Chapter 7
The following morning at Rupert’s Rarest Remarkables, Ltd. was more awkward than Spike had anticipated. After he and Rupert finished setting up his new bedroom, ate cold spaghetti and watched television together, Spike started to feel edgy about what might transpire the next day. He considered the fact that Buffy might ignore him in the same manner that she had after he’d made a pass, had settled on her doing that, in fact.
What he didn’t consider was the tension between Joyce and Rupert when they came to work that morning, or the lacy bed set that his uncle brought to the store with him. As the two men entered, Rupert held the wadded up fabric with the stoicism of a soldier holding an abandoned babe wrapped in swaddling. Joyce and Buffy were already there, standing side by side, looking the men over curiously.
Rupert lifted his chin and his eyes locked with the older woman’s right as she opened her mouth to speak, her daughter chewing on a piece of gum with boredom plaguing her eyes. Spike was about to say something as well, just to break the silence, but it seemed something monumental was about to take place, so he remained abnormally silent for the time being. Joyce’s eyes widened a fraction when she saw the bundle in Rupert’s arms, and then she crossed her own, whatever greeting she had prepared dying the second her pretty red lips twisted into a knowing pucker. Buffy blew a bright pink bubble and blinked slowly as she sucked it back into her mouth with a loud, breathy slurp, looking away from Spike when he tried to smile at her.
It appeared to be some sort of primal standoff between man and woman, only Spike had no idea why or for what reason. The seconds turned into an entire minute, the looming threat of two minutes passing was just around the corner, and the wall of ticking grandfather clocks beside them did nothing to ease Spike’s brewing unease.
“How long are we gonna stand like this?” he asked his uncle through the side of his mouth.
Rupert cleared his throat and started to walk past the two women with a cocky gait. “I’m just going to put this expensive and high quality bed set in the break room. If anyone wants it, they are welcome to take it.” He paused in the break room doorway, turning around to say one last thing. He smiled evilly. “Such fine things aren’t fit for a bachelor pad, right Spike?”
He had no idea what the hell his uncle was talking about, but he was too proud of him for the condescending tone Rupert used that he could only play along, especially since Joyce seemed to be on the verge of hissing like a teakettle. Spike adored watching women lose it.
He straightened his spine, shoved his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, sniffed with the utmost masculinity, and said, “Right, Uncle Rupert. We’re bachelors, because we’re single, eligible men living together who don’t need women ruining our war against frilly things. Got a new bed set. And it’s black. And I decided to forego a bed skirt because those are for girls.”
“Good for you,” Buffy said with a derisive snort. “Like anyone cares.”
Spike was actually relieved she’d spoken because he might have rambled on all day if she hadn’t. He still wasn’t quite sure what role he was supposed to play in this battle of the sexes, but Rupert never corrected what he’d said, so perhaps he was on the right track.
Joyce’s right foot tapped the ground angrily while her eyes darted to the break room and Buffy turned slightly to question her mother. “What the hell is going on?”
At least Spike wasn’t the only one in the dark.
Joyce lifted her head high, smoothed over her bangs, inhaled sharply and smiled. “Thank you, Rupert,” she said, her heels clacking loudly as she walked towards the break room at the same time Rupert exited it, having dropped his offerings on the table. “I’m sure someone will appreciate such an adult and sophisticated bed set. If I didn’t have something similar in my own bedroom, I might take it off your hands. Perhaps we should give it to charity.”
Rupert’s eyes narrowed. Joyce smiled haughtily. Spike looked at Buffy. Buffy blew a bubble.
Then she put her headphones in her ear and said, “I’m working on my modern today. Screw you guys.”
* * *
Spike had lots of work to do. He’d wasted too many hours the day before to get anything done, fretting about Buffy, wondering if he’d pushed her too far, if she were scared of him now. He’d never cared so much about another person’s appraisal of him before, had never really thought there was anything wrong with his particular brand of seduction. Not when it had been successful every time. Not when he’d wooed every girl in Camden that had a tongue ring or a Mohawk or an affinity to screaming in alleys. Though, none of those girls had been Buffy, and none of them could ever compare.
He avoided her as much as possible, busying himself with the boxes in storage that still needed cataloging while she danced in the adjacent room. He could hear her grunting, counting loudly since she still had on the headphones, and it only served to frustrate him further. It seemed as though she were going to pretend that nothing had happened, that he didn’t exist, and after two hours of this, Spike’s resolve started to crumble.
He couldn’t take it any more, no longer cared about the pile of work he should be doing, and he got up off the dusty concrete floor, brushed off his jeans, and walked into the next room. His arms were stiff at his sides, hands curled into tiny balls as he tried to think of what to say. His mouth remained closed the instant his eyes lifted.
She was dancing, her arms reaching up to the sky before she fell gracefully to the floor on her stomach, quickly looking up as if startled. He thought maybe she had realized he was there, but soon noticed it was part of her routine when she slowly stood up, pushing her arms from side to side as if rising through thick underbrush.
This was awfully different than ballet. This seemed primitive.
She bent forward at the middle so severely that her fingers almost grazed the dirty linoleum and then she rolled upwards again, her exposed stomach from the cropped tank she wore undulating when she jerked her body wildly. It was surreal, it was moving, and though he couldn’t hear the music, he didn’t really need to. Her bare feet slapped on the floor as she jumped and landed with her legs spread wide, exhaling a loud grunt, her arms moving like a whirlwind, and finally bending backwards until her palms touched the ground.
Spike stood motionless, licking his dry lips, breathing softly, watching her.
Buffy started to spin in place, hair catching in the whirlwind, her arms rising and falling as if she were about to take flight, then she stopped abruptly. Her arms banded around her torso like an embrace, her eyes closed but the emotion that danced in her expression was almost as powerful as her movements. She swayed to the side, nearly falling over, but then she ran before her body could falter. She leapt in the air into the splits, landing with another spin. Each arm out spread out wide, one by one, as if punching the air hard. Finally, she curled into herself and sank to the ground and she remained there, panting, her eyes trained to her splayed hands on the grey linoleum tiles.
When she stood once more, he knew the dance was over because she pulled out her headphones and walked over to the crate to fetch her water bottle, ignoring him as she took a large gulp and straightened the waistband of her baggy cotton capris.
He didn’t really care, though. “That was…”
She whipped around to face him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you say one thing about—”
“It was amazing,” he said sincerely, reverently.
She blinked rapidly, lowered her eyes to the bottle in her hand as she twisted the cap back on.
“I mean it,” he continued, taking a brave step towards her though she was a good twenty feet away. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
He wished she would look at him, clue him in to what she was thinking. He continued to approach her.
“You don’t have to say that,” she said, tucking her hair behind one ear as she glanced at him briefly. “I admit it’s better than you making fun of me, but don’t lie.”
He exhaled a tiny laugh, unsure of the strange feeling tickling his chest. “Not lying. I knew you were talented but that…”
“What?” She looked so hopeful then, as if no one had ever paid her a compliment before.
One flattened hand rubbed his chest as he inhaled deeply, looking away for a minute, looking for the right words. “I’m no expert, obviously,” he said, chewing on the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about…dance moves or anything. But it feels like you just shared something really personal. I could feel your…never mind.”
He was such an idiot. Words were never his strong point unless he was angry. He always had trouble with the more delicate emotions, especially when it came to expressing things he usually associated with twerps and pansies. What he wanted to say to her sounded so juvenile and stupid that he stopped himself before she started laughing.
But then she smiled at him, this tiny little thing of a smile loaded with gratefulness and awe, and Spike had never seen anything so comely, so radiant before. The tickling in his chest turned into full on body punches of nervousness.
“You really liked it?” Her teeth ruined her smile when she bit into her lip, uncertain, but the hardness in her eyes softened and Spike didn’t know if he could speak ever again.
He nodded, swallowed hard.
Buffy looked down once more, her smile growing. “I um, I’m never sure about my modern routines.” She picked at the soggy label on her water bottle.
“That for your audition?” He tucked his hands into his pockets, jerked his head backwards towards her dance floor to clarify his meaning.
She seemed amused that he was talking to her about this, her smile transforming into a familiar smirk. “Well, the recital, actually. Some people are going to be there that might be able to get me an audition with the LA Contemporary Dance Company.”
So that’s what the acronym meant.
“There’s a waiting list a mile long, and that’s just for the audition.” She shrugged, and he tried not to stare at her glistening upper lip when she licked it. “I’m only seventeen and I probably won’t get in, but I figure better to start early, right?”
It dawned on him that he was having an actual conversation with her.
“Well, if you ask me, they’d be idiots not to let you in. Never seen dedication like yours. Hour after hour, day after day… Keep that up and it’ll pay off.”
She sighed through her smile. “We’ll see. I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
A strange silence fell between them, both teenagers awkwardly fidgeting, glancing and looking away from one another. Spike scratched the back of his head and almost started whistling to pass the time.
“Going out for a smoke?”
He laughed, stretching his arms needlessly. “Might do that, yeah. Haven’t taken a break yet.”
She nodded, set her bottle down on the crate, and then said, “Spike?”
“Yeah?”
“You really don’t think I looked stupid when—” Her body fell slack, her palm rubbed her forehead and she smiled in embarrassment, shaking her head.
“You looked strong,” he said without a stitch of insecurity, telling her what he wanted to say earlier. “Powerful and…I could feel your pain, too. You told a story in every move you made and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. You were incredible.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, her cheeks turned red, and Spike smiled at her with all the warmth he could muster, which wasn’t very difficult to do. Her stunned gaze never left him as he pulled out his smokes and popped one into his grinning mouth. As he walked past her to the door, he saw her in his periphery, curling her hands beneath her turned-down chin, smiling softly.
Once he’d gone outside and lit his cigarette, he exhaled slowly, looking out at the city with a new pair of eyes. He felt different but the same, hopeful and happy that he’d done something right. He took his time to smoke with the same appreciation he’d given his first cigarette the day they let him out of jail, savoring every last second.