu, “came lookin’ for Dawn, even brought flowers for her. Told ‘im she was out to places unknown,” he fibbed tersely. He dropped his menu and looked Buffy in the eyes, “Any more insignificant others I should know about, pet?”

Right then, the waitress came to take their drink orders and to top-off Buffy’s coffee, but she took one look at the two of them in a staredown and she quickly retreated. Buffy, taken aback at his tone, put her forearms on the table and leaned toward him, “Hey, passive aggressive guy, you wanna take it down a few notches?” she hissed, glancing around to see if anyone else was watching the scene he was creating.

“What?” Spike chuckled brusquely. “Can’t take a joke? What?” he groused again when she continued to stare at him.

Buffy sat back in the booth and crossed her arms, “Sounds to me you’re a little jealous.”

“Hmph, jealous my ass. How was the dress shop?”

His hairpin turn of subject made her smile, but she said nothing. “Fine. I can’t believe it was so simple. As maid of honor I got to pick my own style. Though, Dawn wouldn’t let me get black. ‘Oh, Buffy, that is sooooo New York,’” she captured her sister’s voice perfectly, “‘And not in a good way.’” She returned to her own cadence, “I can’t believe the wedding’s tomorrow already,” she sighed.

Spike thought he saw a bit of remorse in her eyes. “Regret not coming a little earlier, pet?”

“No!” she sang at his raised eyebrow. He kept looking at her. “Seriously, Spike, I do not want to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary . . . now where’s our waitress?”

TBC