What can I think? Really, what am I meant to think? I've never been in
this situation before. Truthfully, I don't know how it involves me
personally, and I don't know why anyone it affects would care how I feel,
so I probably shouldn't waste any more time thinking about it at all.
Here's how I usually think: First I see something. I think exactly what I see. I say exactly what I think. See - think - say. It's not senseless, is it? Some people can be so... there are *hypocritical* people, moody people, and they can tell me it's wrong, it's not the way the world works, and blah blah blah. Well they don't have to listen to me. I'm sick of them anyway. I've been in this world a thousand years, so I'm gonna keep taking every minute as I see and think and say it. End of story.
Now what was I talking about? Oh, right. Spike. Ugh. I guess I should be happy for him. Is that the correct response? Happy was my first reaction. I saw him. I really *saw* him, and I knew he'd hit a loophole somehow, and so I was happy for him.
So great, whatever, I can remain happy. Let's all cheer. Woo hoo for Spike! Woo... oh wait, I'm sorry, I have to rest my jaw in between the cheering, because there's been a big purple bruise healing on it since Spike decided, in all his glorious souldom, to loosen my bottom teeth.
Not that I'm bitter. Oh no. Noooo, I'm fine and dandy.
Ow.
Let me start over, okay? I want to be happy. Until about an hour and a half ago, Spike never did anything to harm me. Sure he scowled a lot and said sarcastic things when he could've made himself more useful. And he made jokes I didn't get. And he talked like Giles, with that "bloody 'ell" foreigner stuff, which I know wasn't his fault entirely, but God, how annoying is that? Still, he wasn't unbearable to be around and I thought he liked me most of the time.
So I was thinking, sure, okay, I'll be happy for him. Really this time. I'll even speak to him again.
Spike, I'll say, in the spirit of friendship, I'm willing to forgive 'n forget, and now you can tell me how you got your soul back, please.
I can't help it, I'm curious. I can't stand it when people know something I don't. It's rude. And what I saw at the Bronze was too weird to forget, which is the only alternate option after "see". Otherwise, like I said, it's see-think-say. If I don't talk to Spike soon, I'll be stuck on "think" forever, and that part's never any fun.
Something is definitely going on. The way I saw Spike tonight... I've seen him lots of times before, but this time I saw *him*. His inner him. This is going to be very hard to explain in human terms. Vampires don't have reflections, right? The same way they don't groove with mirrors, they don't show themselves to us, vengeance demons and that type. I can *see* them, obviously, because they're in front of me a lot, but there's no real lasting, permanent- it's like a camera. No, not really like a camera, because vampires *can* be on camera, can't they? That's not what I mean at all. I'm just confusing myself. This is why I don't like the thinking!
And the soul or whatever it was I could see, I knew he did it himself - pretty impressive job. It was different, but there was nothing forced about it. It felt natural. You'd expect if there was this light inside him, this human-demon mesh he turned into, there would be some sign of struggle, a cosmic scratch here or there. But there wasn't. That's why I didn't even notice at first, because he was giving off the same general presence as Buffy and Xander and the women I talk to. It was fused into the rest of him as if it always had been, and it took me a little while to remember it wasn't supposed to be.
So I'm going to speak to him again and find out how, I decide, right this minute. As fast as I can seek him out and teleport my little-
"Anyanka." Oh... eep. "Where are we going now?"
I am not talking to Spike. Instead of talking to Spike, I am suddenly down in Arashmaharr, and I remain there for far too long, learning all about the joys and responsibilities of teleportation. I think D'Hoffryn is going to pull up a VCR and make me watch the field training video any second. It's very long and has hideous acting, and I'd much rather be anywhere in the human world right now. So I'm doing my best to convince him that I really think Spike's soul might be troubled enough to get him in prime vengeance mode. It's a lot of hooey, and I hate that I can't come up with anything better.
"Now, Anyanka," he says... and I realize I don't like him when he's smug like this. The way he smirks, like a sitcom father, makes me all nervous and fluttery, and I just want to go. "We couldn't just *walk* to the vampire?"
I agree, with a smile, we probably could. Silly of me and- and lazy too.
I open my eyes, inside the new Sunnydale High, with the distinct feeling I've been given a warning.
Spike's in the basement. I know because the place is abandoned, and the only noise I hear at all is coming from there. He says "Buffy" when he sees me. He looks... not the same as in the Bronze. Reflection-camera- soul-thing: check. Shirt: no check. General Spike attitude: no check. Big X and a question mark.
He frowns at me, because I'm not Buffy, then looks around blinking and stammering a lot. "It's... dreadful business, really, can't- can't- I wasn't didn't- bad. I'm... very bad." He nods at the end, and I assume he's proud he attached one coherent sentence to whatever it was he just said. Alrighty.
"Some basement," I say. I'm trying to be bright, I decide. Spread a little sunshine 'cause he looks like he could use it. Metaphorical sunshine, of course, not the kind that would kill him. For now.
He nods. "Buffy tell you about the spark. Come to watch. Best show in town, innit?"
"Spike," I say, very loudly. "This is Anya talking to you. Aaan-yuh. And- oh! It's the hair maybe. I WENT A FEW SHADES DARKER." (I'm a little too loud now, and he flinches. I detect a you're-bloody-insane-aren't-you stare, which I admit is pretty humorous coming from him.) "I'm thinking I don't want to greet the next millennium with dry or damaged hair, so there's this natural autumn brown I'm trying to head back to-"
He cuts me off, sneering. "I know your soddin' name, pet."
"Good. Okay. Very good!"
"Anya. William. William, Anya. William doesn't like the dark." (I honestly wonder if he's talking about my hair, just for a second.) "Fussy sort of boy. N-never be good for much."
I nod. Well, that window of sanity was fun while it lasted. "So you live down here now, huh? Cozy."
He sniffles and starts shuffling around. "Need me here. Needs me."
"Right. Listen, Spike, I... I'm willing to forego a formal apology for your hurtful and somewhat misogynistic behavior toward me, and in- in the spirit of friendship, I need a humble - no - I *humbly*, in the spirit of friendship..." Oh, bite me. "Spike, look. Nobody's being very nice to me and I just need you to fill me in a little!"
He stares. "Anya," he says, still set on proving that he knows my name. Or maybe he's finally connecting it to a memory.
"Spike, you wanna tell me what - what's going on?" I don't like the sound of my voice as I ask. It's all whiny and vulnerable, and I can't help it.
He nods. "It... everything inside, I- too much, too many lines, none of them rhyme." He shuts his eyes and sets his jaw. "Not *now*, ducks, I'm entertaining."
This is getting very annoying, because he might be answering and I have absolutely no idea what he's saying. I even consider using my powers. What else are they there for? I think, screw this, I can communicate with women scorned in any dialect under the sun. Back in the day, I could translate "bet you'd like to see him disemboweled" into Arabic, and now I'm gonna sit here smiling and nodding because somebody's not making sense?
Well, yeah. I will. I'll sit here smiling and nodding, because the last thing I need is the underworld getting on my case again for misuse of privileges. The pointlessness of this whole conversation in starting to sink in.
"You- you want something," says Spike. "Y-you don't just- barge in, that's- poor manners. That's... I- I know. No, I know. Wish. Wish. Shh. Shhhhh. Quiet now. Telly time."
Goddammit, I don't have time for this. I could be in Spain right now. I could be sweating in a sundress, drinking tequilas and watching stupid fat people being gored by bulls.
He's limping and hunched over when he walks near me. This is different also, not like at the Bronze. He's all scarred up now.
"What happened to your-? Oh gee, um, Spike, come here..." Heavy marks on his chest, lots of them. It's all red and peely, some places worse than others. "I- I can get you something for that."
"No touching, no n- no. No." I was not, just to be clear on this, within three feet of him. He sits on the floor.
The English language is failing me. "I really think... Spike... William... you should get o-ointment on that. It'll get really gross."
He's making this noise, a whimpering, humming noise. Like "nnnnn", sort of. It reminds me of little babies, and I want to give Spike a hug and some colorful band-aids and a bottle of juice. But he just told me not to touch him, and I was never big with motherly patience. (Speaking of which, I decided about a week ago, watching a pigtailed girl on a park swing, that Xander probably would've been a terrible father, but that's totally beside the point.)
I say, "Stop. Just stop it, Spike."
"Like you care. Like you bloody care, right? You- you know how it is. You know aaaall about..." and his face goes dark. "Punishment," he concludes.
I think about Ronnie and the fat people gored by bulls, and I shudder a little.
"Right. Right. Bet you could do loads of the ol' vengeance on me, couldn't you? I'm very bad, Anya."
"That's different," I say as convincingly as I can manage. "Stop this right now. You're my friend."
He giggles. He actually giggles at me. "I would be. Naughty girl, yeah? Went more'n a few shades back. All going back, you know. All of it 'til there's nothing left. You see that, or just me?" He gets quieter, intense. "Tell me, good little demon, you see inside now? See what I'm thinking?"
I do and I don't, and I'm nervous because I doubt my lame reflection-camera analogy is going to get through to him today. "What are you thinking?"
"Too many lines. All of it, going, gone. Can't stop it. You know that. Come to watch. Wish. Watch. 'S what you do, right?" He looks down at the floor, choking. "I *tried*..."
That's enough. I need to get out of here. I need to not see anything else that I can't understand, and that I won't want to think or talk about ever.
Spike shoots his eyes back up, full attention, when I head for the exit. "Don't leave me don't christ please don't leave..." He's crying.
"Spike. Honey. I-I'll come back, okay? I have to go..." (I struggle to come up with somewhere I might potentially have to go) "to the... hospital. To apologize to Ronnie." (What the hell? I panicked.)
Spike says, "What's that?" I think the crazy bastard was actually listening to me. He has follow-up questions. I really do want him dead for this, I swear.
"Wormy Ronnie. I'm gonna tell him, you know, that I'm sorry. For making him a big worm. And for, um, causing the emotional trauma of being a big worm. Even though he was a jerk.... It wasn't fair."
This is all coming off the top of my head, and it worries me that it might be some kind of insight.
Spike murmurs something and I try to ignore him. "So, now, I'm going to go and wish him luck as a productive member of human society. And I plan to buy him a gift at the tax-free shop, perhaps some suitably-priced flowers. And I'll tell him that you said hi."
He keeps muttering stuff to himself, but it seems to be slightly calmer nonsense than it was a minute ago, and he's not even looking at me anymore, so I run.
I feel much better now. Out of the basement and the new school and the "think" phase, moving on with my life. I'll come back and see him, I mean. I'm not ruling that out. It's just I'm very busy these days. My boss isn't happy with me, and I'm on call all hours of the day, and I can't spend all my time talking to loonies. I wasn't even making him feel better, you know? I was just there, when I had lots of other places to be.
Not that I'm actually gonna go visit Ronnie.
I mean, that's just stupid. It's not like Spike's gonna know. I probably gave him too much credit thinking that he'd remember who Ronnie *is*.
I even did figure out a way to explain the Bronze - you know, what I saw in Spike - without troubling analogies, just in case I ever need to tell anyone about it. I saw it looking at him again. There's this *thing* inside. The self, the true self, whether it's happy or miserable or babbling nonsense. And I'm still happy he found a loophole and put it in there. Most people look right through - I did it when I was human. But if you've ever seen it, you know. You know ones who don't have it have lost something bigger than love.
Spike was one of those before, I know it for a fact. First time I saw him after I became a vengeance demon again... well you know, we drank a lot and conversed and there were orgasms. Believe me, I was close enough to tell. It's not how hard your chest is, or how nice you smell, or how kind and accommodating you can be. If you're empty, you're empty. You're no one. Clean. Blank. Like D'Hoffryn. Like me, I guess.
When demons look at me, I wonder what they see. Do they know what I lost?
Oh, enough of this crap. I have a job, that's it. I am an empowered modern woman who does not mind being single, and I take pride in my career.
I'm just gonna... pass by and send the flowers up to Ronnie. Maybe.
Hospital was practically on my way home. I bet they've got some sort of anonymous sympathy card that can be attached.
Walking down the street, I think - "Anonymous: from no one" - without meaning to, because it's all I can.
Here's how I usually think: First I see something. I think exactly what I see. I say exactly what I think. See - think - say. It's not senseless, is it? Some people can be so... there are *hypocritical* people, moody people, and they can tell me it's wrong, it's not the way the world works, and blah blah blah. Well they don't have to listen to me. I'm sick of them anyway. I've been in this world a thousand years, so I'm gonna keep taking every minute as I see and think and say it. End of story.
Now what was I talking about? Oh, right. Spike. Ugh. I guess I should be happy for him. Is that the correct response? Happy was my first reaction. I saw him. I really *saw* him, and I knew he'd hit a loophole somehow, and so I was happy for him.
So great, whatever, I can remain happy. Let's all cheer. Woo hoo for Spike! Woo... oh wait, I'm sorry, I have to rest my jaw in between the cheering, because there's been a big purple bruise healing on it since Spike decided, in all his glorious souldom, to loosen my bottom teeth.
Not that I'm bitter. Oh no. Noooo, I'm fine and dandy.
Ow.
Let me start over, okay? I want to be happy. Until about an hour and a half ago, Spike never did anything to harm me. Sure he scowled a lot and said sarcastic things when he could've made himself more useful. And he made jokes I didn't get. And he talked like Giles, with that "bloody 'ell" foreigner stuff, which I know wasn't his fault entirely, but God, how annoying is that? Still, he wasn't unbearable to be around and I thought he liked me most of the time.
So I was thinking, sure, okay, I'll be happy for him. Really this time. I'll even speak to him again.
Spike, I'll say, in the spirit of friendship, I'm willing to forgive 'n forget, and now you can tell me how you got your soul back, please.
I can't help it, I'm curious. I can't stand it when people know something I don't. It's rude. And what I saw at the Bronze was too weird to forget, which is the only alternate option after "see". Otherwise, like I said, it's see-think-say. If I don't talk to Spike soon, I'll be stuck on "think" forever, and that part's never any fun.
Something is definitely going on. The way I saw Spike tonight... I've seen him lots of times before, but this time I saw *him*. His inner him. This is going to be very hard to explain in human terms. Vampires don't have reflections, right? The same way they don't groove with mirrors, they don't show themselves to us, vengeance demons and that type. I can *see* them, obviously, because they're in front of me a lot, but there's no real lasting, permanent- it's like a camera. No, not really like a camera, because vampires *can* be on camera, can't they? That's not what I mean at all. I'm just confusing myself. This is why I don't like the thinking!
And the soul or whatever it was I could see, I knew he did it himself - pretty impressive job. It was different, but there was nothing forced about it. It felt natural. You'd expect if there was this light inside him, this human-demon mesh he turned into, there would be some sign of struggle, a cosmic scratch here or there. But there wasn't. That's why I didn't even notice at first, because he was giving off the same general presence as Buffy and Xander and the women I talk to. It was fused into the rest of him as if it always had been, and it took me a little while to remember it wasn't supposed to be.
So I'm going to speak to him again and find out how, I decide, right this minute. As fast as I can seek him out and teleport my little-
"Anyanka." Oh... eep. "Where are we going now?"
I am not talking to Spike. Instead of talking to Spike, I am suddenly down in Arashmaharr, and I remain there for far too long, learning all about the joys and responsibilities of teleportation. I think D'Hoffryn is going to pull up a VCR and make me watch the field training video any second. It's very long and has hideous acting, and I'd much rather be anywhere in the human world right now. So I'm doing my best to convince him that I really think Spike's soul might be troubled enough to get him in prime vengeance mode. It's a lot of hooey, and I hate that I can't come up with anything better.
"Now, Anyanka," he says... and I realize I don't like him when he's smug like this. The way he smirks, like a sitcom father, makes me all nervous and fluttery, and I just want to go. "We couldn't just *walk* to the vampire?"
I agree, with a smile, we probably could. Silly of me and- and lazy too.
I open my eyes, inside the new Sunnydale High, with the distinct feeling I've been given a warning.
Spike's in the basement. I know because the place is abandoned, and the only noise I hear at all is coming from there. He says "Buffy" when he sees me. He looks... not the same as in the Bronze. Reflection-camera- soul-thing: check. Shirt: no check. General Spike attitude: no check. Big X and a question mark.
He frowns at me, because I'm not Buffy, then looks around blinking and stammering a lot. "It's... dreadful business, really, can't- can't- I wasn't didn't- bad. I'm... very bad." He nods at the end, and I assume he's proud he attached one coherent sentence to whatever it was he just said. Alrighty.
"Some basement," I say. I'm trying to be bright, I decide. Spread a little sunshine 'cause he looks like he could use it. Metaphorical sunshine, of course, not the kind that would kill him. For now.
He nods. "Buffy tell you about the spark. Come to watch. Best show in town, innit?"
"Spike," I say, very loudly. "This is Anya talking to you. Aaan-yuh. And- oh! It's the hair maybe. I WENT A FEW SHADES DARKER." (I'm a little too loud now, and he flinches. I detect a you're-bloody-insane-aren't-you stare, which I admit is pretty humorous coming from him.) "I'm thinking I don't want to greet the next millennium with dry or damaged hair, so there's this natural autumn brown I'm trying to head back to-"
He cuts me off, sneering. "I know your soddin' name, pet."
"Good. Okay. Very good!"
"Anya. William. William, Anya. William doesn't like the dark." (I honestly wonder if he's talking about my hair, just for a second.) "Fussy sort of boy. N-never be good for much."
I nod. Well, that window of sanity was fun while it lasted. "So you live down here now, huh? Cozy."
He sniffles and starts shuffling around. "Need me here. Needs me."
"Right. Listen, Spike, I... I'm willing to forego a formal apology for your hurtful and somewhat misogynistic behavior toward me, and in- in the spirit of friendship, I need a humble - no - I *humbly*, in the spirit of friendship..." Oh, bite me. "Spike, look. Nobody's being very nice to me and I just need you to fill me in a little!"
He stares. "Anya," he says, still set on proving that he knows my name. Or maybe he's finally connecting it to a memory.
"Spike, you wanna tell me what - what's going on?" I don't like the sound of my voice as I ask. It's all whiny and vulnerable, and I can't help it.
He nods. "It... everything inside, I- too much, too many lines, none of them rhyme." He shuts his eyes and sets his jaw. "Not *now*, ducks, I'm entertaining."
This is getting very annoying, because he might be answering and I have absolutely no idea what he's saying. I even consider using my powers. What else are they there for? I think, screw this, I can communicate with women scorned in any dialect under the sun. Back in the day, I could translate "bet you'd like to see him disemboweled" into Arabic, and now I'm gonna sit here smiling and nodding because somebody's not making sense?
Well, yeah. I will. I'll sit here smiling and nodding, because the last thing I need is the underworld getting on my case again for misuse of privileges. The pointlessness of this whole conversation in starting to sink in.
"You- you want something," says Spike. "Y-you don't just- barge in, that's- poor manners. That's... I- I know. No, I know. Wish. Wish. Shh. Shhhhh. Quiet now. Telly time."
Goddammit, I don't have time for this. I could be in Spain right now. I could be sweating in a sundress, drinking tequilas and watching stupid fat people being gored by bulls.
He's limping and hunched over when he walks near me. This is different also, not like at the Bronze. He's all scarred up now.
"What happened to your-? Oh gee, um, Spike, come here..." Heavy marks on his chest, lots of them. It's all red and peely, some places worse than others. "I- I can get you something for that."
"No touching, no n- no. No." I was not, just to be clear on this, within three feet of him. He sits on the floor.
The English language is failing me. "I really think... Spike... William... you should get o-ointment on that. It'll get really gross."
He's making this noise, a whimpering, humming noise. Like "nnnnn", sort of. It reminds me of little babies, and I want to give Spike a hug and some colorful band-aids and a bottle of juice. But he just told me not to touch him, and I was never big with motherly patience. (Speaking of which, I decided about a week ago, watching a pigtailed girl on a park swing, that Xander probably would've been a terrible father, but that's totally beside the point.)
I say, "Stop. Just stop it, Spike."
"Like you care. Like you bloody care, right? You- you know how it is. You know aaaall about..." and his face goes dark. "Punishment," he concludes.
I think about Ronnie and the fat people gored by bulls, and I shudder a little.
"Right. Right. Bet you could do loads of the ol' vengeance on me, couldn't you? I'm very bad, Anya."
"That's different," I say as convincingly as I can manage. "Stop this right now. You're my friend."
He giggles. He actually giggles at me. "I would be. Naughty girl, yeah? Went more'n a few shades back. All going back, you know. All of it 'til there's nothing left. You see that, or just me?" He gets quieter, intense. "Tell me, good little demon, you see inside now? See what I'm thinking?"
I do and I don't, and I'm nervous because I doubt my lame reflection-camera analogy is going to get through to him today. "What are you thinking?"
"Too many lines. All of it, going, gone. Can't stop it. You know that. Come to watch. Wish. Watch. 'S what you do, right?" He looks down at the floor, choking. "I *tried*..."
That's enough. I need to get out of here. I need to not see anything else that I can't understand, and that I won't want to think or talk about ever.
Spike shoots his eyes back up, full attention, when I head for the exit. "Don't leave me don't christ please don't leave..." He's crying.
"Spike. Honey. I-I'll come back, okay? I have to go..." (I struggle to come up with somewhere I might potentially have to go) "to the... hospital. To apologize to Ronnie." (What the hell? I panicked.)
Spike says, "What's that?" I think the crazy bastard was actually listening to me. He has follow-up questions. I really do want him dead for this, I swear.
"Wormy Ronnie. I'm gonna tell him, you know, that I'm sorry. For making him a big worm. And for, um, causing the emotional trauma of being a big worm. Even though he was a jerk.... It wasn't fair."
This is all coming off the top of my head, and it worries me that it might be some kind of insight.
Spike murmurs something and I try to ignore him. "So, now, I'm going to go and wish him luck as a productive member of human society. And I plan to buy him a gift at the tax-free shop, perhaps some suitably-priced flowers. And I'll tell him that you said hi."
He keeps muttering stuff to himself, but it seems to be slightly calmer nonsense than it was a minute ago, and he's not even looking at me anymore, so I run.
I feel much better now. Out of the basement and the new school and the "think" phase, moving on with my life. I'll come back and see him, I mean. I'm not ruling that out. It's just I'm very busy these days. My boss isn't happy with me, and I'm on call all hours of the day, and I can't spend all my time talking to loonies. I wasn't even making him feel better, you know? I was just there, when I had lots of other places to be.
Not that I'm actually gonna go visit Ronnie.
I mean, that's just stupid. It's not like Spike's gonna know. I probably gave him too much credit thinking that he'd remember who Ronnie *is*.
I even did figure out a way to explain the Bronze - you know, what I saw in Spike - without troubling analogies, just in case I ever need to tell anyone about it. I saw it looking at him again. There's this *thing* inside. The self, the true self, whether it's happy or miserable or babbling nonsense. And I'm still happy he found a loophole and put it in there. Most people look right through - I did it when I was human. But if you've ever seen it, you know. You know ones who don't have it have lost something bigger than love.
Spike was one of those before, I know it for a fact. First time I saw him after I became a vengeance demon again... well you know, we drank a lot and conversed and there were orgasms. Believe me, I was close enough to tell. It's not how hard your chest is, or how nice you smell, or how kind and accommodating you can be. If you're empty, you're empty. You're no one. Clean. Blank. Like D'Hoffryn. Like me, I guess.
When demons look at me, I wonder what they see. Do they know what I lost?
Oh, enough of this crap. I have a job, that's it. I am an empowered modern woman who does not mind being single, and I take pride in my career.
I'm just gonna... pass by and send the flowers up to Ronnie. Maybe.
Hospital was practically on my way home. I bet they've got some sort of anonymous sympathy card that can be attached.
Walking down the street, I think - "Anonymous: from no one" - without meaning to, because it's all I can.