My speech seemed to give him the fresh confidence that he needed, and he grinned. "Some of it’s a bit strange—stuff we took from the people we killed—but some of it’s passable. I hope."
"We won’t know if we don’t look," I said, and moved across to get the suitcase.
One by one, I took out the items, all carefully cleaned and neatly folded up, ready to be worn, barring the occasional tear or bloodstain. There are shirts on top—t-shirts and the red over shirts he wears every day, but after two or three layers of those I found more exotic things.
"White shirt, dressing gown, umm…"
"Norfolk jacket."
I frowned, looking at the pocket covered garment, before moving on. "Smart shoes, baseball cap, Zoot suit.”
“I’d forgotten I had that. Christ.”
I looked at it—long jacket, blue with pinstripes, with padded shoulders and a fitted waist. The trousers that match it taper to narrow cuffs, and it occurs to her that it probably really does suit Spike. The blue is a little darker than his eyes, just enough to bring them out, and I set it aside from the main pile. He frowned, probably wondering why, but I went on.
"Several ties, army jacket and finally…" I held up a pair of baggy trousers, too short to come much below the knee, made of a light cotton.
"Knickerbockers," he told me, half embarrassed, half smirking. "So, Red, what do you think I should wear tonight?"
I looked at the pile again, then at the zoot suit. "That. The zoot suit. It’s a good colour, and… snazzy. Is that a word? Anyway. I’d say a tux, if you had one, but since you don’t, I think the suit is good. With the white shirt, and the matching tie." Okay, babbling there, Willow. Stop it.
"I only wore it once. We killed the guy who was wearing it because D.. she thought the colour would suit me."
"She was right," I said, simply. "Go and put it on, let me see how you look."
He left for the bedroom, carrying the pile of clothes. This is either going to be great, or funny, or hideous. Or all three.
The only thing I'm a bit sad about is that I won't get to see the looks on Giles' face when he sees Spike wearing that.
Chapter Four
"Come in, Rupert," he says, opening the door as I’m getting my keys out. I look at him to smile my thanks, and do a quick double take. He’s wearing something very akin to a zoot suit and, strangely, it looks stunning. I’m not sure if it’s the clothes themselves, the body inside them, or simply the fact that they don’t include and denim or leather. Perhaps all three. Anyway, it renders me speechless.
"Like it, pet?" he asks. When I nod, he pulls me indoors and grabs a brief kiss prior to my taking any notice of what he’s done to the room. Not that it’s in any way bad, you understand, just—tidy. No books strewn all over. No coating of dust on the shelves. No old pizza boxes, on the table—instead, candles. China plates.
"You want to eat now, or later?"
"Now," I reply. Apparently my brain hasn’t completely seized up from the shock- yet. I sit at the table—a table with wine glasses—while he briefly disappears from view, only to reappear within seconds bearing dishes of food that smell—to be precise, they smell like the things like used to emerge from my mother’s kitchen. Alright, so now I’m extremely hungry, not just the very I was on the way home. So much so that my mouth is watering.
He lifts the lids one at a time, explaining as he goes.
"Potatoes with mint in, like the maid used to make; mushy peas, just the way you like them; lamb—it wanted mutton, but I settled for lamb; and Yorkshire pudding, because… well, it’s what you’re supposed to have."
He looks at me, his clear blue eyes brought out by the colour of the fabric and soft curls of honey coloured hairs hanging down his forehead. For a moment, I am captivated by the sight, but then I realise he is looking for something. Appreciation? Acceptance? Encouragement? I’m not sure, and so I plump for an honest reaction.
"It looks wonderful, William—and it smells better. Am I allowed to taste it, or am I to wait until I’m drooling onto the tablecloth?"
That earns me a grin much more Spike than William—and, dear lord, I sounded like I was channelling Xander. I still do. Shut up and watch William, as he picks up a spoon and begins to serve out. The way the suit…no, eat now, other things later.
Later, when my suspicions have been laid to rest (the food tasted just like it had been cooked from the recipe book my mother used, probably the same one William’s mother used, but certainly the one I keep on the shelf (the single shelf, now everything has to be here or in the shop) of non-demonology books.
I also suspect that William didn’t do the cooking. He is incapable of following instructions to the letter, and my guess is that Willow or Buffy helped, maybe Tara. I deem it best to keep quiet, however- it’s the thought that counts, and he did set the table. He’s left handed, and always sets the knife on the left. It must be some measure of how I feel about him that I notice things like that, and spend time thinking about them, imagining those clever fingers handling the cold metal… but be careful, Rupert, you’re getting distracted). We move over to the sofa, but the television stays off, the only source of light the flickering candles.
He sits awkwardly, half facing me, half turned away. We are holding hands, so, watching his face to gauge the reaction, I lift his hand with mine and kiss the back of it. Immediately his eyes are on me, smiling at the gesture but also with a spark of nervousness, even fear, within their depths. As that was the general sort of thing I was hoping for, I twist all the way around to face him fully, left knee bent so that my foot tucks under my right knee. Then I let go of his hand just long enough to move it to my other one, and slide my arm up behind his shoulders, ready to pull him close.