Spike flicks the cigarette, still glowing, to the ground. Number ten, or somewhere in there. Sometimes he smokes just because it's a habit and he likes the nicotine, and sometimes he smokes because it's the only valid reason for leaving the house.
He finds it odd that he has to find a reason to leave now, because God forbid he hurt anyone's feelings. That's something Old-Spike would do. Soulless-Spike. New-Spike sits and watches impotently while Buffy whirls around, the picture of efficient power, and surprise! Doesn't even stop to notice him.
Easier to be outside. No one to ignore him, here. Still kind of disappointing, to be so mundane and useless as to be constantly ignored.
But just think how much attention he'd get if he snapped one of the girl's necks one night. She'd hate him again, though. He still might do it, because those girls are getting damned annoying, and he's far past the age where his libido might cool his rising irritation at them. Idiots, all. Maybe he should just kill one of them, just to finally shut them up.
Killing is bad, Spike. He remembers. And hurting girls is what got him into this mess in the first place.
He lights another cigarette, and hey, maybe he is still a little crazy. Probably just his own arrogance making him think he could get over his soul in two weeks when it took Angel a hundred years. But then, Angelus was far more of a bastard than he ever was.
And see, he can admit that now, because he has a soul and heavenly virtues to go with it. Prudence, humility, faith...aw, fuck, he can't remember any more of them. Probably bodes poorly for him, that.
He's halfway through this cigarette when someone opens the door, and he really, really hopes it's Buffy, because it's getting to the point where he doesn't even remember what it sounds like when she says his name, and it's a bit of a challenge to your dogma when your goddess forgets about you.
It's not her, of course, but at least he can add that little disappointment to his penance pile. It's that black bloke, the one that tried to kill him not two weeks' past.
He smiles faintly, because here's someone he can really piss off. Someone who not only notices him, but can't seem to focus on anything else. He knew when he smelled the oak-y scent of blood on wood, and it made him happy. In a soulless way. Vaguely, he wonders what true happiness feels like on this side of evil.
"Robin, isn't it?" he asks pleasantly, exhaling smoke.
Robin doesn't say anything, just leans against the post opposite him. His posture mirrors Spike's. Yeah, Spike thinks, you'd do good to be more like me. 'Cause even though I kinda like you, and feel sorry for you and all, you're still kind of a pussy.
"Don't talk to me," Robin says, trying to be all uncaring and bad assed, but failing miserably. Spike wants to laugh, because his voice is so loaded with desperate hatred, it's obvious that's all he has.
"Aw, don't be like that, mate. Just 'cause Buffy's got you pussy-whipped like the rest of us is no reason to be bitter." And, okay, maybe he's baiting the guy a little, but how could he not? Old habits die hard, and this guy reminds him uncannily of Angel. Version 2.0, soul and all.
Robin looks over at him intensely, and Spike grins, just knowing the various ways he's being ripped apart in Robin's head. Doubly funny that he won't touch him. Moral standards, and all that. Spike really doesn't understand them, but since he's not planning on touching Robin either, maybe he's got them, too.
"So, what are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be upstairs, fucking the second-string Slayer?" he continues, conversationally. Robin glares daggers at him. "Cigarette, mate?" he asks, offering his already-lit fag to him.
Robin looks at it with disgust. "I don't smoke," he says haughtily.
"Suit yourself," Spike says, and wraps his lips around the cigarette, glancing with heavy lidded eyes over at Robin. Maybe he's flirting with him. But he's bored, and for the life of him, he can't recall whether or not seducing your enemies falls under the category of 'good' or 'evil'.
Really, he wouldn't mind sleeping with Robin. He's a good-looking man, well-muscled. But more importantly, he's wounded and hurt in all the right places, and if Spike were to say he didn't like that, he'd be lying. And he's pretty sure lying falls under the 'evil' category.
So he plays with the cigarette. Pretends he doesn't see Robin's eyes watching him intently. Pretends he's not amused and turned on at the hint of lust warring with revulsion and hate in the boy's eyes. Because really, Spike's lived Robin's life several times over, and any hurt he has, Spike has times ten, so he feels entitled. To what? A tiny voice in his head asks, but he just ignores it.
He throws his fag on the ground and grinds it out casually with a boot. When he reaches into his pocket, he finds that his pack is empty. Well, fuck. He could go inside and ask Faith for some of hers, but then that would defeat the whole purpose of smoking in the first place.
He watches Robin, who shifts uncomfortably. So. On to plan B. He knows he wasn't planning on touching Robin, but, dammit, now he's out of cigarettes, and he has to do something with his hands and mouth. And when you think about it, he really does owe the other man. He did kill his mother.
Besides, it doesn't help when he runs into Buffy in the hall, wearing the silkiest, laciest, nicest things to go out on her big date, and he has to lie through his teeth when he pretends it doesn't bother him. Because he's never seen that particular garment, nor any of its partners, and Buffy never cared enough to wear something sexy just for him.
And to know it was all for this man, this veritable stranger, who is her boss and an unknown and already merits more attention than Spike...
He steps over to Robin, casually. He can see him tense up. "Get away from me," he whispers, and it doesn't sound very much like a threat.
"Listen, do you happen to have a cigarette on you? Because I'm all out..."
"I just told you that I don't smoke... Oh," he says, and the realization is in his eyes. This is not about a cigarette. Spike changes his opinion of Robin; he's not that dumb after all.
So, Spike kisses him. Forces his mouth open like an open wound, knowing that every single touch is painful for Robin, knowing that every spike of pleasure is paired with guilty anguish.
Robin pushes him back. "I hate you," he says, but it sounds like he doesn't even mean it, like he's telling it to himself, and not to Spike.
"I know," Spike says. "Feeling's mutual. You tried to kill me, remember?" Although, Buffy had tried to kill him, too, and look what had happened with that.
Robin's hands are up, palms facing outward, in a bizarre mixture of supplication and defense. Spike can't help it. He kisses him again, briefly.
Robin pushes him off quickly, ready this time. He doesn't stop there, staring into Spike's eyes for a second, searching, before he punches him in the face.
Spike grins madly and rubs his jaw. "Trying to turn me on, now, are you, love?"
Robin doesn't rise to the bait this time, leaving to go inside.
Spike can't say this evening was a total loss. His jaw hurts, and that's good. As far as this redemption thing is concerned, hurting is good. And maybe he's a little aroused now, but that's good, too. Nice to know that he hasn't completely fallen prey to sexless monogamy with Buffy.
More importantly, that guilty lusting look that Robin gave him, just before he punched him, is going to give him a high for at least the rest of the night. Goodbye, boredom.
Okay, so maybe he is still a little evil. But nothing the ache in his jaw won't atone for.