Chapter 5
Buffy wore leggings today, bright blue ones that looked like sheer pantyhose without the feet, and a long black sleeveless tunic that barely covered her ass. That’s not even what caught Spike’s eye. It was the satin ballerina shoes with the pointy bit at the end that had his mouth running dry. When she’d go up on her toes or whatever fancy term she had for it, every muscle in her legs flexed, pulsed and thrummed with power. It was fantastic.
She was doing some sort of twirly move that took up the entire expanse of the floor, ponytail flipping around as she extended and curled her arms into every turn. She was taking full advantage of his hard work. Now that all the boxes were in storage, leaving a large floor to dance on, Spike watched her, entranced, as she moved gracefully about the backroom.
He’d finished categorizing half the boxes already. Rupert and Joyce were too preoccupied with an atypically large amount of customers to worry over checking up on him, and therefore, Spike was perfectly content bothering his new friend.
He supposed he couldn’t really call her a friend, not when all they did was insult one another and spend the majority of the day trying to piss each other off. Three days of this back and forth, three days spent where neither of them had any success at getting to know one another. She didn’t ask, he didn’t tell, and they spent their time bickering, teasing, and avoiding one another if they’d gone too far. Spike’s arrogant assumption that he’d have her naked in two days came and went with no progress towards meeting his goal. He hated to admit that he was sort of, maybe, feeling something for this girl that drove him crazy. He loved admitting, however, that he could get under her skin and make her blush. Never lasted long, the sharp-tongued bitch!
Today something was different. He didn’t even mind when she used an old boom box to play her recital music on instead of her mp3 player. She didn’t make a comment about him watching, either. Maybe Spike was tired of fighting, and maybe Buffy had been the only thing he looked forward to every day. Maybe he simply needed a friend to talk to and given that she was the only one available, he’d taken to becoming a wanker. Who knew? Whatever the reason, he didn’t have it in him to be mean today, not when she looked as lovely as she did when she wore ballerina shoes.
“You look like a gazelle,” he said aloud before he could stop himself.
She faltered on one of her turns but quickly corrected it, her lips pressing together in irritation as she continued to jump and spin. “You’re going to mess me up,” she said, her chin high in the air as she whirled in orbit around him.
“Just making a friendly observation,” he said, crossing his ankles when he propped his feet up on a crate and leaned back in his chair.
He caught a tiny smile on her face but it soon vanished when she started counting her turns once more.
“Don’t know how you aren’t dizzy,” he said, drumming the ends of two pencils restlessly onto his stomach, his eyes intensely following her movements.
She groaned, then said loudly, “Seven, eight,” to hint that he was going to make her lose count and to please shut the hell up. All his admiration and civility went out the window when she looked at him that way, and perhaps it was only out of habit that he never let her get the last word.
“That all you do? Twirl? Or can you do something else, too? Way I see it, you just spin around and around and around. Awfully amateur if you ask me.”
She stopped her routine, glaring at him as she tightened her ponytail, and then she walked over to the boom box which he was sitting next to, and stopped her song with an irritated push of her finger. “For your information, I happen to be classically trained in ballet, as well as other techniques such as jazz and modern dance. In fact, this performance might help me get an audition with the LACDC because I’m that good.”
He meant to ask her what that acronym stood for before he remembered that he didn’t care.
She started the song over, lifted her hands high up over her head, got up on her toes and said with her chin in the air, “So unless you know what you’re talking about, shut the fuck up.” Then she pirouetted away, and Spike gripped the arms of his seat with barely contained lust.
He tilted his head, smiling as he watched her try to prove her worth on the makeshift dance floor. She really did look like a gazelle, the way her delicate feet scissored and pointed and hoisted her tiny frame a few feet off the ground. He couldn’t deny that she was good. Aside from the one time her foot wiggled when he made mention of her animal-like similarities, she hadn’t made a single mistake as far as he could tell. She was refined when she danced, poised, lissome, and lithe.
He wondered why, in all the years he’d lived in a country known for a culture rich in the arts, had he never quite appreciated a single facet of it until he’d met Buffy.
He looked down on himself, looked at his scuffed up combat boots, his dingy dark-wash jeans that were a bit too tight on his thighs, the holes in his black tee, ratty button-up with the old-timey snap buttons, chain wallet, studded belts, rings on his fingers… Thing was, he never thought much about his look before, at least he’d never thought of it as anything other than fitting for his lifestyle.
Spike’s clothes were comfortable, didn’t matter if they got ruined in a fight, made him look like a badass, and that’s all he really cared about. He thought about what he’d look like sitting in a red velvet chair in a large theater, looking down on Buffy performing one of her little dances. Always was an outcast, but he’d stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that.
Probably just as well, because he hated her and everything about her.
“Could at least show me something different. Been doing this routine for an hour now.”
“It’s called practice, Spike. Ever heard of it?” She stretched her neck and effortlessly lifted one foot in the air with her hand, high above her head.
“Good God!” he said breathily, his boots sliding off the crate to land square on the floor as he leaned forward, eyes wide. It looked like she was doing the splits, but standing on one perfect flamingo leg.
She giggled a bit and dropped her leg. “You’ve never seen anyone do that before?” She lifted the other leg the same way, smoothly, fluidly.
He shook his head and adjusted his jeans. “Bet that comes in handy,” he said, back to square one, waggling his eyebrows.
“Oh, you are so gross.” She let out a disgusted little huff and walked over to the boom box to turn off the song.
“Come on, admit it. Bet you can bend all kinds of ways.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said teasingly, smiling for effect as she put her foot on the crate he’d been using as an ottoman earlier. She leaned down and stretched. Something wasn’t right, though, because she stood up with her hands on her hips, frowning as her eyes scanned the room.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, this crate isn’t tall enough, for one thing.”
“Tall enough for what?”
“To do my stretches. Stand up.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Spike, please? You just have to stand there.”
“All right, I’m fucking standing. Now what?”
“Hold your arm out. Straight, Spike. Yes, right there!”
“You said I just had to stand here and—oh.”
“Thank you. Now hold still.” She propped her Achilles in the crook of his arm at the height she required, and then she turned perpendicular to his body, put one arm in the air, the other on his shoulder and leaned forward.
Spike had been stunned speechless as she started to move, perhaps for the first time in a long while. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, there were tiny little blonde hairs sticking to her forehead, and she smelled amazing. Salty sweet. Spike’s eyes widened almost comically, taking full advantage of the sight as she used him for a ballet barre. He fought the growing urge to throw her leg over his shoulder and chew through her leggings.
“Hey, you’re the perfect height,” she said, turning to face him with a sweet smile. She put her hands on either side of his neck, moved the arch of her foot to his right shoulder, and held on as she stretched her hamstrings as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Man, this is great! I don’t even have to use the flex strap for this one.”
“Uh huh.” Strap. What on earth did she mean by a strap? Why did he need to see her use one more than anything in his life?
He couldn’t help it. His hand went to her ankle, fingers grazing over the miniscule, inoffensive, cursive letter B that she had tattooed there beneath the satin ribbons of her shoe. His tongue wetted his lips as his eyes gorged on the visual of her being so close to him, being so…limber.
“Guys typically tower over me so I usually go solo. Too bad you’re not into dance.” She switched feet, keeping her hands on his shoulders, unaware that Spike was about to go solo himself in the bathroom.
“Could get into all sorts of things, Buffy,” he said suggestively, seeing how she’d react if his fingers trailed down to her calf.
She gasped, her body frozen as she looked at him in a state of panic. “What are you doing?”
He smiled seductively at her, watching her cheeks darken as his fingers trickled down to her thigh. Her eyelashes were fluttering, chest rising and falling nervously, and then she suddenly was gone, backing away from him and adjusting the shoulder of her tunic, looking at the floor.
“Thank you for the help,” she said quietly, still unable to look at him. “I-I think I’ll stick with the counters in the break room.”
“Thought I was the perfect height,” he said, keeping his voice sweet and sultry, walking towards her. She was gorgeous the way she pretended that she didn’t like him, that she hadn’t done this on purpose. Perhaps she wasn’t ready for his reaction, but she started it and Spike wasn’t going to let it go.
She backed away, he continued to advance, and both of them moved in tandem. He proceeded carefully, stalking his gazelle, wary of scaring her off.
“Spike,” she said, swallowing. “Whatever you think you’re about to do…please don’t do i-it!” She gasped the last word when her back suddenly made contact with the wall behind her, her eyes widening in shock. She was panting, and had nowhere to go. Spike smiled and took another step forward, placing one hand flat on the wall beside her head.
“What do you think I’m about to do, love?” he barely whispered, placed his body an inch away from hers, and licked his lips right by her ear.
He saw her eyelids closing a fraction, her desire to give in. He felt the heat from her body radiating in silent invitation, her breath fanning over his cheeks in rapid, frantic puffs, but then her hands were on his chest and she shoved him away. He made no noise as he stumbled backwards, halfway expecting her to do that. Spike looked her dead in the eye, hiding nothing. She shouldn’t have teased, shouldn’t have underestimated all the remarks he’d made since they met. She knew now.
Buffy seemed terrified, breathing as if she’d just run a marathon, her palms flat on the wall at her sides as if bracing herself. “I said, ‘don’t.’”
“All right.” He held his hands up in submission, smiling at her. “But I never touched you.”
Her hand was on her chest. Fuck, he’d really unnerved her and he almost felt bad. Almost.
After a moment that seemed to last forever with the two of them staring at one another in limbo, the door to the shop opened, Rupert entered, and whatever tension had been between them crackled and fizzled and fell with a plop. Buffy took the opportunity to run, startling Rupert when she almost knocked him over on her way out and Spike cursed beneath his breath.
“What was that about?” Rupert asked.
Spike pulled out a smoke, needing something to calm him down, and said rather bitterly, “Don’t know. But as always, you managed to fuck it up.” He took the same course as Buffy and walked past his uncle, leaving him alone in the backroom to stand there in utter confusion.
* * *
Rupert didn’t know what to do with Spike.
There were times when he seemed happy, little glimpses of the young boy he remembered and adored. There were times when he’d catch him smiling, proud of himself for the work he was doing, but if Rupert dared to compliment him, if he dared to show any gratitude, Spike would grow intensely angry. He’d storm off, or he’d use a variety of curse words meant to insult and cut to the quick, and they were right back where they’d started.
He supposed he should be grateful that so far, Spike had obeyed his house rules, save the comments, but Rupert was desperate to reach out to him. After all the things he’d been through, after the hell Anne’s last husband had put him through, Rupert wanted more than ever to show Spike that he had worth, that he was something more than a punk with indignation for everything that opposed him. The answers were still unclear to Rupert, but it seemed that Spike was no closer to letting him in than he had been a few days ago.
Buffy hadn’t any answers, either, not when Rupert begged Joyce to pry for information. Spike had been doing a fine job of keeping his past a secret from everyone, of keeping his conversations at surface level, and he was terrified that if he didn’t let it out, if he continued on this way, that Spike would vent his frustration in some other, more destructive fashion. That he’d release his anger through violence and mayhem, as he had in London before he went to jail.
This fear only managed to intensify today when he’d walked in on the two teenagers. While he’d witnessed them bickering on more than one occasion, he chalked it up to hormones bouncing off one another due to their close proximity. Although, what he’d seen today was different. A line had obviously been crossed and he hoped that Spike hadn’t managed to lose his only opportunity at making a friend in this place by pushing her away, too.
“And this is precisely why you never had children,” he groused as he walked out of the backroom and into the store.