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Dancing About Architecture	By : mcee Category: > Spike(William)/Xander > Spike(William)/Xander Views: 4638 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dancing About Architecture
- 2-2/?
- 3-3/?
- 4-4/?
- 5-5/?
- 6-6/?
- 7-7/?
- 8-8/?
- 9-9/?
- 10-10/?
- 11-11/?
- 12-12/?
- 5
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- 7
"Table for two?"

I was jerked back to reality by the chipper female voice. Just now realising what I'd been doing, I tore my eyes off Spike and looked at the hostess, a bit frazzled. She threw me a look then smiled blankly at Spike, who must've looked a little more in charge than me.

"Yes please," he answered normally (because it was a normal question) and he didn't burst into flames.

Not that you'd expect someone to randomly burst into flame at this, but I'd just walked seven city blocks with him, in broad daylight, and, well, here we had it. Perfectly healthy, sans smoke Spike. Yes I'd understood the previous implications of "I'm human", but to see it at work had still thrown me off.

I was yanked out of my reverie - AGAIN - by the girl, who wanted to know whether or not we wanted to sit in the smoking section. Spike turned to me and I flinched (my staring had been exclusively one-way since we'd left his apartment).

"Do you mind if...?"

He still smoked. Oh thank the lord. Spike still smoked. Spike was still a little like... Spike. This could make it easier.

I shook my head, going for casualness wave in the air. "Nah."

The hostess led us through the crowded restaurant to a small table near the back. "A server will be with you in a moment." She left, and we sat in silence. Spike busied himself taking off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. I felt a little underdressed.

While I had trouble tearing my eyes off him, I got the distinct impression he was doing his best to look at anything but me.

"So," I exhaled.

"Right." He ght ght his attention back to me, looking up at me expectantly from over his glasses. I had the urge to reach across the table and push them up his nose a bit.

Instead, I braced myself for the rest of the conversation. "Where were we?" I blurted out.

"You were talking about this Sarah person."

Damn. Still my turn. But I heard my voice all the time; I wanted to hear HIS. "Sarah. Right. Well when I moved to town I met her brother, Michael. We went out for a couple of months. Great guy. Journalist. Got me my job at the paper, junior photographer." I laughed. "If you ask him he'll say that he's the one who discovered my talent." I smiled at the thought. I kinda missed him still. Never really got over him completely.

Spike smirked at me. "Yeah, I was wondering where that came from. I'll have to meet this Michael fellow and get to the bottom of this."

"Oh yeah, that's really what I need - you and him in the same room!" It was said lightly, but I regretted it as soon as it came out of my mouth. Hopefully Spike wouldn't inquire as to why I didn't want the two of them to meet, ever. I'm not sure I knew why myself. If I had to be totally honest with myself, I'd have to admit to having a slight problem with having an old boyfriend meet... whatever the hell this was. I gulped and my feet played with my camera bag between the legs of my chair. I kept forgetting about it, which was unusual since it was practically a part of myself. I vaguely remembered dropping it when I had stepped inside Spike's apartment. I never did that.

Spike peered at me thoughtfully, looking very much like he'd followed my train of thought and had come to the same conclusion. And just as he opened his mouth, our server approached our table, and I wanted to kiss him.

The server. Kiss the SERVER.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Can I offer you anything to drink?"

Spike addressed me. "Red wine?"

"Sure." Why the hell not. Red wine with Spike, at a fancy little bistro in New York City - WHY. NOT. I'm sure stranger things had happened. Or would.

Spike asked for a French wine I couldn't pronounce, and our server moseyed away once again.

"Continue. Please." He had to stop smiling at me like that. Took me a minute to remember where I was.

"Right. Michael. Guy cracked me up. We had a great time."

"Didn't work out?" Spike inquired distractedly as our server came back again and poured dark red liquid into spotless glasses. Spike murmured a quiet thank you, his attention still mostly on me.

"Yeah, we kinda wanted different things, although it took us forever to figure it out. In the meantime, it'd been great." I sounded wistful, I could hear it.

Spike nodded, tasting the wine. I watched the velvety crimson touch his lips and cleared my throat deliberately. "So, anyway, we stayed friends, but we saw each other less and less. Then he got a job in Chicago, and I've only seen him a couple of times since."

I paused and tasted the wine myself. I watched him from over the rim of my glass, watched his throat as he swallowed. Mmmm, very good.

The wine. The WINE.

Maybe dinner had been a bad idea after all.

And - I had to keep reminding myself forcefully - this was *Spike*. Spike. Not a... a "guy". Not just a guy, a guy you could hit on and imagine building anything with. First off, too much history there. Waaay too much. Second...

No, dammit.

I forced myself back on topic. "Sarah, though, I saw all the time. She got me, you know? We hung out every other day, and eventually we both quit our jobs and set up our own little business. It was just a tiny studio at first, but then we started getting good gigs. Another friend of ours - Matt - joined us and... Well, there you have it. That's six, almost seven years."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"You went away and did something. Sometimes it was hard to imagine any of you - of *us* ever doing anything else.

"Yeah," I sighed evasively.

We both consciously avoided talking about Buffy, who was still in Sunnydale killing vampires like a good girl. At 29. I couldn't imagine what that was like. I didn't want to. Instead, we perused our menus quietly. But my choice of meal was the farthest thing from my mind.

"What about you, Spike? What did you do when you got here? What do you do now?" The outfit, the apartment - there was something there I couldn't wait to hear.

He threw a last look at the menu then closed it and put it down in front of himself on the table, hands joined. "Well. I... I teach."

Beat. "Say what?"

He smiled. "I teach. English Lit at NYU."

My fingers drummed on the tablecloth and I stared at him, waiting for the inevitable 'I'm kidding'. Which didn't seem likely to happen as the seconds ticked by.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not." His voice was measured as he tried to gauge my reaction.

I considered this for a moment, then shrugged and took another sip of wine. "It's fitting, I suppose."

He grinned and exhaled discreetly, but I did catch it. I grinned back, feeling something twiddle happily in my stomach. About that regular guy theory...

"How did you manage that?"

"I already had a degree from Oxford; Angel just had someone play around with a couple records, forge one or two papers. I was pretty good at what I did back then, and I got myself a TA position within a few months. Three years later I was teaching my own class. It's nice, you know? Teaching again, writing... I'm paid to do what I love, and I'm being corny right now, aren't I," he finished with an amused wince.

"Hey, I know the feeling. Look at me - Sarah always says I don't know where fun ends and work begins. Not a lot of people get to have that."

He nodded, peering at me intriguingly between blond lashes.

* * *

A few hours later and near the end of our second bottle, I was feeling considerably less confused. I was absently pushing the last uneaten bite of what I think was veal around my plate with my fork, my whole body rippling with the pleasant buzz of tipsy laughter. We'd both carefully sidestepped further tales of our own lives, to wander in the more comfortable territory of reminiscing of things past. Good times.

Spike sighed contentedly and threw his cloth napkin on his empty plate. "Well, as much as I like this place, I'm getting tired of the sight of it. What do you say we get out of here?"

We both tossed a few bills on the table and wandered out the door into the cool evening air, shrugging on our jackets. It was nice to be in a big city other than L.A. New York had its own feel, a refreshing change.

I shouldered my bag and looked back at Spike, who was observing me silently. The moment had a surreal feel to it, with me cold from the fresh air and warm from the wine, feeling a little lightheaded - and him standing there with his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, piercing blue eyes through thin specs, all man about town and decidedly at home in this lively urban setting. I shivered.

He lit a cigarette and I leaned back a bit until my back rested against the brick wall behind me, next to the restaurant door. We watched people go by for a moment, wordlessly. Then Spike spoke in a quiet murmur.

"How long are you in town for?"

"I have a day left. I leave Sunday morning."

He nodded, and we didn't say anything else for another few minutes. Then his voice rose again, just as soft:

He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the street, where the wet pavement put it out. "Where are you staying?"

"At..." I fished out the keycard from my pocket and looked at the green lettering on it. "The Marriott. On West 54th."

Then something happened as soon as my words died out - it's like the invitation sort of hung in the air between us, and I think he was waiting for me to grab it without him having to spell it out. We settled for a compromise. He moved slightly and we met halfway, his lips crushing mine with an unexpected warmth. It was at once simple and awkward, with almost no other parts of our bodies touching, shaking hands hidden away in pockets. I was so acutely aware of the situation I could feel the cold of the brick behind me seeping through my jacket and shirt to chill the skin of my shoulders, I could feel the discreet breeze making his hair tickle my cheek. Damn, it'd been much, much too long.

I deepened the kiss blindly and his soft moan rolled over my tongue as he got half a step closer. I swear I--

"DADDY!!!"

I opened my eyes at the sudden shrill sound and Spike was unceremoniously yanked away from me. I blinked, frozen into place, and looked at him, dumbfounded, as a very short person happily hugged his thigh. Spike grabbed a handful of my sleeve to regain his balance, and his other hand went to the boy's blond head.

"Julian!" he panted out, surprise making his voice shaky and definitely more Spike-like. He looked at me, eyes filling with sudden hopelessness and what looked like apology.

"Well, well." We both turned to see a pretty girl in a long beige coat, smirking at us with apparent glee from a few feet away.

"Hey, Liz," Spike let out sheepishly, letting go of my sleeve.

The young woman, in her early thirties with dirty blond hair in a slick ponytail, stepped closer, reaching out to retrieve the child from between our bodies. "Looks like my Will is getting lucky," she singsonged happily.

Spike gulped and looked back a. ". "Liz... this is Xander Harris. From back home."

"Oh, right right right. I remember. Wow, he's exactly like you described him, Will. Good going." She elbowed him lightly, and he actually smiled. Just a little, but enough to tell me whatever was going on, it was okay.

He cleared his throat. "Xander... this, this is Elisabeth. My... My ex-wife..." /> />

Pause. Ex-wife. Okay. Resume.

"... and this is Julian, my, my son."

Ah. Yes. I needed to call Sarah. Now.
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Dancing About Architecture