Resistance

-x-

Three

-x-

At seven o'clock in the morning - as it did at seven o'clock every morning - the alarm clock in Spike and Lynda's bedroom began to trill merrily. Spike sat up in bed fuzzily, groping for the clock, only to find that it was at Lynda's bedside rather than his own. His girlfriend was already out of bed – he could hear the shower running. He groaned. For somebody who created such an impression that she cared nothing about her appearance, Lynda Day sure took an eternity in the bathroom. He tried to settle back into the bed, but it was no good. He was awake now, and growing ever more conscious of how full his bladder was. With a second groan, he dragged himself out of bed, carefully picking over the strewn clothes, books, newspapers and unpacked boxes of his things, which lay on the floor, and made his way to the bathroom door. He knocked, politely. Evidently, Lynda didn't hear him above the noise of the shower, so he knocked again, much harder.

'What?' called Lynda over the shower's torrent.

'You gonna be long in there?'

'As long as I need to be,' came the reply.

Spike sighed, and waited for a moment, gazing at the tights and polo shirt left to dry on the hall's radiator. He knocked again.

'I kinda gotta go.'

'Oh.' Lynda paused. 'Can it wait?'

'Not really.'

'Hmm. Well, the door's not locked, if it's that desperate…'

Spike stalled for a moment before deciding that it was that or going in the kitchen sink. 'OK… I'm coming in.'

He pushed on the door and shuffled into the steamy bathroom. He took a moment to admire the wet, naked young woman behind the transparent shower curtain.

'Now there's a sight for sore eyes,' he smirked.

Her hair plastered to her neck, Lynda opened one eye against the stream of hot water pouring over her.

'Get on with it, Spike.'

'Oh. Um. Sure.' Spike put the seat of the toilet up, positioning himself in front of the bowl. He cleared his throat. 'Could you turn your back or somethin'? I have trouble doing this with an audience.'

'I've closed my eyes,' replied Lynda, 'is that good enough?'

'Yeah. OK.' Spike relaxed. 'Ya didn't flush, by the way.'

'Well, I didn't very well know you were going to barge in on my shower.'

Spike grinned as he finished off. 'I'll go and make us breakfast.' Without thinking, he flushed the toilet. It only occurred to him that he shouldn't have when Lynda screamed.

'Sorry! Sorry, Lynda…'

'I've just scalded myself, you bloody Troglodyte! Get out!'

'Sorry… sorry…' Spike hurriedly washed his hands, only for Lynda to squeal again.

'What are you doing to my lovely warm water?'

'Ah, Geez…' Spike wiped his hands on the only towel he could find and made a hasty retreat to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and switched it on, peering at the car park over the road. He frowned. It was empty. It was usually filling up already by that time in the morning. He yawned, and switched on the radio, pulling a face at Lynda's choice of station and re-tuning it to something more contemporary. He fished around in a cupboard for something breakfasty which was still in its Sell By Date, plumping eventually for a bowl of Shreddies with a good helping of sugar on top. He leaned against the kitchen counter, eating his cereal and listening to the DJ. Something that the DJ said made him stop, and want to slam his head repeatedly in the washing machine door.

The bathroom door opened and Lynda wandered through in a towel.

'My towel's all wet,' she complained, 'you didn't wipe your grubby hands on it, did you?'

Spike finished silently counting to ten.

'It's Sunday, Lynda.'

Lynda cocked her head. 'And…?'

'We don't work Sundays.'

'So?'

'Lynda,' sighed Spike, putting down the bowl, 'Sunday is the one day of the week that I ever get to lie in. Why the Hell am I up a 7 AM on Sunday morning?'

'Well, how should I know?' Lynda started to pad her way back into the bedroom. 'I'm always up at seven, don't want to spend the whole day asleep. Shower's free, by the way.'

Spike shook his head. 'May as well,' he told himself, 'I'm awake now, after all.' He wandered back into the bathroom, dodging more boxes and piles of assorted brick-a-brack as he went, and got into the shower. He turned it on and waited for the water to turn hot. And waited. And waited.

'LYNDA!'

-x-

Liz stumbled over to the door, pulling her dressing gown about herself.

'Yes, all right, all right,' she told the impatient doorbell as it rang for the fifth time. She fumbled to unlock the door and opened it up to see the postman.

'What…?'

'Recorded Delivery, Miss,' the postman told her brightly, handing her an envelope and a form on a clipboard to sign.

Muttering ominous mutterings, Liz scribbled down her name on the form and passed it back to the postman. The man took a cursory glance at her signature and snorted with derision.

'Can't accept made-up names, Miss.'

Liz rolled her eyes. 'Not again. Fish is my real name.'

'Don't be daft. Fish isn't a name.'

'Look. It might not be particularly common, or, indeed glamorous, but it really is my surname.' She showed him the front of the envelope. 'See?'

The postman turned the envelope around to show Lizzie the name that was written on the front of it. 'The letter's for an Elizabeth Mathews. That is you, I take it. Now, that's a proper name…'

Liz sighed. 'How much is he paying you?'

The postman frowned. 'How much is who paying me? I don't understand.'

'Funny…' continued Liz, 'I've never known a postman to deliver any mail, let alone stop over a while for a few well chosen personal insults… on a Sunday.'

Liz shot the postman a knowing glance.

'Ten quid,' he confessed. 'Fifty if you say "Yes".'

Liz handed the postman back the letter. 'He's got you on Commission?'

The postman shrugged. 'He wants results. Morning, Miss.'

Shaking her head, Liz closed the door again and went back to bed.

-x-

'Where are my socks, Lynda?'

Lynda looked up from her coffee and crossword.

'Aren't they still in your suitcase?'

'They were never in my suitcase,' came the irritated reply from the bedroom, 'my suitcase only had sweaters, hats, pants, boxers and – for some reason – the Indiana Jones Trilogy in. My socks used to be in a box with my T-Shirts and fridge magnets, but they've all gone.'

Lynda took another calm sip and filled in 12 Across with the word "Malodorous". 'Oh yes,' she called, 'I kept treading on that box, so I unpacked it for you.'

There was a brief pause. 'Care to tell me where it is that you unpacked them to?'

'The sock drawer, of course,' Lynda replied.

'Which is where…?'

'Next to the pants drawer.' Lynda paused to write the word "Contralto" faintly in the newspaper's margin and frown at it. 'Top right.'

'I'm lookin' in the socks drawer,' replied the voice, 'all I can see are your socks…'

'Yours are at the back. You might need to rummage a bit.' She scribbled out "Contralto" and wrote "Countertenor" confidently down the centre of the puzzle.

Spike poked a curious head around the bedroom door. 'You have pink socks? With kittens on them? And how's about these?' With a smirk, he showed Lynda a pair of socks with the image of two teddy bears having a tea party knitted into them.

'They're Sarah's,' Lynda replied hastily.

'Why would you have a pair of Sarah's socks in your dresser?' Spike padded barefoot into the kitchen. 'Hope ya left some coffee for me.'

'It's only instant.' Lynda stared at Spike's bare feet. 'You're not going to go around like that all day, are you?'

Spike shrugged. 'Couldn't find any socks. Why, what's wrong with goin' John McClane?'

'You've got weird feet.'

'Huh?'

She pointed at them. 'That one's bigger than that one.'

'That's because it got mushed into a fine pate by an exploding building a few years ago.' Spike frowned. 'Leave my feet alone, why don'tcha. I don't talk about your hairy butt.'

Lynda swallowed a mouthful of coffee much too fast. 'I have not got a hairy bottom!'

'It is kinda fluffy, Lynda.' Spike sat down at the table. 'I can get you the number of a beauty salon that can…'

Lynda hurled the nearest object to hand at him in a fit of pique. It flew past Spike's shoulder and smashed on a kitchen cabinet.

'Aaaand now we need a new sugar bowl,' added Spike. 'I love Sunday mornings, don't you? They're so chilled.'

Lynda sighed, and got up from her chair to fetch the dustpan and brush without a word. Spike watched her from his seat at the table.

'What?' he asked her, 'no comebacks?'

Lynda began to rummage through the cupboard under the sink, irritably pulling stacks of cooking utensils out of it and setting them noisily on the floor.

'I can't find a damn thing in this flat any more,' she complained as she searched, 'everything's choc-full of all your useless odds and ends.'

'You're the one who decided to bring all my stuff here, Lynda,' Spike replied, casting an eye over Lynda's crossword, 'and I'll have you know it is not "useless". I've always been a rolling stone. I don't gather moss.'

'Then what are these?' She pulled out a stack of four small ceramic pots.

'Those are my ramekins.'

She slammed another pan down. 'Why didn't you just tell me outright you were Gay?'

'Don't throw my things on the floor, Lynda.'

'Well, there's nowhere else to put them!' Lynda unearthed the dustpan from the back of the cupboard and turned to him. She blinked. 'Are you doing my crossword?'

Spike set the pen down. 'I've done, like, two answers. So shoot me.'

'That's my crossword, Spike!'

'I don't see your name on it…'

Lynda marched to the table, stepping over the shattered remains of the sugar bowl, grabbed the pen and wrote 'LYNDA' in large, angry letters over the top of the crossword.

Spike rolled his eyes. 'What the Hell is up with you, Lynda? I'm the one who was woken up too early, who had to have a cold shower because you'd used up all the hot water, who can't find any of his socks…'

'Yes,' retorted Lynda, sharply, 'and you're the one who came up with this stupid idea in the first place.' She paced over to the broken bowl again. 'Why is this flat so small? It's never been this small before. Everywhere I look, it's either you, or pictures of you, or your bloody ramekins…'

'Screw this.' Spike got to his feet and turned to walk out into the hall. 'I haven't exactly had the best day so far myself, you know. I'm not gonna spend the rest of it dodging crockery.'

Lynda looked up from her sweeping. 'Where are you going?'

'Out.' Spike pushed his sockless feet into his trainers. 'I need a walk.'

'You can't go out for a walk! I need a walk! You can't just stroll out and leave me here, sweeping the floor, like a…' A realisation hit Lynda, causing her to drop the dustpan as if it were on fire. 'Like a Wife,' she spat.

'I'm not stopping you from going out too,' replied Spike as he put his jacket on. 'In fact, I advise that you do get out for some space.' He regarded her, kneeling miserably amongst all the saucepans and unpacked boxes in the tiny kitchen, and sighed. 'You know what, I think you could be right. Maybe this isn't gonna work after all.'