Title: Housekeeping
Rating: R-ish
Summary: This is an idea I had based on the following spoilers/specs: that Buffy will crush Spike's feelings again (but not really mean it) and that Willow is messing with Tara's memory. The rest of it is guesswork and hope.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Really. Poor as a church mouse....
Feedback: Please.
Prologue:
Spike was drunk.
*Really* drunk. He hadn't gotten this trashed in several months, Spike reflected hazily. But then- drastic circumstances required drastic amounts of hard liquor. And these were definitely drastic circumstances. Buffy had....
Thinking of Buffy hurt. Hurting equaled alcohol. Spike lifted the bottle in his left hand to his lips and took a long swallow. He tried thinking of Buffy again, and it didn't hurt quite so much. He took a swig from the bottle in his right hand just to be sure, and then cautiously steered his drunken brain back toward his disastrous interaction with the Slayer earlier that evening.
In the few weeks since the questionable miracle of Buffy's return, she and Spike had taken to patrolling together. They would amble along through Sunnydale's cemeteries, idly keeping an eye out for trouble. Spike never said much during these outings, preferring to listen respectfully, *supportively* to whatever the Slayer had to say. Like a bloody lap dog, Spike thought savagely. Trotting at his mistress's heels. Ouch. The thought inspired two more pulls of alcohol.
They had ended up at the Bronze, much to Spike's surprise and delight. Buffy rarely appeared in public with him, and even more rarely ran the risk of doing so somewhere where she might encounter one of her friends. She had even offered to buy him a drink. His little undead heart had soared, thinking that finally, finally she was willing to truly *see* him. To see what he had become for love of her....
Always was a bloody idiot about women, Spike thought viciously, tipping both bottles into his mouth at once. He'd gotten excited like the bleedin' pillock that he always had been, and he'd asked her to dance. Buffy had looked at him like he'd suddenly grown another head and firmly and impolitely declined.
"What do you think this is, a date? God, Spike, you just don't give up, do you?"
With that, she'd turned on one fashionably shod heel and stormed out, leaving him embarrassed, hurt, and stuck paying for her drink. Reeling, he'd done the only sensible thing and headed back to his crypt to drink himself into oblivion.
He'd moved beyond the self-hating part of drunkenness, past the requisite Buffy-hating stage, and was now moving toward his insightful phase. This was the danger point, as those who had seen Spike drunk well knew. This was when he came up with his "ideas"- and then acted on them. And he could feel some deep thinkin' coming up....
*Why* didn't she like him? What did Angel and Riley have that he didn't? Spike frowned, pondering. Okay, a soul apiece and maybe a hundred pounds of extra bulk. But hell, why did she WANT a boyfriend with a soul, anyway? They hadn't done much for her up this point, had they? And what was up with Buffy and the Hulking Male Physique? Towering over Buffy, Angel and Riley looked like giant, confused cattle. Ponces, both of 'em. Overfed, over-souled ponces, Spike thought grumpily. Then he had another drink. But she seemed to like 'em. She would have danced with *them*, and stuck around to drink her damn drink with them, and then gone home with them to....
Spike wisely stopped that train of thought. But then a snippet of his last thought danced back into his brain. Gone home.... Maybe that was it, he thought, maybe it was the home thing. Buffy liked blokes with houses. She just didn't dig the crypt. He wondered why, staring with bleary fondness at his undead bachelor pad. It had everything he needed- a television, a mini-fridge for beer and blood, and an enormous bed. Hell, he'd even gotten a chair. But it wasn't really the sort of place the birds were into, he realized. Harmony had bitched about it. That Riley bloke had lived in that giant fancy frat house, hadn't he? And come to think of it, even Dawn had said something about the difference between his bloody sire's great pretentious mansion and Spike's own cozy living quarters.... Hmm.
Spike sat up, excited now. He was on to something. Maybe if he got himself a house, or a flat, or whatever, he'd have a chance. Surging unsteadily to his feet, he grabbed his duster. It was time to go scare himself up a realtor.
****
The next evening, Spike woke up on the hardwood floor of a small, empty townhouse with a pounding headache, a really nasty taste in his mouth, and a six-month lease.
TBC
Next: Buffy decides to apologize, Dawn and Spike go furniture shopping, and tensions rise between the original Scoobies and their significant others....
Rating: R-ish
Summary: This is an idea I had based on the following spoilers/specs: that Buffy will crush Spike's feelings again (but not really mean it) and that Willow is messing with Tara's memory. The rest of it is guesswork and hope.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Really. Poor as a church mouse....
Feedback: Please.
Prologue:
Spike was drunk.
*Really* drunk. He hadn't gotten this trashed in several months, Spike reflected hazily. But then- drastic circumstances required drastic amounts of hard liquor. And these were definitely drastic circumstances. Buffy had....
Thinking of Buffy hurt. Hurting equaled alcohol. Spike lifted the bottle in his left hand to his lips and took a long swallow. He tried thinking of Buffy again, and it didn't hurt quite so much. He took a swig from the bottle in his right hand just to be sure, and then cautiously steered his drunken brain back toward his disastrous interaction with the Slayer earlier that evening.
In the few weeks since the questionable miracle of Buffy's return, she and Spike had taken to patrolling together. They would amble along through Sunnydale's cemeteries, idly keeping an eye out for trouble. Spike never said much during these outings, preferring to listen respectfully, *supportively* to whatever the Slayer had to say. Like a bloody lap dog, Spike thought savagely. Trotting at his mistress's heels. Ouch. The thought inspired two more pulls of alcohol.
They had ended up at the Bronze, much to Spike's surprise and delight. Buffy rarely appeared in public with him, and even more rarely ran the risk of doing so somewhere where she might encounter one of her friends. She had even offered to buy him a drink. His little undead heart had soared, thinking that finally, finally she was willing to truly *see* him. To see what he had become for love of her....
Always was a bloody idiot about women, Spike thought viciously, tipping both bottles into his mouth at once. He'd gotten excited like the bleedin' pillock that he always had been, and he'd asked her to dance. Buffy had looked at him like he'd suddenly grown another head and firmly and impolitely declined.
"What do you think this is, a date? God, Spike, you just don't give up, do you?"
With that, she'd turned on one fashionably shod heel and stormed out, leaving him embarrassed, hurt, and stuck paying for her drink. Reeling, he'd done the only sensible thing and headed back to his crypt to drink himself into oblivion.
He'd moved beyond the self-hating part of drunkenness, past the requisite Buffy-hating stage, and was now moving toward his insightful phase. This was the danger point, as those who had seen Spike drunk well knew. This was when he came up with his "ideas"- and then acted on them. And he could feel some deep thinkin' coming up....
*Why* didn't she like him? What did Angel and Riley have that he didn't? Spike frowned, pondering. Okay, a soul apiece and maybe a hundred pounds of extra bulk. But hell, why did she WANT a boyfriend with a soul, anyway? They hadn't done much for her up this point, had they? And what was up with Buffy and the Hulking Male Physique? Towering over Buffy, Angel and Riley looked like giant, confused cattle. Ponces, both of 'em. Overfed, over-souled ponces, Spike thought grumpily. Then he had another drink. But she seemed to like 'em. She would have danced with *them*, and stuck around to drink her damn drink with them, and then gone home with them to....
Spike wisely stopped that train of thought. But then a snippet of his last thought danced back into his brain. Gone home.... Maybe that was it, he thought, maybe it was the home thing. Buffy liked blokes with houses. She just didn't dig the crypt. He wondered why, staring with bleary fondness at his undead bachelor pad. It had everything he needed- a television, a mini-fridge for beer and blood, and an enormous bed. Hell, he'd even gotten a chair. But it wasn't really the sort of place the birds were into, he realized. Harmony had bitched about it. That Riley bloke had lived in that giant fancy frat house, hadn't he? And come to think of it, even Dawn had said something about the difference between his bloody sire's great pretentious mansion and Spike's own cozy living quarters.... Hmm.
Spike sat up, excited now. He was on to something. Maybe if he got himself a house, or a flat, or whatever, he'd have a chance. Surging unsteadily to his feet, he grabbed his duster. It was time to go scare himself up a realtor.
****
The next evening, Spike woke up on the hardwood floor of a small, empty townhouse with a pounding headache, a really nasty taste in his mouth, and a six-month lease.
TBC
Next: Buffy decides to apologize, Dawn and Spike go furniture shopping, and tensions rise between the original Scoobies and their significant others....