milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

beth,
spike spiegel

(no subject)

It feels like nearly forever since that night when they came down here for soggy corn flakes and chocolate martinis and shrimp and rice. Spike's under no illusion that the exact same thing will happen again, mostly because there's no way in hell Beth's going to use that bar bathroom.

Not unless he goes with her.

He's still without his blue jacket, but hell, it's just a piece of clothing, and when all is said and done, it's about the least important piece of the equation. He can probably ask Bar for a duplicate if he really wants; that's easier than risking going back to Outpost 12, even if the door would open for him: he hasn't tried it once since Beth got back. No need: she's here. There's nothing he wants out there.

They make an odd pair tonight: one tall skinny green-haired guy and his very pregnant blonde angel of a woman, but being odd's never bothered him. Tonight, they won't be sitting in that booth in the far corner of the bar and it's not because he's superstitious; it's because he's practical. The usual table by the fire is closer to the stairs leading up to their room, and the less Beth has to waddle around, the easier it is on her back. Plus, that couch is nearby, and the fire, and the rats know to come by and take their order here. It's better for his ribs and leg if he doesn't go running around the place either. Still, it's time to try to reclaim whatever it is that passes for normal around this place. They only have about a month, after all, until Junior makes her first appearance.

After pulling out the chair for Beth, Spike takes his own seat and reaches for her hand. "Hey." His voice is soft, but his eyes have a little sparkle to them. "Want some?"

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"That's it exactly. You know me too damn well, Beth Durand." With a delighted laugh, the sudden realization hits that it's been at least a month since he actually smoked a cigarette and he doesn't even miss it, not so long as he has Beth's eyes to look into and her lips to taste and her hands to hold. Damn, that's a hell of a good feeling.

"Remember Meg? Joe's friend? She basically told me to get off my sorry ass and follow her, and we... raided the freezer. We got ice cream."

The memory kind of makes him smile; he's kind of surprised at the people who helped take care of him, helped get him through things. There weren't many, but they're good people.

"I kind of..." His voice lowers into a mumble. "...wasn't eating. Didn't have much of an appetite. Ribs."

It wasn't just his ribs and he knows it, and he knows Beth knows it too, but he's not playing for sympathy. He's just telling her the story.

"So Meg dug around in there and came up with some Fossil Fuel and... I actually had some. Had to figure out how the ice cream scoop worked, shit like that, but we got there." The damnedest part of it is that no one seemed to give a fuck that they were in the kitchen. He didn't notice his tab get smaller for having eaten a scoop of Fossil Fuel or anything.

But despite the whole escapade, damn if that brand of ice cream didn't make his heart absolutely sink to his toes for wanting Beth.

"Shit. I really missed you."

Just ribs. Right.

Her fingers curl around his.

"I bet it was really good, though. I would've loved to have some of that Fossil Fuel out there in Cooksfield."

Unlike Spike, she did have an appetite while she was gone. Not because she wasn't doing her fair share of pining, but she's the one who's been eating for two.

"Maybe I can convince you to raid the kitchen with me sometime."

"Any time." Shit, he'd hold onto her forever, except the rat's back with dinner and it looks pretty fucking good.

Healthy, too, in a way he's not used to. In deep space, it's not easy to get fresh vegetables. But he likes all this shit, and the chicken looks like it's right off some grill, tastes like it, too. It's got a hint of spice to it but not too much, and this iceshake's a hell of a lot better than the one on Europa. It's one of those note to self: you don't have to accept every goddamn dare people give you moments.

He'll probably forget that lesson the very next time he has a chance, but he doesn't care. It's all good, right this minute. Expertly, he wraps a piece of lettuce around a chunk of chicken and picks it up with his chopsticks, pausing only long enough to grin quietly at the way Beth still watches him when he eats with these things: there isn't anything that happens with her that doesn't feel like a triumph of some kind, minor or not.

It's only after a quiet moment of nothing but eating that her expression just kind of melts into a smile. "This is so fucking good."

A strip of lettuce, a small wedge of tomato, and a piece of chicken later, she elaborates, "We had a diet of baked beans on the road from Cooksfield. The question of the night was always do you want beans with or without ham tonight. Those get old pretty fast."

The iceshake is an even bigger treat, and yeah, she knows exactly how much this place spoils her.

"And no offense at all to Hero, but it's a hell of a lot more fun to watch you eat."

He missed hearing her say things like that, and for a moment he just watches her like some lovestruck teenager. There are two things he can do right now: feed her with his chopsticks -- she likes that, he knows -- or kiss her.

She likes that, too. Decisions, decisions. Best of both worlds, he thinks: balancing cucumber, chicken, and lettuce on his chopsticks, he lifts the treat to Beth's mouth, a hand cupped beneath it in case he gets too distracted and loses the food. He never does that, though. Once it's safely delivered he sets the chopsticks back down and leans over and kisses her on the cheek before whispering into her ear.

"I'm going to get a pair of baby chopsticks for Junior. She'll be lethal with them." A small laugh escapes; he gives her another barely-there kiss on the temple before leaning back again, taking up the chopsticks again, feeding himself again, gazing over at her again.

(Click.)

He'll never, ever take a single moment with her for granted.

Never.

"Hey. Want some potechi?"

His smile widens, but just a little bit.

She eyes him, but in a way that's partly indulgent and partly entertained but all appreciation.

It can't be helped. That's one of her favorites of his three-word phrases, and with really fucking great reason.

"If you think you can handle it after all this," she leans forward now -- or leans over the table as much as possible with her belly in the way before having to reach for him and tug him closer again -- and barely kisses him, "I bet I can, too."

Especially considering how little of it they usually get through. And she'd be lying if she said she wasn't eager to see how it goes.

Shit. The day he can't handle it is the day he wants her to take him out back and shoot him, and she knows how to do that, too.

He taught her.

But he doesn't say any of that shit: it'd kill the mood for one thing, and good moods have been few and far fucking between for too long. Instead, he just smiles a little bigger and lets his lips travel across her cheekbone until they're nestled against her ear. "Let's find out." His hand strokes her hair, comes away with a tiny origami flower. When he leans back and shows it to her, he looks awfully damn smug and satisfied. After handing it to her for her inspection ("cute, huh?"), he rests his hand on the crest of her belly.

"Hey, Beth Junior. I love your mom."

The only reason he takes his eyes off Beth is to order that plate of potechi from a passing rat. Yeah, he'll take his chances on finding out if he can handle it. As those Magic Eight Balls always say, signs point to yes.

Beth Junior.

Holding the origami flower between her fingers, she looks from it to Spike and then smiles.

Tonight's full of stuff she missed during that month away: the casual flirtation over dinner, the three-word phrases, the way he looks at her, the sleight of hand.

And let's not forget the tie. His jacket was a casualty of what happened while he was gone, but he's still got the tie.

The hand not holding the tiny flower reaches for her chocolate iceshake, and she sips it through her straw. "Careful. She's going to think you're a big damn romantic if you keep that up."

"Yeah, that'd be a hell of a shame, Slim."

Fuck it: they don't even need the potechi, but seeing as how it's already been ordered, he'll put bets on how long they last: more than one piece, not more than five. That sounds about right.

He watches the way her mouth hugs that straw and, like always, it fascinates him: if it wasn't rude and his ribs weren't still healing, he'd stand up and lean across the table and kiss the hell out of her right here, right now. That might just happen anyway if it takes the rat any time at all to get back here with the damn potechi: it's been a really long time since... well, it was the afternoon of the day she disappeared and suddenly that feels like a fucking lifetime ago.

I want you.

Down, boy. To serve as a distraction -- yeah, he can wait a little while longer -- he takes out a smoke and puts it between his lips, but once again he doesn't light it. He just breathes deep and leans forward on his elbow and gives Beth a smile that's pure adoration. Some days, he still can't believe how lucky he is that she came back.

"You need a light there, bounty hunter?"

While he hasn't been smoking so regularly, that smoke-and-soap smell she'd gotten so used to after showers hasn't exactly made much of an appearance since she's been back. And truthfully, she kind of misses it.

But it doesn't matter much, not when she's back here and with him and not going to give birth alone in a church and free to press as many kisses as she wants to the underside of his jaw or flip over while in bed and draw idle patterns on his skin with her fingertips.

She's going to finish that list to give to him, even if she has to kick him out of the room for a little while. But not tonight. Tonight it's enough of a challenge just to keep from touching him.

Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head no: he just wants to look at her.

"Not unless you want some."

He'll test his lungs for her any damn time. It's easy when she's around. It's easy to get lost in those glittering gems of her eyes, in the flaxen gold of her hair, in the promise of her lips and hands and fingers. She's so damn beautiful.

If it wasn't for the potechi on the way and however many broken ribs and the fact that she's way bigger than he is right now, he'd pick her up and carry her off like some caveman, even though she probably wouldn't stand for that for a second. But before he can give in to temptation a plate of potechi appears with its three sauces, and that's that.

I have named you queen
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier ones than you, lovelier.

But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet

And when you appear
all the rivers sound
in my body, bells
shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.

"You want...?" The words are barely necessary.

"Yeah."

And before he can say anything else, before she bothers to do more than glance down at the potechi in front of them, she leans into him again and kisses just to the side of his mouth.

"I do."

If only he knew.

...he probably does.

Then, because it's only fair, she loosely grabs a hot piece of potechi, dips it into the plum sauce, and offers it to him.

Eyes closed, he lets her feed him. The sound of her words lingers and the way her skin feels against his is electric, this huge goddamn buzz that runs right through his system.

Right through.

It's not even the potechi; that's all smoke and mirrors. He wanted her before they even came downstairs for dinner. He wanted her when they woke up this morning. Hell, he wanted her two years ago and the only difference between this want and that want is that this one's better because it's requited: it's want tempered with experience and the knowledge of what's to come.

Talk about anticipation: it's all he can do to return the favor and feed Beth a piece of potechi, letting his thumb drag across her lip afterward, watching the expression on her face.

His heart's already beating faster.

Somewhere along the line -- somewhere in his 27 or 28 or 29 years, however long it's been -- he learned the value of waiting for the exact right moment. Whether it's firing a gun or throwing a knife or opening a door or kissing a woman, he learned how to make that exact moment count for everything it's worth. Move to do something too soon and it's a miss; wait too long and it's predictable.

The perfect moment is right... now. There won't have to be any explaining or any convincing; all the moment needs is three little words tumbling out in a hoarse whisper.

"Let's go upstairs."

Eyes cast down for a moment, she smiles in a very satisfied way. No one's better than Spike at causing that kind of smile. His let's go upstairs is top-ten material for her list, and it always has been.

She claims one more piece of potechi and quickly wipes her fingers on a napkin while she pushes her chair back a little more and then stands, her hand finding his.

"I've been waiting all fucking night for that."

Now Spike gets to see just how fast a pregnant chick can walk up a flight of stairs.

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