First Stop: Magic Box
Fuming after his latest fight with Buffy, Spike stomped around several of Sunnydale's various graveyards, hoping for something to kill. When that was a bust, he headed to the Magic Box to seek answers there.
"I mean, you'd think I'd be used to it by now, right?" he said to Anya, who nodded her head distractedly at him.
"Wait. Who are we talking about?" she questioned, realizing that his rant had paused, awaiting a more satisfactory response.
"Just the bane of my bloody life," he groused. "We fight all the time, how come she can still get under my skin? A splinter, that's what she is." He mimed picking at the skin of his finger and flicking away the irritation.
Anya frowned. "Oh, Buffy," she said, after a moment.
Spike almost fell off his stool at the counter as he looked around for the Slayer, which made Anya giggle at him. "No, stupid, I mean you're talking about Buffy, right?"
"Err…" Spike licked his lips. Clearly the alcohol Giles had hidden away was strong stuff, and he must have drunk more of it than he'd realized, because said lips were becoming perilously loose.
"Come on," she continued to press. "It's so obvious."
Taking a second look around the store to make doubly sure they were alone, Spike whispered, "Is it?"
"Please! Someone you fight with literally all the time – who else could you be talking about?"
"Well, uh…" he stammered, the words trailing off again. Aside from Buffy, the only other obvious answer would be Angel, but Spike had already let that scapegoat out of the pen by using female pronouns. "Bugger," he said, finally.
Taking another shot, Anya giggled again and Spike found himself joining in. They clinked glasses, draining the last of the bottle, and sat in companionable silence for a minute. After that, Spike's smile faltered. He sighed, groaned, and then laid his forehead against the glass countertop, cursing his stupidity.
"Ah, you're not that bad," said Anya. "Now, Xander? He's really dumb."
Spike looked up again and grinned, briefly. "Got that right," he agreed before sighing again. "Look, you won't tell anyone, right? About me an' the Slayer?"
Anya tilted her head at him a little, the way a dog does when it hears an unfamiliar sound for the first time. "Why not?"
"Why not?!" Spike repeated, the words coming out louder than he intended. He blinked at the noise. "Bloody hell! Because!"
"Because –" he stated again, more forcefully than before, certain that Buffy had provided him with a long list of reasons why they couldn't be together and certainly couldn't tell anyone about their extensive not-being-together, but not being able to recall a single one. None of them had ever made any sense to him, anyway.
Searching his mind, Spike did remember the last thing she'd said to him – the words that had sent him right over the edge and into a drinking competition with the Scooby Gang's very own vengeance demon.
You wanna tell them so badly? Go ahead… I'm thinking, sleeping with you? They'll deal.
Spike grinned to himself. Now he thought about it, her words had been an excellent stroke of luck, not something he should be wasting time getting pissed about. "Wait a minute," he said to Anya, mentally tying together the ends of his new plan.
"You've already been spaced out for like two already, but whatever," she replied, pulling a duster seemingly out of thin air and wiping Spike's forehead mark off the glass between them to pass the time.
When she looked up again, Anya was surprised to find Spike leaning forward, pressing his lips quickly to hers and exclaiming, "You're great, demon girl!" as he headed for the door and his next port of call – The Bronze.