TITLE: "Idle Hands"
AUTHOR: Elise D. (aka LilHairyEyeball)
FEEDBACK: Gimme gimme. Just be gentle.
SUMMARY: Spike's thoughts, while hanging out at Revello Drive
SPOILERS: Reasonable current Season Seven knowledge required here, folks!
RATING: Just a PG ficlet.
DISCLAIMER: Nobody buys me good presents, so I steal other peoples
---
Balls. There goes another stake. He's getting pretty tired of all this pent up vampire strength, snapping everything in sight. An outlet would be nice. Killing demons, yeah, that eases some of the stress. But it's not enough. This is why smoking becomes a necessity of life. Or unlife, as it were. Bad quip, Spike. You're starting to sound like Harris.
Need something to ease the bloody tension.
And there goes the Slayer, with nothing more than a raised eyebrow in his direction. Fickle little filly, when she wants to be.
"Kill for me Spike, but only when I ask for it." Maybe he should buy that bloody collar and bell. After all, he is nothing more than the Slayer's lap dog these days. Not that he's objecting. Hell, ask him, and he'd probably roll over to have his tummy rubbed.
He really is an utterly sad excuse for a vampire.
A rubbed belly? A bloke wouldn't say no, come to think of it. Her hands are a bloody marvel. She is the Chosen One after all, although he's not sure that the Powers that Don't had considered her other uses for those unbelievable talents.
Now he's thinking, and thinking leads to thoughts, which leads to moping about like a useless pillock; and he is not the Brooding One. No.
Bloody hell, why can't he smoke in the house? Stupid poxy humans, and their damn fragile lungs. If he doesn't do something and soon, somebody will have to pay. And if the little boy keeps talking, it's going to be him. How on earth do they put up with something so skinny and obnoxious? It's like Dawn with a tail, only she managed to grow the hell out of it.
Deep breaths, Spike old boy. The sun will be down in a few hours. A pint of blood, a few smokes, and a bit of rough and tumble will help ease the tortured soul.
Shame he's developed a taste for the other kind of rough and tumble.
Dammit, goodbye stake number two. And she's looking at him, again. The girl doesn't know her own power. It's got to be some sort of mystical occurrence, fitting in those pants, that much he knows. He's tried getting her out of them, and he still can't figure out how she re-dressed so quickly afterwards.
Christ on a crutch, just a few more minutes and he can get out of here.
Away from her, and all the other nubile young things. He won't let anything stop him. If his arse was on fire, he wouldn't stay in this house for a minute longer than necessary.
Really, don't they consider how it feels to be him? All heightened senses and restricted libido? There's only so much a man can handle.
And he is a man; she told him so. Stupid git that he is, he actually accepts her words. Like they're the most important things in the world.
Bloody close, that's for certain.
Wouldn't mind a few other words, but the ones that she's given him? Like water to a dying man. He's not dying though, he's dead. And he's earned her trust, even after killing all those people, and seeing the horror on her face.
No, stop. Won't dwell on the past. It's ugly, and it's painful, and there's not going back. Can't change it, so it wont' matter. And he will not brood. He's not the sort.
She needs a man with spirit, and he can be that.
No problem. Just don't let her see the nightmares that plague him. Don't let her see the false starts before a kill. He'll get over it.
It's just like riding a bike.
Yeah, if you fell off said bike and almost died, it's just like that. Not at all traumatic or testing, oh no, not in the slightest.
Stupid bint, she really doesn't see the problem. And it's her blindness that should make him realize that they'd never get anywhere. She's just too bloody stubborn for her own good.
But of course, that just seems endearing. Stupid sappy sod.
Almost time to escape now. Run as far away from the estrogens as possible, and don't stop until everything in his path is dead. Best kind of therapy, that is. Maybe he'll actually enjoy it. Nothing will stop him from getting some relief.
What he'd really enjoy is a night in front of the telly, without a bunch of little girls asking him to chance the sodding channel.
He's been officially housebroken.
But he's about to break free, and get away from the woman who keeps him under her tiny, suckable thumb. He can't wait. Screaming in the dark seems like the only way to stop himself from exploding at this point. Buggar the melodramatic nature of it all. And he's heading for the door now, for the delectable taste of nicotine.
Goodbye Buffy, goodbye bitties! He'll see you when he's whole again. Make way for the Big Bad. He needs to leave, before you witness a scorching case of self-combustion. Heh, he's still got the wit.
"Spike? Can I talk to you for a second?"
Shoulders slump in defeat. He should have known better, he can never say no.
AUTHOR: Elise D. (aka LilHairyEyeball)
FEEDBACK: Gimme gimme. Just be gentle.
SUMMARY: Spike's thoughts, while hanging out at Revello Drive
SPOILERS: Reasonable current Season Seven knowledge required here, folks!
RATING: Just a PG ficlet.
DISCLAIMER: Nobody buys me good presents, so I steal other peoples
---
Balls. There goes another stake. He's getting pretty tired of all this pent up vampire strength, snapping everything in sight. An outlet would be nice. Killing demons, yeah, that eases some of the stress. But it's not enough. This is why smoking becomes a necessity of life. Or unlife, as it were. Bad quip, Spike. You're starting to sound like Harris.
Need something to ease the bloody tension.
And there goes the Slayer, with nothing more than a raised eyebrow in his direction. Fickle little filly, when she wants to be.
"Kill for me Spike, but only when I ask for it." Maybe he should buy that bloody collar and bell. After all, he is nothing more than the Slayer's lap dog these days. Not that he's objecting. Hell, ask him, and he'd probably roll over to have his tummy rubbed.
He really is an utterly sad excuse for a vampire.
A rubbed belly? A bloke wouldn't say no, come to think of it. Her hands are a bloody marvel. She is the Chosen One after all, although he's not sure that the Powers that Don't had considered her other uses for those unbelievable talents.
Now he's thinking, and thinking leads to thoughts, which leads to moping about like a useless pillock; and he is not the Brooding One. No.
Bloody hell, why can't he smoke in the house? Stupid poxy humans, and their damn fragile lungs. If he doesn't do something and soon, somebody will have to pay. And if the little boy keeps talking, it's going to be him. How on earth do they put up with something so skinny and obnoxious? It's like Dawn with a tail, only she managed to grow the hell out of it.
Deep breaths, Spike old boy. The sun will be down in a few hours. A pint of blood, a few smokes, and a bit of rough and tumble will help ease the tortured soul.
Shame he's developed a taste for the other kind of rough and tumble.
Dammit, goodbye stake number two. And she's looking at him, again. The girl doesn't know her own power. It's got to be some sort of mystical occurrence, fitting in those pants, that much he knows. He's tried getting her out of them, and he still can't figure out how she re-dressed so quickly afterwards.
Christ on a crutch, just a few more minutes and he can get out of here.
Away from her, and all the other nubile young things. He won't let anything stop him. If his arse was on fire, he wouldn't stay in this house for a minute longer than necessary.
Really, don't they consider how it feels to be him? All heightened senses and restricted libido? There's only so much a man can handle.
And he is a man; she told him so. Stupid git that he is, he actually accepts her words. Like they're the most important things in the world.
Bloody close, that's for certain.
Wouldn't mind a few other words, but the ones that she's given him? Like water to a dying man. He's not dying though, he's dead. And he's earned her trust, even after killing all those people, and seeing the horror on her face.
No, stop. Won't dwell on the past. It's ugly, and it's painful, and there's not going back. Can't change it, so it wont' matter. And he will not brood. He's not the sort.
She needs a man with spirit, and he can be that.
No problem. Just don't let her see the nightmares that plague him. Don't let her see the false starts before a kill. He'll get over it.
It's just like riding a bike.
Yeah, if you fell off said bike and almost died, it's just like that. Not at all traumatic or testing, oh no, not in the slightest.
Stupid bint, she really doesn't see the problem. And it's her blindness that should make him realize that they'd never get anywhere. She's just too bloody stubborn for her own good.
But of course, that just seems endearing. Stupid sappy sod.
Almost time to escape now. Run as far away from the estrogens as possible, and don't stop until everything in his path is dead. Best kind of therapy, that is. Maybe he'll actually enjoy it. Nothing will stop him from getting some relief.
What he'd really enjoy is a night in front of the telly, without a bunch of little girls asking him to chance the sodding channel.
He's been officially housebroken.
But he's about to break free, and get away from the woman who keeps him under her tiny, suckable thumb. He can't wait. Screaming in the dark seems like the only way to stop himself from exploding at this point. Buggar the melodramatic nature of it all. And he's heading for the door now, for the delectable taste of nicotine.
Goodbye Buffy, goodbye bitties! He'll see you when he's whole again. Make way for the Big Bad. He needs to leave, before you witness a scorching case of self-combustion. Heh, he's still got the wit.
"Spike? Can I talk to you for a second?"
Shoulders slump in defeat. He should have known better, he can never say no.