Spoilers: Takes place during S6.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, but I asked nicely before I borrowed them.
Author's notes: This is my first completed fic. Thanks to Madrigal Costello for the "undead vibrator" line.
Part I: Spike
Spike hates Sunnydale Mall. It's airless and the smells of so much flesh so close together remind him of pleasures he can't know any longer, and the rent-a-cops always follow him around. He wonders, idly, what they'd do if they knew who they were trailing.
But he goes there anyhow. He knows it's silly, but damn it, it's Valentine's Day and he loves her and he's still love's bitch, after all. And he thinks she - a part of her, anyhow - belongs in the perverse normalcy of the mall, Victoria's Secret and Cinnabon and Sam Goody, that they have what she deserves and wants and needs. So Spike goes shopping.
At the jewelry counter of Penney's, he spots a necklace he'd give his eyeteeth for - a simple ruby charm on a white-gold chain, it would look *killer* between her breasts. He plucks it off the rack and fingers it delicately.
Then he remembers Valentine's Day four years ago, when he gave Drusilla a similar necklace. And Angelus gave her a still-beating heart. And then his loves, his sires, disappeared to the bedroom together and closed the door. And his legs give him a stab of phantom pain, as they often do when he thinks of that time. Spike replaces the necklace, turns, and walks away.
No, that necklace wasn't the thing at all. Maybe not jewelry at all, in fact - he didn't want to risk that whatever he gave her (as if she would even wear it, he thinks) would end up deep-fried and served with a double-sized Doublemeat combo meal.
And as much as he pants to see her in a little lacy scrap of not-very-much-at-all (and then tear it off with his teeth), he doesn't stop at the lingerie store. It's too obvious, and he wants to give her something about romance, not sex, so that he can pretend (at least, Spike thinks, until she throws the present out and him with it) that they really are together. That she thinks of him as more than an undead vibrator with an accent. And besides, he already has a silk blindfold at home for if the evening goes well.
He finds himself in front of the bookstore and goes in, figuring at the least he'll be able to pick up the latest copy of Q.
He grabs the magazine, doesn't even look at the fiction, heads straight for Waldenbook's (pitiful) "Poetry/Literature" section. Shakespeare, no, she would have read it in high school and none of her generation understood it anyhow. Maya Angelou, no. e.e. cummings, maybe, but not for her. Not for them.
Then he finds the book, a Penguin paperback with a painting of a man on the front - the complete works of John Donne. Spike has always loved the way Donne mingles sex and death into a stew - one of the few mortals, he thinks, who ever got it.
Spike buys it - he can imagine the bitch wanting to see a receipt, and making him return it if there isn't one - folds down a corner so she'll read that poem first, and scrawls in the front, "To Buffy, on Valentine's Day."
"We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse"
Part II: Buffy
I am not doing this, Buffy thinks. I am not buying a gift for an undead fiend who has tried to kill me almost as often as he's fucked me. A Valentine's Day gift, especially.
But she stays in line.
In her hands: wild giraffe-patterned silk boxers. Because they're a cliché, because they're silly, because they're something Spike would never ever ever wear. So it's not like she's shopping for him, exactly - she can pretend to just be a plain old boring college student, buying underwear for her flavor o' the week.
It's the night before Valentine's day - a Wednesday, as it happens, but the people in front of her apparently didn't get the memo that they were supposed to shop on weekends. Buffy has to bounce up on her toes just to see the Target cashier scanning the diapers a bored-looking blonde woman is buying one, three, six carts ahead of her.
So, six more people to go before she can get the giraffe boxers and she is starting to really wish she'd gotten something else. A bottle of tequila, maybe. Cards for kitten poker. Or just take him to the Bronze and buy him a blooming onion and dance with him - no sex, just a date, because he'd like that and she's sore anyhow - except her friends would probably be there (they always were) and ask about that.
And she's tired of lying, and she's already spent enough time imagining what they would say when she told them. Xander would be angry - "Did I miss something here, or did you forget what a bad idea it was last time you decided to date someone with fangs?" Willow would think it was her fault and get all guilty and start thinking about magic that could put it right. Giles ... at best it would involve cleaning his glasses and sighing and probably a lecture. At worst, he might just decide to fly back and stake Spike himself.
On the other hand, Anya wouldn't care, she would ask what the difference between a soul and a chip was, and probably volunteer that she'd always thought Spike had a cute butt on top of that,. And Dawn, of course, would be thrilled. Buffy really didn't want to deal with that. Tara knowing is big enough for right now.
Four more and the guy in line in front of her is almost staring at her and Buffy blushes and wishes she'd grabbed something, anything else as cover so she wasn't so obviously buying a gift for her boyfriend. No, not boyfriend. Not friend at all most of the time (at least not that she can admit, but Buffy has a niggling feeling in the back of her head that this isn't exactly the case anymore), so fuckbuddy wasn't true either. Lover? Nah. That would imply the l-word. A gift for someone she was sleeping with, then. She tossed her hair and tried to look European and blasé, like she bought men's underwear every day of the week and what's it to you?
Two more. Buffy stares at the stained ceiling and wonders how she got into this. Why in the world did she stop on way home from the Palace, still smelling of meat and grease, to get a gift for someone she didn't even like and certainly wouldn't be sleeping with if she were in her right mind?
Except, well, it's Valentine's Day. And she's kind of with Spike. And she'd feel stupid not to get him anything, especially if he got her something. And besides, if he wore them, the boxers would look cute on him.
And now she's at the head of the line. The clerk rings them up. "$7.75," she says, and Buffy hands over a ten and gets a small brown paper bag and a mound of change in return. No wrapping, she thinks, that will make it less like a gift. And then she heads home for a shower.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, but I asked nicely before I borrowed them.
Author's notes: This is my first completed fic. Thanks to Madrigal Costello for the "undead vibrator" line.
Part I: Spike
Spike hates Sunnydale Mall. It's airless and the smells of so much flesh so close together remind him of pleasures he can't know any longer, and the rent-a-cops always follow him around. He wonders, idly, what they'd do if they knew who they were trailing.
But he goes there anyhow. He knows it's silly, but damn it, it's Valentine's Day and he loves her and he's still love's bitch, after all. And he thinks she - a part of her, anyhow - belongs in the perverse normalcy of the mall, Victoria's Secret and Cinnabon and Sam Goody, that they have what she deserves and wants and needs. So Spike goes shopping.
At the jewelry counter of Penney's, he spots a necklace he'd give his eyeteeth for - a simple ruby charm on a white-gold chain, it would look *killer* between her breasts. He plucks it off the rack and fingers it delicately.
Then he remembers Valentine's Day four years ago, when he gave Drusilla a similar necklace. And Angelus gave her a still-beating heart. And then his loves, his sires, disappeared to the bedroom together and closed the door. And his legs give him a stab of phantom pain, as they often do when he thinks of that time. Spike replaces the necklace, turns, and walks away.
No, that necklace wasn't the thing at all. Maybe not jewelry at all, in fact - he didn't want to risk that whatever he gave her (as if she would even wear it, he thinks) would end up deep-fried and served with a double-sized Doublemeat combo meal.
And as much as he pants to see her in a little lacy scrap of not-very-much-at-all (and then tear it off with his teeth), he doesn't stop at the lingerie store. It's too obvious, and he wants to give her something about romance, not sex, so that he can pretend (at least, Spike thinks, until she throws the present out and him with it) that they really are together. That she thinks of him as more than an undead vibrator with an accent. And besides, he already has a silk blindfold at home for if the evening goes well.
He finds himself in front of the bookstore and goes in, figuring at the least he'll be able to pick up the latest copy of Q.
He grabs the magazine, doesn't even look at the fiction, heads straight for Waldenbook's (pitiful) "Poetry/Literature" section. Shakespeare, no, she would have read it in high school and none of her generation understood it anyhow. Maya Angelou, no. e.e. cummings, maybe, but not for her. Not for them.
Then he finds the book, a Penguin paperback with a painting of a man on the front - the complete works of John Donne. Spike has always loved the way Donne mingles sex and death into a stew - one of the few mortals, he thinks, who ever got it.
Spike buys it - he can imagine the bitch wanting to see a receipt, and making him return it if there isn't one - folds down a corner so she'll read that poem first, and scrawls in the front, "To Buffy, on Valentine's Day."
"We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse"
Part II: Buffy
I am not doing this, Buffy thinks. I am not buying a gift for an undead fiend who has tried to kill me almost as often as he's fucked me. A Valentine's Day gift, especially.
But she stays in line.
In her hands: wild giraffe-patterned silk boxers. Because they're a cliché, because they're silly, because they're something Spike would never ever ever wear. So it's not like she's shopping for him, exactly - she can pretend to just be a plain old boring college student, buying underwear for her flavor o' the week.
It's the night before Valentine's day - a Wednesday, as it happens, but the people in front of her apparently didn't get the memo that they were supposed to shop on weekends. Buffy has to bounce up on her toes just to see the Target cashier scanning the diapers a bored-looking blonde woman is buying one, three, six carts ahead of her.
So, six more people to go before she can get the giraffe boxers and she is starting to really wish she'd gotten something else. A bottle of tequila, maybe. Cards for kitten poker. Or just take him to the Bronze and buy him a blooming onion and dance with him - no sex, just a date, because he'd like that and she's sore anyhow - except her friends would probably be there (they always were) and ask about that.
And she's tired of lying, and she's already spent enough time imagining what they would say when she told them. Xander would be angry - "Did I miss something here, or did you forget what a bad idea it was last time you decided to date someone with fangs?" Willow would think it was her fault and get all guilty and start thinking about magic that could put it right. Giles ... at best it would involve cleaning his glasses and sighing and probably a lecture. At worst, he might just decide to fly back and stake Spike himself.
On the other hand, Anya wouldn't care, she would ask what the difference between a soul and a chip was, and probably volunteer that she'd always thought Spike had a cute butt on top of that,. And Dawn, of course, would be thrilled. Buffy really didn't want to deal with that. Tara knowing is big enough for right now.
Four more and the guy in line in front of her is almost staring at her and Buffy blushes and wishes she'd grabbed something, anything else as cover so she wasn't so obviously buying a gift for her boyfriend. No, not boyfriend. Not friend at all most of the time (at least not that she can admit, but Buffy has a niggling feeling in the back of her head that this isn't exactly the case anymore), so fuckbuddy wasn't true either. Lover? Nah. That would imply the l-word. A gift for someone she was sleeping with, then. She tossed her hair and tried to look European and blasé, like she bought men's underwear every day of the week and what's it to you?
Two more. Buffy stares at the stained ceiling and wonders how she got into this. Why in the world did she stop on way home from the Palace, still smelling of meat and grease, to get a gift for someone she didn't even like and certainly wouldn't be sleeping with if she were in her right mind?
Except, well, it's Valentine's Day. And she's kind of with Spike. And she'd feel stupid not to get him anything, especially if he got her something. And besides, if he wore them, the boxers would look cute on him.
And now she's at the head of the line. The clerk rings them up. "$7.75," she says, and Buffy hands over a ten and gets a small brown paper bag and a mound of change in return. No wrapping, she thinks, that will make it less like a gift. And then she heads home for a shower.