Patching him up
Timeline: Season 7, after 7.5
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I do not own this character etc.
Author's note: Another basement ficlet. But rescue is in sight!
Spike sat rocking on his heels in the corner of the basement, unseeing blue eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, singing tunelessly to himself.
Mary had a little lamb…
His forehead started to furrow. How did that go on? He couldn't remember. His hand dropped down again. He stared at it. Something was wrong with it. Shouldn't his nails be black? Wasn't he evil? How could you tell if a person was evil if their nails weren't black? He had to fix that. Someone might get the wrong idea and think he was good. Couldn't have that. Fibbing, they'd say, one step away from lying. He looked around for nail polish. You never knew what might turn up here. Rats, polish, Buffy's.
He heard footsteps. Sometimes he'd think they were hers, but they never were. He'd been taken in, a few times, and always he'd be wrong. That's what had happened to him. He didn't know right from wrong anymore. Or was it real and unreal? It was so hard to keep all these little categories in his head. He'd label things, and put them in his mental filing system, and the next time he'd look they'd be in the wrong place.
The apparition spoke to him.
"Spike? Willow finally figured out what's wrong was you. I've come to fix you up."
Did she mean she was going to do his nails? That was a new one. Her nails where shiny and pink, as pink as rat's noses, and they were scrabbling and picking at something.
"Spike? Come here, turn down your collar."
Obediently he offered his neck. Perhaps she'd make him glorious again, like the other one had before. Warm fingers pressed something to his neck, and smoothed over it a few times.
"There. That ought to do it. I'll come back in my lunch break to see if you're better."
The footsteps receded, halted, receded further. He didn't look up. What was the point? They never stayed.
Slowly the shifting contours of the basement solidified and settled. What was that smell? He tried to stand up, and nearly toppled as stiff muscles and joints protested. What the hell was he still doing here? He felt as if he hadn't had a drop of blood in weeks, and not to put to fine a point to it, hadn't actually bathed in that time as well. He ran a hand through his hair, releasing a shower of dried up gel flakes. It looked just like dandruff on his black shirt. He started to brush at the clingy stuff, and felt the plaster on his neck. Huh? He peeled it off carefully. A nicotine plaster? What the bloody hell was that for? Slowly he realized he hadn't had a fag since Africa. He almost giggled when it hit him. He wasn't insane! That had just been a hundred and twenty years worth of nicotine withdrawal!