Summary: Post crazy happenings of "Entropy", Buffy and Spike have a brief chat.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon. Not mine
Author's Note: Bastards!!! Some people played a nasty April Fool's Joke on me by posting the air date of 'Entropy' as April1, complete with a Wildfeed! Hah! This is just a little exercise to rev-up for the Spike Spin-Off
Spike looked up expectantly when he heard his crypt door slam in the most telling way. Buffy had always chosen expressions of violence to herald her arrival, whether she inflicted them on the door, on his crypt or on his heart. Why should today be any different?
He had been waiting for this, waiting for her the whole day with a bottle in his hand serving as a necessary anesthetic. Of course it was this business of drowning away the pain of rejection that had gotten him in even deeper shit in the first place but right now he was just too tired to care.
Shagging Xander's demon girl was fun as far as fun went and he had to admit it was a pleasant reprieve from the ennui and depression that characterized his Slayer-less days. But in the harsh light of day he became painfully aware of the desperation inherent in the act, facilitated by the recklessness of those who had nothing left to lose and nothing else worth living for. What he genuinely appreciated about that ex-demon was her no-nonsense approach to sex. She had been around long enough to know the score and hadn't demanded declarations of his desire or his love. Cheap thrills and purely recreational was what it was, unfettered by illusions of how things should be and reveling in the way things truly were.
And yet here he was, post-tryst and unhappy as ever.
Somewhere he knew Anya was nursing a broken heart coupled with paralyzing guilt and he hoped that she was doing a better job of it than he was.
He hadn't really expected his life to degenerate into one of those partner-swapping, swinging shows that he bypassed in favor of 'Passions' but then in a moment of clarity (such as those one gets after crossing a certain threshold of inebriation) he realized that he had become a player in what must have been God's favorite soap.
He was just drunk enough to appreciate the irony of his circumstances as Sunnydale's newest vamp lothario (a post previously occupied by none other than the Ensouled! One himself) when the telltale crash of a door sent him spiraling back into unpleasant sobriety.
Shite. The Slayer.
Footsteps on the upper level that suggested that she was indignant and infuriated. And for one moment, Spike thought Good. Let her come to me. I'm so bloody tired of meeting her halfway for once I'd like to see her grovel.
So much for the romantic antihero pose of resting idly in a chair with a whiskey bottle dangling from his fingertips, shirt undone. He is up and out of his chair before any Pavlovian dog has the chance to salivate. He tries not to dwell on how pathetically domesticated he is but he can't help it. She is stimulus and he is forever doomed to respond.
Suddenly she is there with him in the ruins of his abode, glowing and glistening in marked contrast with the devastation that surrounds her. Devastation she has unrepentantly wrought on him. She is wearing a delicate lace blouse over skintight jeans and she looks gorgeous. He wonders if she does this on purpose, just to rub a little salt into the wounds of his already lacerated heart. He looks at the murderous expression on her face and becomes half-fearful and half-overjoyed at the imminent prospect of dying at her hands in a jealous rage. And then contemplating the irony if ever that situation came to be, he couldn't help but laugh.
This unsettles her. Unnerves her just enough that he can see the subtle cracks in Fort Buffy.
"This is funny to you?" she asks coldly. He is tempted to answer Yes and give the all too popular argument that evil undead things such as he found matters like these and world hunger and genocide extremely hilarious but he can see that she is not in a jesting mood.
Instead he sits down on a chair to rest because he feels so very tired.
"If nothing else, love, I can appreciate the humor inherent in the situation."
She seems about to retort but she notices that his delivery is off. There is no snarkiness or insolent tone of voice. She doesn't know what to say to that and wisely chooses to remain silent.
He puts his head in his hands as if he could will away everything bad that had ever happened between him and Buffy. Will away a night of mindless sex that nullified what precious sliver of a chance he had left. Will away a stupid entrepreneurial scheme that left him destitute. He has been here before, thinking of the endless possibilities if only he had done one thing different or said one thing less that could have altered the inevitable outcome.
"So I take it you know…?" He says, broaching what is best left unspoken.
"Yes."
"How?" He looks up to meet her eyes, watches every expression on her face.
"I saw. Cameras courtesy of the Lords of Dim." She suddenly seems fixated on her boot, the floor, and the hem of her shirt. "Xander saw it too, and so did Willow… And Dawn…"
"And you." He finishes for her.
"Yes. And me." She stops fiddling with her shirt and looks him straight in the eyes. "Why did you do it?"
He remains quiet. He can't quite verbalize the desperation, the sense of sheer hopelessness and hurt that finally drove him to seek comfort where it was given. He can't quite say how hard it is, day in and day out, trying to keep his dreams alive in the face of her constant and cruel rejections. He cannot speak of the loneliness that gnaws at him everyday and his isolation from anything resembling warmth, be it human or demon. He was a poet once, but he has forgotten how to translate raw emotions into communicable words.
He only has one answer for her that somehow sums it all up.
"I don't know."
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon. Not mine
Author's Note: Bastards!!! Some people played a nasty April Fool's Joke on me by posting the air date of 'Entropy' as April1, complete with a Wildfeed! Hah! This is just a little exercise to rev-up for the Spike Spin-Off
Spike looked up expectantly when he heard his crypt door slam in the most telling way. Buffy had always chosen expressions of violence to herald her arrival, whether she inflicted them on the door, on his crypt or on his heart. Why should today be any different?
He had been waiting for this, waiting for her the whole day with a bottle in his hand serving as a necessary anesthetic. Of course it was this business of drowning away the pain of rejection that had gotten him in even deeper shit in the first place but right now he was just too tired to care.
Shagging Xander's demon girl was fun as far as fun went and he had to admit it was a pleasant reprieve from the ennui and depression that characterized his Slayer-less days. But in the harsh light of day he became painfully aware of the desperation inherent in the act, facilitated by the recklessness of those who had nothing left to lose and nothing else worth living for. What he genuinely appreciated about that ex-demon was her no-nonsense approach to sex. She had been around long enough to know the score and hadn't demanded declarations of his desire or his love. Cheap thrills and purely recreational was what it was, unfettered by illusions of how things should be and reveling in the way things truly were.
And yet here he was, post-tryst and unhappy as ever.
Somewhere he knew Anya was nursing a broken heart coupled with paralyzing guilt and he hoped that she was doing a better job of it than he was.
He hadn't really expected his life to degenerate into one of those partner-swapping, swinging shows that he bypassed in favor of 'Passions' but then in a moment of clarity (such as those one gets after crossing a certain threshold of inebriation) he realized that he had become a player in what must have been God's favorite soap.
He was just drunk enough to appreciate the irony of his circumstances as Sunnydale's newest vamp lothario (a post previously occupied by none other than the Ensouled! One himself) when the telltale crash of a door sent him spiraling back into unpleasant sobriety.
Shite. The Slayer.
Footsteps on the upper level that suggested that she was indignant and infuriated. And for one moment, Spike thought Good. Let her come to me. I'm so bloody tired of meeting her halfway for once I'd like to see her grovel.
So much for the romantic antihero pose of resting idly in a chair with a whiskey bottle dangling from his fingertips, shirt undone. He is up and out of his chair before any Pavlovian dog has the chance to salivate. He tries not to dwell on how pathetically domesticated he is but he can't help it. She is stimulus and he is forever doomed to respond.
Suddenly she is there with him in the ruins of his abode, glowing and glistening in marked contrast with the devastation that surrounds her. Devastation she has unrepentantly wrought on him. She is wearing a delicate lace blouse over skintight jeans and she looks gorgeous. He wonders if she does this on purpose, just to rub a little salt into the wounds of his already lacerated heart. He looks at the murderous expression on her face and becomes half-fearful and half-overjoyed at the imminent prospect of dying at her hands in a jealous rage. And then contemplating the irony if ever that situation came to be, he couldn't help but laugh.
This unsettles her. Unnerves her just enough that he can see the subtle cracks in Fort Buffy.
"This is funny to you?" she asks coldly. He is tempted to answer Yes and give the all too popular argument that evil undead things such as he found matters like these and world hunger and genocide extremely hilarious but he can see that she is not in a jesting mood.
Instead he sits down on a chair to rest because he feels so very tired.
"If nothing else, love, I can appreciate the humor inherent in the situation."
She seems about to retort but she notices that his delivery is off. There is no snarkiness or insolent tone of voice. She doesn't know what to say to that and wisely chooses to remain silent.
He puts his head in his hands as if he could will away everything bad that had ever happened between him and Buffy. Will away a night of mindless sex that nullified what precious sliver of a chance he had left. Will away a stupid entrepreneurial scheme that left him destitute. He has been here before, thinking of the endless possibilities if only he had done one thing different or said one thing less that could have altered the inevitable outcome.
"So I take it you know…?" He says, broaching what is best left unspoken.
"Yes."
"How?" He looks up to meet her eyes, watches every expression on her face.
"I saw. Cameras courtesy of the Lords of Dim." She suddenly seems fixated on her boot, the floor, and the hem of her shirt. "Xander saw it too, and so did Willow… And Dawn…"
"And you." He finishes for her.
"Yes. And me." She stops fiddling with her shirt and looks him straight in the eyes. "Why did you do it?"
He remains quiet. He can't quite verbalize the desperation, the sense of sheer hopelessness and hurt that finally drove him to seek comfort where it was given. He can't quite say how hard it is, day in and day out, trying to keep his dreams alive in the face of her constant and cruel rejections. He cannot speak of the loneliness that gnaws at him everyday and his isolation from anything resembling warmth, be it human or demon. He was a poet once, but he has forgotten how to translate raw emotions into communicable words.
He only has one answer for her that somehow sums it all up.
"I don't know."