Chapter Text
All at once you look across a crowded room To see the way that light attaches to a girl
-Counting Crows, “A Long December”
****
She was going to kiss him.
Warm sunshine washed over them. Bees merrily buzzed from flower to flower. Spanish moss hung in curtains from the ancient tree whose branches were spread above them. It was the perfect romantic setting, if you ignored the camera crew
“Isabelle.” Ashley’s hand cupped her cheek and Buffy nearly jumped at the contact. His fingers were callused. She looked up into his blue eyes. “You know I’ve kept my emotions hidden for some time, but I find I can no longer do so. I love you.”
“I…I find the sentiment to be mutual,” she whispered. This was wrong, so very wrong.
The corners of Ashley’s mouth turned up and he pulled her against him, bending his head so that his lips…
“Wait!” she cried. “I seriously can’t do this.”
“Cut!” the director yelled and the entire crew groaned.
“Get off me, Spike.” She pushed at the man who was still holding her and wearing a confused look on his face.
“Yeah, sure, princess.” He let go of her with a familiar sneer. God, why did he always have to be such a jerk? It hadn’t been a big deal working on the same television show as William Pratt, usually known as Spike, when their characters had little to do with each other. But last season there’d been a single, iconic scene between Isabelle and Ashley in the finale and the Belle South fans had gone nuts. Now it felt like everyone in the world was shipping the two characters. Everyone except her.
The scene had been Isabelle tending a hurt Ashley in her parlor. Buffy hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She had smiled at him and murmured that she was glad he was alive and then she had turned away from him. He’d reached out and caught her wrist and when she met his eyes he’d said he was glad too. It didn’t seem like much until she’d seen the final, edited version. The camera had focused on their arms and it’d been slowed down. Buffy had delivered her line a little breathlessly and there’d been so much emotion in Spike’s eyes that it was clear he was talking about more than just his health. It did seem to be this stunning, passionate moment between the two characters.
Now couples were recreating the moment at their weddings.
The whole thing frustrated Buffy. She didn’t see her character as being someone who’d commit adultery. No more than she would. Isabelle was supposed to be happily married to Leslie Lyons, Ashley’s older brother. However, the show’s executive producer, Ethan Rayne, otherwise known as ‘God’, had decided that season four should feature an illicit affair between Ashley and Isabelle. It’d drive ratings through the roof. Higher ratings and more interest in the show meant the executives at the subscription cable-channel company that funded Belle South would be happy and the show would stay on the air.
Buffy sighed. The nineteenth century dress she was in weighed a ton. She wanted out of it, and away from the glare Spike was aiming at her. It wasn’t her fault he was a degenerate with no moral compass. Who the hell knew where his lips had been? Like, eww. All over too many skanks to name, that was for sure. She turned away from him with a huff as he stuck a cigarette between those lips and lit up.
“We’re going to lose the light,” Hoss, the director, hollered at her. They’d only had enough time for a couple of takes and she’d scrubbed on the first one. But she couldn’t do it, not right now. They’d just have to reschedule.
Buffy threw up her hands. “I’m sorry. I can’t, not today.” Maybe not ever. She strode through the fragrant garden towards the trailers, needing to get out of the monstrosity of the dress that was suffocating her. Ugh. When she’d signed her contract for Belle South she’d had no idea how uncomfortable she’d be in costume. She also now knew far more about the antebellum South in Georgia than she had ever wanted to. The only thing worse than the confining clothes was the horrible food they had to at least pretend to eat during scenes set at mealtimes.
The gross food was a constant source of amusement for her and her boyfriend, Angel O’Conner, who starred as Leslie on the show. They’d met during pre-production that first year and it’d been love at first sight. It’d made the fact that their characters fell in love and got married that much easier to portray, and the fans had eaten up both the on screen and off screen relationships. Not that she had any kind of a ring on her finger from Angel as of yet, but they’d been together for more than three years and that had to count for something. He was everything she’d dreamed of in high school: tall, dark, and handsome in a broad shouldered, quarterback way.
Buffy didn’t know if Angel would be happy she hadn’t made out with Spike, since Angel was always harping on the guy’s trashy actions, or if Angel would be pissed she’d messed up the shooting schedule.
The guitar solo from ‘November Rain’ played loudly from her chest and Buffy pulled her iPhone out of the bodice of her dress. It was her older sister, Faith. If she didn’t answer, Faith would just keep calling and calling, so she might as well get it over with.
“Hi!” Buffy said, trying to sound perky, just in case Faith was calling about something besides her running off-set. Buffy paused in the shade of another stately oak tree. The old plantation the show was shot on was simply covered in them.
“Miss Buffy Anne Summers! What the hell is going on there in Georgia? Have you lost your mind?” Faith wasn’t one for small talk. She’d been the first star in the family with her long time role as Dr. Jo Wilkins on the daytime soap Sunnydale Memorial. Jo was one of those characters who you never quite knew if they were a hero or a villain in the story and Faith played her to the hilt. Only right now Jo was in a coma and it gave Faith way too much time on her hands to do things like harass her younger sister. Faith was only a little jealous that Buffy’s role as Isabelle Lyons had catapulted her up the Hollywood fame ladder.
Buffy groaned. “I see bad news travels fast.”
“Yeah it does. Hoss—y’know, the big-name director you just ran away from?—phoned Willow, but she was at some Dingoes Ate My Baby after party so she texted me to call you to ask: what the heck is wrong with you?”
Willow had been Buffy’s best friend in high school, but now the glamorous redhead was her manager. Things would be easier for Buffy if Willow was on set, but since Willow was also the manager for the wildly popular Dingoes she was currently in Europe with them while they toured. The band’s members were famously temperamental and Willow always had her hands full trying to keep them in line.
“Nothing is wrong with me,” Buffy whined. “I just…I think the show’s taking my character in the wrong direction.”
Faith snorted. “Isabelle was awesome in the first season, then she got married and turned into a bore. She’s spent the last two seasons hosting dinner parties. Oh, and being completely ignorant that her husband is philandering with the slaves. She doesn’t even know that he had a baby with one!”
“It’s not like I don’t know just because the character doesn’t, thank you very much. Isabelle is helping Leslie become a better man.”
“Whatever, this affair with Ashley is the first really interesting plotline your character has had in years. And you seriously didn’t jump at the chance to kiss Spike Pratt?”
Buffy rolled her eyes. Faith had a thing for the guy, like nearly every female on the planet, and was constantly asking for juicy tidbits about him. She’d squealed like a twelve-year-old when Buffy had told her that Belle South’s plot had her and Spike making out. Buffy hadn’t even bothered mentioning the sex scene yet. Faith would end up in a real coma from her vicarious excitement. “Look,” Buffy huffed, “like I’ve told you before, the guy is just icky. I don’t want to be macking on someone that’s been all over every hooker in Hollywood.”
“Whatever, B. It can’t have been every one, there’s an awful lot of hookers here.”
“That makes me feel so much better.”
“I know you’re America’s Sweetheart and only eat apple pie and whatever, but it won’t kill you to kiss him. He’s probably even brushed his teeth since the last hooker he was with. And who cares about his lips? You have a free pass to get your hands all over him. I personally know three women who’d kill to do that.”
“You’re probably one of them,” she grumbled.
“I just want to cop one good feel of…”
“Do not finish that sentence!” Buffy squeaked.
“Oh right, I forgot your virgin ears.” There was noise in the background of wherever Faith was. “Oops, gotta go B. I have to play unconscious again. I’ll catch you later. And for crying out loud, just kiss the boy. He doesn’t have rabies.”
The line went dead. Buffy pushed her palm against her temple, trying to stop a headache from forming. She should have fought harder to keep the affair out of the script, but Mr. Rayne had been so insistent. Even Angel hadn’t been able to sway him. Picking up the hem of her skirts Buffy continued towards the cast trailers, which were actually luxuriously appointed RVs. She had a bad feeling that ‘God’, with his oily smile, would be waiting there to ask why she’d just screwed up the production schedule. Goody.
****
Spike ripped off the itchy wig of sandy-brown hair and tossed it, along with the round spectacles that defined his character, onto the seat of a chair. He ran a hand over his short, gelled, bleached blond hair.
Christ, what a bitch.
He glowered at the camera man, Harris, who was giving him a sympathetic look and the guy and his floppy brown hair quickly found something else to do.
Puffing like a freight train on his cig, he stormed back to his trailer.
Miss Buffy Summers, America’s sodding Sweetheart, thought she was too good to kiss him.
He tossed the butt of the smoke in the gravel beside the door to his RV, where it lay along with a dozen other ones. Maintenance was really falling behind on their job. Once inside he grabbed a fifth of high-dollar whisky and collapsed onto the bench seat of the dining booth. He yanked at the stiffly starched collar of his shirt to loosen it.
Spike drank a mouthful of the amber liquid right from the bottle, enjoying the burn and how it kept the tears at bay. He wasn’t going to cry over a women rejecting him. He wasn’t a nerdy fifteen-year-old with braces anymore. Girls lined up around the block just for a chance to see him. He could make them swoon with a smirk. So why did Buffy and her scrunched up nose make him feel like yesterday’s rubbish? When Drusilla had discovered him waiting tables in London’s West End theater district and put him on a road that’d led to Hollywood, as well as more attention and money than his nerdy teenaged-self had ever dreamed of, he’d thought he’d forever left behind a sense of inadequacy.
He was William Pratt, Britain’s bad boy, and he did not cry over a bloody chit.
Not that he’d been particularly bad, in any sense of the word, in years. When he’d first crossed the pond to the States, tied to Drusilla’s apron strings, he’d done his fair share of partying. He’d loved Dru with all his heart, and if getting high and having orgies made her happy he wasn’t about to complain. She’d even been the one to get him the part on Belle South. The part that’d won him an Emmy and showed the world he was more than just another good-looking guy with an English accent and a six-pack.
Only, as soon as the ink was dry on his contract, she’d dropped him like a hot potato and taken up with the show’s producer. Drusilla was even Mrs. Rayne these days. At least his character had almost nothing to do with hers, as she played Francesca Wolfe who owned a rival plantation.
Spike, with his newly shattered heart, had found the old party scene didn’t have much appeal any longer. But his reputation had a life of its own. His manager, good ole Giles, insisted he still attend quite a few parties hosted by big Hollywood names. It didn’t matter that Spike sat drinking in a corner the whole time, singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ to himself as he got steadily pissed. By the next morning there’d be two starlets who’d swear up and down they’d had a threesome with him and at least one hooker who’d confirm he did lines of blow off her ass.
He didn’t really care. The image kept the cash flowing. Or at least he hadn’t cared until a few minutes ago when he realized Buffy had bought every single word those shithole tabloids had ever published.
Spike took another shot of whisky and slammed the bottle back onto the table.
He hadn’t expected her to treat him like a leper. Buffy was nice to everybody. It was one of the things he lov…admired about her, because it was genuine. When he’d very first met her, three years ago when he’d been nursing his freshly broken heart, he’d believed her sweetness had to be an act. But no, she was actually just that blasted nice.
Unless you were him, apparently. She at least could have been professional about it instead of running off like he’d tried to force himself on her.
Spike stood up and peeled himself out of the tight confines of his costume. He hated the layers and layers of fabric that made him swelter in the Georgia heat. Once naked he grabbed the whisky and took it to the back bedroom of the trailer. Setting the bottle down, he stretched out on the cool sheets.
He hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. Buffy of the wide smile, sparkling green eyes, and silky blonde hair. Buffy of the infinite goodness. Spike knew he probably had because she was safe. A woman he couldn’t have because she belonged, heart and soul, to Angel O’Conner.
Not that O’Conner deserved her love. At all. Spike had no doubt Buffy knew nothing about her boyfriend’s extracurricular activities. And for the millionth time Spike had to remind himself it wasn’t his place to tell her, but, god, O’Conner was going to break her heart.
Bloody ironic though, really. Angel had Buffy and a girl on the side and here he was, not having been with a woman in three years. Not since Dru. Not since the very first shoot of Belle South, when he’d looked across the crowded dancefloor of the ballroom set for the Lyons Estate and seen how the light had danced across Buffy’s skin.
Spike knew he was a pathetic wanker. If Buffy ever found out just what a pitiable fellow he was, she’d double over laughing. He’d even written a song for her, during the off season when they weren’t filming and he’d been missing her, that he knew she’d never hear.
More than once he’d told himself he was being ridiculous. He’d put on his tightest jeans and coolest shirt and hit a night club, looking to get laid. He’d find some bimbo and start chatting her up, only to realize she fell so contemptibly short of what he really wanted that he’d end up going home alone.
His best friends, Cordelia and Harmony, both actresses, knew about his weakness. Not only did they provide a sympathetic ear for him to bend, but they constantly covered for his lack of a girlfriend. They’d even attend award shows or charitable events with him to keep the floozies away. Their Twitter and Instagram accounts were a constant source of amusement as they supposedly fought over him. The latest round that Cordy had phoned him about just last night had been over which of them he did a better job of going down on. It’d made him groan. The only cunninglingus being done at his place was what they did on each other. He covered for them just as much as they did for him.
Spike reached out and touched his fingers to the wood paneling of his RV’s wall. Buffy’s trailer sat next to his, just one row over. Like his, the windows were all tin-foiled covered to keep out the sun and prying eyes, but he still was acutely aware, late at night, that she was sleeping only a few feet from him. Spike counted it a blessing that apparently Angel took her to his trailer for conjugal visits because there was no way that such a sensual girl like Buffy would be quiet during sex. She was probably a screamer. Not that he’d ever find out. Spike took another swig of whisky.
He sat up on the edge of the bed and rested his arms on his knees. He should sleep. The last couple of nights he’d been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, knowing this was the day he’d get to know what Buffy’s lips felt like, what her mouth tasted like. It hadn’t mattered that it was all just pretend. He’d get to kiss her, bask in her glory for a few short moments. He’d never have the girl himself, but Ashley being with Isabelle was a good substitute.
Spike glanced up to where he had tacked up a publicity shot of her in one of those ridiculous gowns that were made up of yards and yards of fabric. In the photo Buffy was smiling, a parasol over one shoulder. She was his dream and to her he was nothing but a filthy, lecherous monster that crept along in the shadows.
He reached for the whisky bottle, but his hand detoured to grab a pillow instead. He smashed his face into it and his shoulders shook as he lost the battle against his tears.
****
Buffy had, with only a little help, gotten out of her costume and make-up. Her hair was up in a ponytail and she had thrown on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She was sitting at the table in her trailer with a glass of water, working on memorizing tomorrow’s script, when there was a sharp knock. Shaking her head to clear it, she opened the RV’s narrow door to find Angel standing there. His eyes ran up and down her body and he frowned.
“Laundry day?” he asked.
“No, silly.” She turned around so he couldn’t see the hurt in her eyes. Angel didn’t like her to be too casual, but she’d lost track of time and hadn’t put on a dress for the evening yet. “I was just hot.”
He grunted and walked in behind her. After glancing at her script he parked himself in a chair. “What’s this I hear about you messing up schedules?”
Buffy sighed. She’d already been scolded by both Mr. Rayne and Hoss Theadon, the director looking much more disappointed than angry. Adding Angel’s displeasure to the mix wasn’t going to make her any cheerier. She poked her head out of the back room where she was looking for something to wear. “Today was supposed to be the big kiss between Ashley and Isabelle.”
“Right.” He nodded, but his eyes narrowed.
“And I just couldn’t do it. All I could think about was all the disgusting stuff Spike has done.”
“You know, you’re supposed to be in character, not worrying about all that.” He sounded gruff but the look on Angel’s face was pleased. Buffy smiled to herself. He was happy that she hadn’t kissed someone else. Even if it was technically her job.
“I still think they should have had Isabelle pregnant this season. There’s all kinds of possibilities that Leslie having a legitimate heir would open up.” She returned to searching through her closet.
“Then you would have looked like a fat cow for the entire season. Who wants to see that?”
Buffy frowned. She’d always thought Angel wanted kids, which would mean her eventually getting pregnant. They’d talked about once and he knew she wanted children of her own. She had since she’d been a cheerleader in high school.
She put a hand on her forehead. He was probably teasing, but since she couldn’t see him she didn’t know. “Do we have plans tonight?” she asked.
There was an exasperated sigh. “Yes, we have plans tonight. It’s Thursday.”
“Oh, of course.” She’d managed to somehow get confused about what day it was. Duh.
Every Thursday the cast headed out to The Bronze, a bar several towns over, to hang out and take a break from the set. The place had a VIP parlor set aside for them so they could drink and dance without being harassed. Buffy enjoyed wine and the place had the best selection for miles and miles. She’d even toured their underground storage once, surprised at how cold the brick lined cellar had been.
Very slowly she was working through their large collection. Buffy never had more than one or two glasses when she went out. As Angel said, it wouldn’t do to have America’s Sweetheart drunk in public. She could just imagine the headlines.
“Wear the white dress with the high collar and cap sleeves,” Angel called to her. “And don’t forget to curl your hair. Oh, and this time don’t wear heels that look like you stole them from a dead street-walker. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” The door of the trailer banged shut as he left. She looked longingly at her new pumps, but Angel was right, they were a little trashy for her image.
Buffy returned her mind to running over her lines for tomorrow. It was a scene between her and several new house-slaves. The big hook was that one of them was the mother of Leslie’s child. Which, of course, Isabelle didn’t know. She was going to have to walk a fine line, somehow appearing to pay extra attention to Kendra, the actress playing the kid’s mom, while still showing that Isabelle was ignorant of who the woman was to Leslie.
Mentally, she thanked Angel for making sure she didn’t have to worry over deciding what to wear. It left her more time to analyze the scene and plan how she was going to approach it. However, The Bronze would be a welcome distraction. Angel always danced with her there and they always returned home to her bed for a little party of their own afterwards. Going out to the club was the only time Angel had all week to really show how much she meant to him. There were also paparazzi there without fail, so it was their chance to show their love off to the world. Buffy couldn’t imagine anything better.