I don't even know how long this has been in a my computer. But I've revised it a little, because it was originally a rewrite of what happened between Spike and Buffy in the church, and now it's here! 1050 words of angsty/insane Spike.
I look at you. . . Slayer. . . and it's like. . . all of a sudden. . . there are these tiny little ants all around—all in—me and they're under my skin, behind my eyes, up my nose, dancing in my ears and—and all over my kneecaps, and they're raining out my nails, and they're in my palms like a sort of a tingling sweaty-like feeling! They're in my throat now too—did you know you can have ants in your throat, Slayer? And they're stuck in my hair like these greasy clumps of legs and bodies.
I look at you and only now do I realize the phrase 'butterflies in your stomach' because they're there! Oh, are they there!They're flying and bumping into each other and into the lining of my stomach. . . and I feel like they're getting out through it. . . and they're somewhere deep in my throat. . . and I can't keep them in, and I don't open my mouth because if I do they'll rush out in—in this big thing of wings, color, stomach acids, and saliva! And I try to swallow them, but they disappear and I can't. . . feel them anymore.
I look at you and there are snakes in my feet, like a big cloud of numbness. . . slithering all around. . . like a cobra's venom reaching every inch of my body and itching, itching! All irritating! And now it's in my toes, and they're tingling! As though something slippery is on them, and now they're twitching like they've been shocked.
I look at you. . . and like a feline there's a furball in my throat. . . and I can't speak, and instead of words. . . there's this this croaking, and it's hoarse, and I'm so sure that I'll cough it up soon.
I look at you and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. . . so I do both in an attempt to reign in my tears. . . and I'm laughing at my stupidity. I want to yell but my throat is clogged by a sponge and it's waterlogged and I can't. . .
Slayer. . . Buffy. . . I look at you and I want to shake you! I want to grab you and scream my congratulations in your face! But I can't because I'm terrified, I'm scared, I'm furious! I can't do anything because you've done something that most that know me have been longing to do for as long as they have! You've got me! Heart, body, and soul!
But you don't want me. . .
Do you know how much—how much it hurts. . . when you love someone? When you know you'll destroy the world for them—twice—three times—four—five—six—a million times? When you don't care what happens as long as they survive?
Of course you know. You know. . . you know. . . you know. . . you know. . . you know! You know it so well. . . you feel it. It's clawing at you, whining. A constant message from your heart to your brain, saying. . .
Don't. Think about how much you love him. You would move the earth. You would drink the oceans. You would die for him. You would bloody die.
I admit I'm jealous. But jealousy's a bad thing. Envy is a sin. Mum taught me that. Mum. . . Mummy. . . where is my Mummy? I want my Mum. Never did anything to me. Your Mum. Where is your Mum. . . Buffy? I want your Mum. I want my Mum.
I want my Dad. I don't know my Dad. He wasn't there. Dad? Dad? I don't like you. You made Mum sad. I found you after I k—after Mum died. You were sorry. You were very sorry. You said you were sorry. You also said that I should be sorry. What for, Dad? Did you want me to be sorry? What should I be sorry for? I wanted to ask you, but. . . you tasted so good. You blood tasted so good.
Do you love your Dad, Slayer? Did your Mum love your Dad? No. . . no. . . no, that's wrong. Your Mum is in the past tense. No Mum should be in the past tense. Wrong. It's wrong. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong!
He said I'm wrong, you know? Dad. When I killed him. Mum, when I—when she was dying. Your friends. What friends are they! Explain. . . Buffy, explain! Explain to them I love you! You. You. You. Angel said I'm wrong. Your stupid. . . hero. Your knight in shining armor. Gel-stained armor, more like.
No. No. No. Can't be rude. Can't say bad things. Bad things will wipe your mouth out with soap. Or staked. Buffy. . . Slayer wants you stake you. Kill you. Can't blame her. Slayer is right. Slayer is always right.
Even when you say you hate me. You're right, you know? I'm a monster. I deserve to be hated. . . deserve to be killed.
So kill me, Slayer! Kill me! End me! Leave me out in the sun! Drown me in holy water! Tattoo a cross onto my chest! Tattoo a cross onto my entire body! Watch me sizzle as I burn! Stake me!
I know you want to. You know you want to. You're the one that's been saying it for five years. So do it. I don't care. Why should I care?
I'm flayed. Out. . . spread-out. In front of you, on my knees. I'll do anything for you. . . anything. So I'm in front of you—naked in front of you—just you. Splayed out. My legs, my arms. . . tied to spikes, chained to the walls. My bits just. . . hanging there. . . in front of you, for you. Like useless clothes out on the line, high on a building, when there are fireworks everywhere. I'm vulnerable, I guess. You look vicious, Slayer. You'll eat me. Kill me. Devour me. Destroy me.
Do whatever you want. And I'll let you. You know I'll let you.
I love you.
And I think I'm insane.
The other Buffy certainly thinks so.