Chapter 7
Spike called her as soon as he checked into his hotel. He was furious that she’d gotten him a room at one of the nicer hotels in Toronto, knowing full well that she didn’t have much money. After she’d mumbled something about ‘having a bit of money in savings,’ it was all he needed to spend an hour switching the funds over to his own credit card. Of course he appreciated what she’d done for him, but he wasn’t going to take her money, not when he had plenty of his own and she was barely scraping by. As they spoke, he avoided what he really wanted to say by thanking her over and over again, thanking her for her help, for staying with him that morning, and that he’d call again soon. But what he wanted to say was, “Wish you were here,” and, “I can’t do this alone.” He was two seconds away from begging and cut their conversation short to keep from making a fool out of himself. Buffy had already done more than enough for him, more than he would have expected, but the truth was, he needed her like no other. Perhaps his need was based on his instability at the moment but he knew that he felt better when she was around, or at least he had that morning. She had work to do, important work, work he probably wouldn’t have canceled either knowing how hard it was for him when he first entered the realm of art. He’d come a long way from the starving little shit he used to be and happened to garner one hell of a reputation in NYC, even managed to make an obscene amount of money that at one time, he would have laughed if you told him he’d become as successful as he was.
But Buffy was just starting out and when she dropped the names of the clients she’d be working with the following day, he couldn’t help but be impressed. If she could handle those piranhas, she’d have a gallery showing in no time. If he was in a better state of mind, he might even help push that along for her. It would probably earn a glare and a pout because ‘she could do it herself and didn’t need his help’, but her pride wouldn’t have stopped him. He knew she was struggling and wished he’d had someone help him when he first started out. And…he rather liked seeing that pout of hers; even got that tingle in his loins when she was pissed. Spike figured he’d probably be hard no matter what she did. Fuck, she could eat a bowl of cereal and it would take all his strength to resist shoving his hand down her panties.
She’d given him a piece of her that morning, however small it was to her, it was an enormous gesture. The thing between them drove him insane with wondering what the hell it all meant. He wondered if she’d fuck anyone while he was gone. While the thought made him sick, a small part of him knew she’d never experience what they had with someone else. She’d never make them breakfast, hold them while they cried or make love to them in their kitchen. That was the most spiritual experience of his life, a connection that went beyond emotion, an unspoken communication that he knew had changed everything between them. If she found some asshole to get her rocks off while he was grieving his dead mother…well, he wouldn’t hold it against her. Wouldn’t want to know about it, but he knew she was just as fucked as he was, just as desperate for human contact. She had a lot of bravado and got defensive when it came to her lifestyle, but Spike knew better. After all, he was exactly the same. The reality was, Buffy didn’t want to be alone. Buffy sought these men out, fucked ‘em and left ‘em, and slapped a poor excuse of ‘feminist right’ on it when really, she was merely searching for something more. Leaving kept her from getting too involved, kept them from seeing her for who she was, kept her safe. But the fact that she kept doing it only proved how desperately she wanted something else, something tangible, something to make her stop. Maybe she wouldn’t go looking while he was away, and maybe she would. It wouldn’t change anything, not yet. Not when neither of them had had ‘the talk’ yet.
He smiled when he unzipped his suitcase, spying the bottle of fingernail polish remover that she’d packed for him, located right on the top of his neatly folded clothes. He inspected his black enameled nails and figured she had a good point. Perhaps that wasn’t the sort of black he should wear to a funeral. His mother certainly wouldn’t appreciate it. He started pulling items out of the suitcase and his brow furrowed in awe. How she managed to find his suit he had no idea. She’d thought of everything. Toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, shampoo/conditioner, hairspray, Q-tips, razor, shave gel, cologne, five pairs of socks, three pairs of shoes, his favorite ‘Pogues’ t-shirt, black jeans, dark jeans, black slacks, a nice button up (which he wore to his gallery showings and just so happened to be the only dress shirt he owned aside from the one he wore with his suit), cotton balls (for the nail polish remover he wagered), a bar of soap, a hair brush and…
Spike sat down on the hotel bed, the abrupt movement forcing air out of his lungs, when he saw what was at the bottom of his suitcase. His sketch book. He decided right then and there that he was never letting her go. Perhaps it was an artist thing, some understanding there that she knew even in what was slowly becoming the lowest point of his life, he’d still want to create something. He unzipped the side flap of his luggage, wondering if she’d…he smiled. Sure enough, his ebony pencils, gum eraser and ink pens were tucked away there. While he certainly would have packed it himself had he been of sound mind, the reason behind it had nothing to do with creating. He would have packed it because she was in it, the sketch he’d drawn of her in his window seat. He opened the book to that very page and walked over to the window, propping it up against the glass. He smiled softly as he looked upon it and sighed. Now he could call his father.
~*~*~*~*~
Buffy hadn’t heard from Spike since he’d checked into his hotel. That was three days ago, three days and she was going absolutely crazy. She didn’t want to bother him at the hotel, though she’d called anyway and frowned when they told her he wasn’t answering his phone but he hadn’t checked out, either. She figured he was dealing with family business, or possibly the funeral itself, but she couldn’t help but worry. Images of him passed out in some ditch somewhere flooded her mind. Maybe he’d gotten drunk and was sent to jail for public intoxication, hell, maybe he was in the hotel room and was too depressed to answer his phone. She couldn’t handle it. She’d done nothing but think about him since he’d left, done nothing but beat herself up for not going with him, especially now that she was torturing herself with thoughts of his face plastered in an obituary somewhere. Why the man refused to own a cell phone was beyond her, but he would be getting one as soon as he returned if she had any say in it.
She’d finished up with her clients and went out for drinks when her anxious nerves were slowly driving her mad. She was eternally grateful when she ran into Oz at the bar, needing something to distract her. He seemed wary when she approached him, but she wasn’t going to let him shy away. She wanted to talk, wanted to do anything other than sit and stew in her apartment and Oz was a fantastic diversion.
“Prowling for fresh meat?” His tone was playful, but she got the message loud and clear. Oz didn’t trust her.
Glossing over that accusation she said, “More like looking for liquid sanity.” Buffy smiled, sat down on the barstool next to him and called the bartender over.
Oz narrowed his eyes and took a sip of his beer and then shrugged as if he didn’t care to press any further. He was a man of few words, satisfied with being a silent yet astute observer. He spoke when it mattered, logged every conversation away in his brain for later analysis, and kept a stoic expression to keep his opinions guarded. Buffy imagined he’d be one hell of a poker player. “So, have you spoken to Spike?” She paid the bartender and turned towards Oz, keeping her tone light in case Spike hadn’t mentioned anything.
“Yeah. Today, actually.”
“Oh,” she frowned. “Was he…”
“Not good. As you can imagine.”
Oz leaned back on the bar, seemingly watching the crowd dancing, but his periphery was trained on the blonde next to him. She seemed upset, but he wasn’t going to give in just yet. He didn’t like this girl, but she was a hell of a lot better than Nancy. He hoped she wasn’t taking advantage of him while he was so vulnerable and by the sound of his best friend’s voice earlier that day, he wasn’t doing any better than he was two days previous. So he’d sit back and let Buffy get to the point of this conversation before he dropped the bomb on her. Oz wasn’t vindictive, but he was loyal to his friends and if he thought for a moment she was taking Spike for a ride, there would be hell to pay.
“I’m worried about him.”
Oz nodded slowly, keeping his eyes focused on the crowd. Buffy sighed in frustration and set her cocktail down on the bar. “Look, I know you don’t like me very much.”
He smiled. Here it comes.
“But I’m not a bad person!”
Oz took a long swig of his beer, turned slightly to face her and said, “Who ever said that?”
“You,” she said pouting, “with your…accusing eyes and your slow sips of your beer. I know what you’re thinking.”
He actually chuckled. As much as he didn’t trust this girl, her charm was pretty damn hard to resist. “Never said you were a bad person. Just looking out for my friend.”
“He needs one right now.” She played with her straw, frowning. “I keep trying to call but…”
Oz swiveled around on his stool and propped his elbows on the bar, cocking his head to the side to face her. Time to test the waters. “He’ll be fine. Nancy’s there.”
“Nancy?” Who the hell was Nancy? Why hadn’t she ever heard of this person?
“Oh, he never told you about her, did he?” When she merely stared at him with her big green eyes and her chest was noticeably rising and falling with heavy breaths, he sighed. “Nancy’s sort of…an old friend of Spike’s. They go way back.” He casually raised his empty beer bottle in the air when the bartender passed and gave him a tight-lipped smile when a fresh one was placed before him.
Buffy was freaking the hell out. Old friend? Nancy? There, in Toronto with him? What sort of old friend was she? And why was she caring so much? Oh, right. The…thing. The weird, unexplainable, awesome, magnetic thing between her and Spike. That’s why she cared. “Were they, um…involved?”
Oz started to feel bad for the way he’d opened this line of communication, but if she cared about him, she’d do the right thing. He hoped she would. “Massively, incredibly involved. They met when he was living in Canada and they both moved to New York together to go to art school. They were a big deal for a while there.”
Buffy was unknowingly scowling and tearing off bits of her beverage napkin. “What, um…what happened?”
“Oh, you know how it goes. You love someone with everything you have and then they do something stupid. He changed after that.” Oz refrained from saying that Spike had changed for the better, because if he had, she might not fall into his trap. She was obviously angry about this information, much to his surprise. Perhaps she cared more than she let on. He hoped so. “Nancy moved back to Toronto a few years ago. I’m sure he looked her up when he got there, or she found him. Don’t really know the story there, but when I spoke to him today, he mentioned that he’d seen her a few times.” He wasn’t lying to her. And the truth was, he was worried about his friend. Spike and Nancy weren’t a good combo but he didn’t want to get involved. Maybe going through Buffy was the better angle, especially since she was obviously jealous. And that had to mean something. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll be back in a few days and I’m sure Nancy will take good care of him while he’s gone.”
Buffy already had her purse over her shoulder. She stood up and ran a shaky hand through her hair, blinking rapidly when the sting of tears threatened to embarrass her. “You know, I think I need to get some rest. I had a long day.”
Oz smiled. “Sure. Hey, good talking to you.”
“Yeah,” she said frowning.
As she walked away, Oz shouted, “He’s probably still at that same hotel. Don’t know why he isn’t answering your call.”
Buffy stopped in her tracks and turned to look at him. Her mouth opened as if she was going to say something, but she shook her head and turned back around. She pushed her way through the crowd and exited, Oz smiling at her back as she did. He wondered if it was too soon to call Spike and tell him that he’d be having a visitor, but then considered the possibility that she might chicken out. He got the bartender’s attention and ordered another beer, grinning wildly.