marshmallows by verity

This is for my lovely housemate Hannah and my honorary housemate Ferdinand, two of my favorite people ever and my Buffy watching compatriots.

"He's unbearable, Joyce! I don't know if I can take this much longer." Spike looked distraught.

"Dear, dear," she said, and patted his arm. "Perhaps you'd like some hot chocolate."

Spike always turned up on her doorstep when he was having relationship problems.

It had started with the guitar, of course.

When he came in, Rupert Giles was leaning against the wall, strumming on the blasted guitar as he crooned, "London's Burning..." His shoulders were shrouded by his favorite sweater, the one that had seen a hanger a few too many times. As usual, Rupert's glasses had started to drift downward as he closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose in intense concentration.

Spike almost felt embarrassed for the man. But mostly, Spike felt horrified.

"You can't play the Clash on a fucking acoustic guitar," he sputtered. "It's just not done, man."

"Ah!" Predictably, the glasses went flying. Rupert fumbled for them on the floor, then turned around with that expression of reproach that Spike had come to know so well over these past few months.

He was getting quite fond of it, actually. "Where's my dinner?"

Rupert sighed. "I am not your mother. It is in the refrigerator, as you very well know."

Spike fetched a bag of blood out of the refrigerator, and then went for a mug. Upon opening the cupboard, he found only the aesthetically appalling Beefeater mug. It was always the last one into the bloody dishwasher.

Rupert had started up again, of course. "I can't think of a better way to spend the night... than speeding around underneath the yellow lights..."

Cursing under his breath, Spike punched the buttons on the microwave with gusto. It was the only means of sustenance in the apartment that he could satisfactorily abuse.

"Reminiscing about your lost youth, eh, Rupert?"

"London's Burning..." Rupert was clearly pretending not to hear him.

The microwave beeped shrilly. Taking it out, Spike frowned into the viscous contents of his mug. This was what his life had come to. Being babysat by a Watcher who was torturing some of the finest music England had to offer. And drinking through a straw.

Straws hadn't even been around when he was human, for Hell's sake.

"The wind howls through the empty blocks looking for a home..."

Unfortunately, he made the fatal mistake of aiming the guitar at Rupert, once he'd got into his hands. It made a horrible twanging sound when he dropped it and fell back, clutching his head.

Bloody chip. He might as well be staked, really.

When Spike looked up, Rupert was giving him that look again.

"Look, I even have those little marshmallows that you like," Joyce said as she reached into the cupboard for the cocoa. "You should come visit more often. Buffy doesn't-" she paused, and looked away towards the stove. "I like having a bit of company in the house."

Spike, despite himself, smiled. "Ah, well, I can hardly refuse such a charming hostess." Joyce was the only woman in the world whom he didn't want to eat. Perhaps it was the little tiny marshmallows.

She came over to the table and sat down. "What's troubling you, dear?"

"I'm stuck at Rupert's place, and he is" Spike sighed. "I am in a lot of pain, Joyce. Pain that I can't return. You can't imagine my suffering."

Buffy's mother patted his hand tenderly.

Rupert drank alone. "I'm on a budget," he always said, reasonably enough, when he refused to hand Spike the decanter. "Unemployed, you know."

Spike generally sat in front of the telly while Rupert drank; the conversation was better. And if he had to tolerate Rupert's acoustical manglings of the best of British Punk, Rupert was going to have to suck it up when it was time for Passions. Even if he was deeply disturbed by Timmy.

The Scoobies, ever present and just as frequently annoying, had chosen this year to accessorize with girlfriends (he numbered Riley among the weaker sex). They were all disgustingly in love, or at least in lust. And Spike didn't even have the panacea of violence to bring a little spice to his life. It was just Rupert, himself, and the Beefeater mug. Oh, and the microwave.

So he and Rupert sat on the couch and watched Passions, and sometimes Rupert played the guitar.

"Thought about a job?" Spike asked one afternoon. It was a particularly Timmy-heavy episode.

Rupert poured himself another drink. "I don't see you hustling for valid employment."

Somehow, he found himself spilling it all out to Joyce. "Rupert drinks too much. It worries me. He's just gotten rather boring. Not like himself at all." Spike pushed the little marshmallows around in his cup with his finger.

"Oh, Spike. He'll come around, he'll have to. Rupert's always been so enduring." Spike decided he did not want to know why Joyce had a faint smile on her face.

"It's been months," he said flatly.

"Oh dear."

Spike glanced back at his cup. The marshmallows, swirling in the cocoa, were dissolving.

"You can't play the Sex Pistols on a fucking acoustic guitar," Spike snarled. Time failed to inure him to the outrage.

"Bloody well can if I want. Fuck the Queen." Rupert hadn't even bothered to get out of his robe. He set the guitar down and took a drink. Spike could discern, even in the dim light of the lamp, that he was drinking out of the Beefeater mug.

New levels. New levels of indignity. "You're pissed," Spike said, and took the mug out of his hand with a surprising degree of restraint. After a moment's thought, he took the decanter, too. Then he went into the kitchen and poured them down the drain.

"That was very expensive brandy." He ignored Rupert and concentrated on washing out the Beefeater mug. It was his bloody mug. Bad habit, Spike thought, grabbing a bag of blood out of the fridge. Getting attached to things.

For a while they sat on the couch while Spike drank his blood. He made a special effort to slurp offensively. For once, the TV wasn't on. "I find that the AB pos is not quite as fresh these days," he said conversationally. "I want some O neg. On tap. Maybe with a bit of champagne."

"For God's sake "

For once, it was Spike's turn to glare disapprovingly. He felt a small glow of righteous pride until Rupert winced and looked away. "Perhaps you should find a new library. Or we could open up a banana stand."

"Bananas?"

"They're a fruit. I'm making an effort here."

Rupert took off his glasses and peered at Spike as if he'd never seen him before. "I must be drunk," he muttered, replacing his specs.

"You are," Spike reassured him.

"Good," he said, and turned out the light.