98 OCTANE
by wisteria

Like a hummingbird, his hand hovers over the touchpad until he presses 'premium.' It surprises her, but not really. Not quite up to super premium, better than regular. Suits him.

She notices the decal next to the display: If you drive off without paying, you could receive a suspended license and a fine of up to $1,000.

This is his first test.

She studies him from the passenger seat. He rustles in his pocket, then pulls out some cash and walks over toward the shoplet.

Pre-pay. He's passed.

She slides out of the car, feeling the hard pavement under her feet. It's not enough. Slips out of her mules, tosses them in the floorboard, and lets the hot asphalt - still burning in the night air - make her wince. Yes, she's alive.

Spike crosses back over to the car. He still has that same bit of a bounce in his step, still strutting for her. Maybe not her so much anymore; he's been so damned calm since he came home. I wanna be sedated.

Everything about him is light, floaty. It clashes with the dark clothes he still wears, minus the leather coat, of course. (She'd offered it to him when she first saw him thirteen days ago, but he'd shrugged. "Not my style these days, Buff.") This surprises her, and she's not quite sure why. What is it about a soul that makes her think it would weigh him down, smother his chest and bind him to the hot asphalt under her feet?

Not beneath me anymore. Maybe above now. You're a better person than I am, Spike. Better than I've been in a very long time.

He turns his back to her when he puts the pump into the gas tank's opening. Slides it in with a quirk of his wrist. The gas begins flowing and she's flowing too. Buzzing. Brain spinning like the numbers on the display. He used to do that to her... oh God.

Not supposed to feel that anymore, but oh, she does. Bathroom assaults and fights and bitter anger, but it all still comes down to this.

No, vampires don't make her hot. Just him. He still makes her hotter than the ground under her feet.

They don't speak to each other, and this, too, is strange. The foundation of their twisted relationship is in chaos theory - all sorts of random images, random arrangements of letters into words that all add up into a complex equation.

Spike and Buffy. Meant to talk to each other, using words as pointed as stakes. A tease, a taunt, a harsh insult or a cooed endearment.

She wonders what keeps him silent. Is it the soul? Is it the weight of their five-months-ago past? Is it what she did to him?

She wonders what keeps her silent. Perhaps it's not knowing what on earth she could say to him to make things right again. Wondering how she can talk to him in their pidgin English shorthand, without telling him that she fell in love with him that spring, and he left before she could make sense of it.

And she loves him still.

Still unable to speak, she just stares at him. He's turned around now, facing straight ahead. Leaning back against his car. He's everything that's supposed to be evil in this world, but he's everything good in hers.

And oh, she loves him still.

She hates him too. Hates him for risking everything to get a soul because he thought it's what she needed. Maybe she did, once upon a time, but that was before four long months without him. Months of longing and self-recrimination and hating him for leaving her. Hating herself even more for making him leave.

Now he's back, and he's quiet. Another thing she hates him for. She misses his manic energy, the words and attitude poised on a razor blade.

He turns to look at her as the dial switches from $9.99 to $10.00. Maybe it's the fluorescent lights ("Make me look dead") or maybe it's him, but something glints in his eyes. Vintage Spike.

Soul? Who needs a soul? She just needs him.

Possessed by a sudden bravado, she puts her hand on his shoulder. It's the first time she has touched him since he came back. The intensity of the contact nearly knocks her backward. Her fingers trail down, down to the seam of his short sleeve, then along his cool bicep and forearm.

Oh god. If she could take him right here, tug down their jeans and climb atop him, around him, she would. She needs him that much.

She wants him here, next to Pump #3 at the Texaco on Highway 57. She wants him in a hundred different places, in a thousand different ways.

Can't here, though, so she settles for grasping his hand and lacing her fingers with his.

He stares at her, a smile playing on his lips and a look of wonder in his eyes. It's not the soul. It's just him.

A loud click signals the gas tank's full now. He yanks it out and replaces it in the caddy. Pre-paid, so he squeezes her hand and opens the car door. She slides in through the driver's side. Just far enough over for him to get in, then she glues herself to his side.

They fit so well together.

He starts the car, a grin on his face and a light in his eyes that has nothing to do with a soul.

"Let's fly, pigeon."

END (1/1)

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