Title:Dear Friend (3B/3B)
Author: JustWriter2
Summary/Teaser: In a tale as old as inked parcels, Buffy writes to a normal penpal she falls for. Except, he’s not normal and she hates him; right?
Era/Season/Setting: late 1990s, early 2000s / ~ Seasons 2 -> 5 / Sunnydale, California
Warnings: some foul language
Rating: PG
AN: Hey! Here’s the second part of the 3rd installment, and the final installment of the tale. I am relieved and glad to have finished a multi-chaptered fic for the first time! This banner was made by the wonderful teragramm. I welcome all constructive criticism from you.
Fic: Dear Friend (1/3B)
Fic: Dear Friend (2/3B)
Fic: Dear Friend (3A/3B)
Disclaimer: I do not have, nor have I ever been in, contact with any of the creators or producers of the television show Buffy: the Vampire Slayer, nor the films, plays, and radio broadcasts which this work is based upon: Parfumerie, The Shop Around the Corner, In the Good Old Summertime, She Loves Me, and You’ve Got Mail. Some of the lines from these and recognizable scenes and bits of shared dialogue will be played out and paraphrased, but only in tribute and not for anyone’s profit.
“So,” Clem finally gets to the point after nonsense conversation for over an hour, “what are you going to do about your penpal situation?”
Spike bristles “Do? Nothing! There’s nothing I can do about it, ‘cept keep writin’ ‘er!”
“Why not?” Spike glares. Clem waves it off. “Aside from that! Of course you’d be afraid she’d slay you; everyone’s afraid she’ll slay them. But why else?”
Spike glowers. “I ain’t scared of the slayer Clem.”
“Then why didn’t you tell her you were her date?” Clem rebutts, conveniently forgetting that he was overeager to get away from the slayer himself.
“I told her,” Spike defends, before amending with less force, “subtextually.” Clem gives him a puzzled look. Sighing, he elaborates, “The words I used, I hinted pretty strongly.”
Clem raises his flubby brow challenging his method, “And yelled at her?”
Spike springs to his feet, drops his folding chair to the side for a satisfying clang, and paces stormily for a few moments while he curses. He brings the chair back and straddles it from behind to face Clem again. “Yeah,” he admits. “That was a dumb thing ‘ta do.”
“You did that because you were upset,” Clem states matter-of-factly. Spike nods his assent. “But you still want her.”
Spike tries to play it cool, staunching his expression and adjusting his tone. He fails, because frustration bleeds, dripping from both his countenance and his words. “What I want, is to get out o’ this bleeding conversation.” But he doesn’t move to get up, giving away his concern and desire to talk about it.
“Fine. You don’t want her,” Clem says flippantly. “That’s why you just sent her another letter,” he finishes with sarcasm. Spike grumbles. “What?” Clem asks.
“I said, it was just an apology.”
“An apology from whom?” Clem asks, already knowing the answer. Spike glares.
“From Dear, freakin’ Friend!”
Clem blinks. “Wow, did you get that lingo from her? I’ve only heard the teenagers use freakin’.”
“Fine! You caught me. I bloody want her, but not too close, even if she’s a bloody cheater who cheats!”
“Cheats?” Clem is confused. “Were you exclusive? I thought you both had only just decided to take it to the next level. Didn’t you start writing her when you were still dedicated to…”
Spike holds up a hand to halt Clem’s questions, while pinching his own nose bridge in effort to stop a headache before it could come. “Fine,” he says. “You’re right; she didn’t bloody cheat on me. We’re not together; we’ve never been. We’re just friends and ex-nemeses.”
Clem appears mollified. “And the only way you can get more, is if you have a game plan to rehabilitate your image. You’ve already done that before, with us; now you need to do the same for the slayer. Are you willing to do it?”
“I’d walk through fire for her,” Spike declares.
“Great!” Clem enthuses. “If you can manage to do that, could you put in a good word for all us hard-working demons who just want to do our jobs and stay safe?” The look on Spike’s face is priceless.
______________________________
Over the next few weeks, Spike looks for Buffy out and about town, not only in the evenings, but in the daytime too. He sees her a few times, but isn’t courageous enough to go talk to her.
Being angry or wanting to fight aren’t what he wants, so he doesn’t know how to approach her. Other times, he smells those men who’d temporarily captured his employee and avoids them and others like them. Finally, he works out a strategy to approach her with.
His new game plan will be to keep his distance and to be as polite as possible. This will be challenging, but he enjoys a challenge. Except, as per usual with her, his plans go by the wayside.
When he goes to talk to Buffy, he can’t even say a bloody thing to her. It isn’t for lack of trying, but because his voicebox isn’t handling right. It takes him a mo’ to catch on that not even the birds are twittering and that she has a ridiculous white board hanging from her neck.
She’s surprised to see him, but not as shocked as Red is to see him in broad daylight. At first, Buffy attempts to mime something at him, but quickly gives up when he can’t make heads or tails of her charades.
Red points pointedly at Buffy’s white board, embarrassing Buffy. Apparently she forgot she has it. She writes, “What do you want?” in great, big letters. Spike smiles and waves in what he hopes is a disarming way. She seems wary.
He points at himself, then towards her board, then mimes writing. She scowls and writes, “No. It’s mine.” He raises his brow and shrugs, standing there awkwardly.
Then he looks at Red in askance. She seems to understand and removes her own board, offering it to him. The first thing he writes is, “Thank you,” pointing the board at the witch.
He smudges the board, erasing the words, and writes, “just want to talk.” When he shows it to Buffy, both she and Red laugh soundlessly.
“OK,” she writes. “What’s the what?” Spike has to try holding in his own laughter. She sounds so sophisticated in the letters and here she writes an incomplete question that makes no sense without context.
“It’s a lovely day. There’s no voices. Are you hunting down the beasties?”
“YES,” she writes in all capital letters.
“Any luck?”
“I saw one,” she continues. “Going to see Giles.”
“Alright,” he writes.
He politely erases the board leant to him and carefully caps the marker, handing the items back to Red. He waves at them and heads over to the gallery, intent on checking on Joyce. On his way, he silently chortles over the fact that he still hasn’t talked to Buffy, just found another way to write to her.
______________________________
The next time he sees her, they take to walking and talking like old friends.
After about a week, she brings up her friend’s jealousy theory to get him to laugh. He plays it cool, “Red said that?”
Buffy laughs. “No, I have more friends than just Willow and Xander.”
“Oh, who is this, friend?”
“Oh, she’s a vampire,” she says lightly. It’s worth it when she sees his face. She bursts into laughter.
“You’re yankin’ ma chain, slayer.”
“Nope!” she pops the last syllable and joyfully skips ahead of him.
“I went to high school with her. She’s alright.” She misses the look of wonder and hope cross his face. “It’s ridiculous, right? When she told me her theory, I laughed so hard, I almost coughed up a kidney.”
When he doesn’t respond, she turns back. “Spike?”
“What’s the chit’s name?”
“Oh. Harmony. She lives with her mom.”
“Good little house vamp, is she?”
“I guess? Are you interested in asking her out? ‘Cause I can give you her number.”
“No, I, bloody… it’d be nice to meet another vampire whose not on your kill list, pick her brain on our common acquaintance.”
“Oh. Um… Harmony’s not that, brainy. She barely got her diploma. I thought for a bit that she was just playing up the dumb blonde act like me, but… not so much.”
“That so? No need to be jealous, slayer.”
“Jealous?” she looks back, mystified.
“I thought we were playing a game, slayer, where one makes a ridiculous accusation of jealousy. I’m jealous of that bloke you were to meet at the café, remember? Leastwise, that’s what Harmony says.” Buffy guffaws.
He smiles warmly. “Met him yet, have you?”
The laughter peters off. “Um, no. Not yet. Why?” she sounds out with obvious suspicion.
“I met the bloke as he was tearin’ off. Saw ‘im again the other night.”
“What?” she turns fullt toward him and stops in the middle of the sidewalk, aghast.
“Yeah, he was a bit terrified, but I set him straight.”
“About what?” She seems affronted.
“Oh, you. That you don’t slay every demon you set eyes on.”
“And why would he be afraid of that?” she fishes.
“Well, he’s a demon. He saw you and immediately knew that you’re the slayer.”
“Wait, hold up. What kind of demon?”
He hems and haws, “Well, it’s a bit embarrassin’.”
She grits her teeth, “What, kind?”
“You likely never heard of ’em. They’re peaceful-like, bit big in the, eh…” he gestures at the gut.
“He’s fat?” She seems shocked.
“Also green,” he tacks on.
“Green?” she wonders.
He elaborates, “Neon. Like a big, bright bulb.”
“Oh.” the downcast look on her face is so delightful, he’s biting his tongue to keep himself from laughing.
“He also oozes.” She looks a bit green herself.
“Oozes?”
“There’s pores, all over his body. He secretes what looks a bit like human snot actually, only green. Condition of his species.” The girlish horror on her face, probably imagining all of the clothes she’ll have to wash every time she embraces her honey for a smackeroo is a memory he wants to keep for all time.
“Oh.” She sounds like she’s trying to keep herself from judging on appearances and goo, but can’t keep the clear disappointment out of her tone.
“Don’t worry; he knows you’re still looking forward to meeting him,” he’s sure to tell her in a jolly manner. “In fact, he wants to come over for dinner at your mum’s, so you can discuss doilies and things.”
“Doilies?” Now she’s utterly confused.
“For when he moves in with you,” he takes advantage.
“Moves in?” Apprehensive would be how he might classify her body language at this point. It’s time for the final nail in the coffin.
“Buck up now, slayer. His species is real dependable. Once they commit, there’s no one else for them. Poor bloke, he’ll actually drop dead if you reject ‘im. So, in no time a’ t’all you’ll be Mrs. Gooble. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
She appears vaguely concerned before registering the final thing he uttered. “Gooble?” she echoes, slightly in horror.
“He seems a bit old for you, but I know age isn’t much of an issue for you. You dated Angelus, after all,” he reasons flippantly.
She’s silent for a few breaths. “So, are you free Friday night? That’s when I told him you might be available. I know your mum might have work, but perhaps she’ll make an exception for meeting her future son-in-law.”
She looks about ready to faint at his words. “I, yeah.” She’s contemplating heavily for a few moments, before saying, “I need to get home.”
“Night slayer. I’ll tell your fiance you’ll be ready to see him then.” When she turns the corner toward the gallery, likely off to talk to her mum, he smiles wider. He has a dinner later this week to prepare for.
______________________________
Buffy opens the door after plastering the fakest smile ever on her face. The smile falls when she sees who is at the door. “Spike, what are you doing here? Mister Gooble will be here any minute!”
“Thought I’d drop by and say hullo. Here,” he says, pressing a bottle of champagne into her hands. “To celebrate your engagement,” he explains, slipping past her into the house.
He hangs his coat on the coat rack. “Spike!” she protests.
“Joyce?” he calls.
“She won’t be here for a half an hour. What?” Suddenly he crowds her against the wall.
“All by our lonesome?” he says lowly in his throat. With the light in the hallway turned off, the ocean blue of his nice, button-down shirt complements his darkened irises perfectly.
Unwillingly, she feels herself trembling in the cage of his arms. Shakily, she says, “Yes, but he’ll…”
“S’not coming.” She shivers as his incomplete sentence gently blows over her earlobe.
Then what he said penetrates her logic center. “What?”
“I made him up,” he confesses.
“Made him… Spike! I do have a penpal. I’m supposed to meet him…”
“at P.O. Box two thirty-seven, Sunnydale, California.” At her stunned look, he presses, “Go on then, take me out of my envelope and read me, right here.” He points to his heart.
“Meant what I said,” he murmurs softly and earnestly. “I’d drop dead if you rejected me.”
She smiles gently and declares “Bull, you’re already dead.”
He huffs a laugh. “That’s it. Take all the romance out of my declaration. It isn’t as if I pore over every word I intend to send to my beloved for hours and hours, hoping she won’t laugh at me,” he remarks fondly.
She barks a giggle. “Me too,” she confesses, smiling.
Their little joyful bubble is suddenly popped by the loud, jiggling turn of her mother’s key.
Spike drops his arms and backs up a step from her. “Buffy, I’m home early!” Joyce shouts, thinking Buffy may be much further away than the entrance. “Is your friend..?” Suddenly, she seems to register their immediate presence. “Oh! William.”
“Joyce, may I take that for you?” She seems befuddled, before recalling the bag of groceries in her arms. “Yes, thank you. You know you’re always welcome here.”
______________________________
Later, after a good dinner, Buffy and he are curled up on the couch together, holding hands. Spike whispers some rhymes in Buffy’s ear, so as not to wake Joyce, who had gone to bed an hour past. “Ugh! Who was that?” she wonders aloud judgementally, nose crinkled up in confused disgust.
He chuckles, “Just a bloody awful poet luv. You might enjoy some of his newer drafts though. I fully intend to read you plenty of his words.”
She leans closer into his side. “Okay,” she murmers sleepily into his shoulder, lulled as she is by the comforting presence of the vampire, the blanket, and the fireplace. He smiles and kisses her forehead.
Originally posted at: https://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/739692.html
