Back Before Dawn
by Annakovsky
Part 7/11
See part 1 for disclaimer, rating, etc.
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Spike: 6:38 pm, Tuesday, February 18, 2003
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Rupert seemed irritable when he came downstairs earlier, but then he nearly always seems irritable these days. And he doesn't like me much, not that it bothers me. I did use to like it when he watched Passions with me, and the bloke does have an amazing music collection, but with that bloody enormous pole up his ass, who needs him?
Was reading The Great Gatsby over again, trying to avoid the sodding three ring circus always in progress upstairs. If I'm not reading I find that I end up brooding like the hideous poofter, and the similarities between us are already embarrassing enough. Don't need to add furrows that match the ones on his gargantuan brow.
Of course, if I hear anyone headed towards the basement stairs I immediately shove the book under the covers, pull off my shirt and try to arrange the sheet over myself artistically, as if all I do all day is lounge about looking provocative. I've got a reputation to uphold, after all.
Gatsby is one of my favorites. Fitzgerald knew what life was about, even if he were an enormous ass in person (should've let Dru rip his windpipe out after all). It's all about self-invention. Decide who you're going to be, be that person, and pretty soon even you'll start believing it. Which is when the fun kicks in. Take me, for instance. Back when I was alive, I was a nancy-boy ponce who spent all his time fretting about what he wanted to do instead of just doing it, all thought, no action – full of squelched desires and frustration that erupted into poetic rubbish. When Drusilla turned me, it was the beginning of a whole new existence, and I took full advantage of that fact. William was dead and buried and Spike rose from his ashes. Figurative ashes, of course. Cremation doesn't go over well with vampires.
You'd be surprised how easy it was to become the exact opposite of William. Every time I felt the urge to start thinking too much or, heaven forbid, write poetry, I'd go out and kill something. Reflection and introspection were out – impulsivity and self-gratification were in. If I wanted to fuck something, I fucked it, wanted to eat something, I ate it, wanted to take something I took it, and so on. Used to be full of self-loathing, but now I never sat still long enough to brood on what I thought of myself. It was beautiful, really – I'd recommend it.
'Course there are some things so deeply ingrained as to be unchangeable. Became the opposite of William in every way – but I'm still love's bitch. Can't change that, no matter what I am – whether I'm a human, vamp, chipped vamp, chipped with soul, soulled but chipless, you name it, I'm following after Cecily or Drusilla or Buffy like a little puppy dog waiting to be kicked. Never been ashamed of that. Maybe it's not a good quality, I don't know, but it's what I am. Bit of an embarrassment for a vampire, being all soft over a girl, too human and that, but I don't mind. Always gotten a good deal of enjoyment out of human things and don't see why I should give that up. So what if I like football and soaps and crunchy things in my blood? Or if I happen to fall in love with the Slayer… well, one could argue that that wasn't the best idea I've ever had, but it's not like I could help it.
Buffy, now. Buffy. Her name's like this mantra these days, filling up the empty spaces in my thoughts. Buffy. I'll be reading along in my book and then find myself just staring into space with her name echoing through my head, over and over, feeling a mix of happiness and anguish and fear. She's always brought me mixed feelings, and along with those, compulsions, need. Used to pace by her house ten times a night to see if her light was on, stand in her yard smoking and watching, wanting to be near her. I'd take whatever she'd give me, scrambling after any crumbs of affection that she might accidentally drop.
Knew she didn't love me, didn't like me, even. Knew that I might as well have been a blow-up doll for her, one that doubled as a punching bag. Couldn't stop it, for all that. I just wanted her so badly, tried to make myself believe that she wanted me too, needed me, that I gave her something no one else could, somehow.
Then I… in the bathroom. Hurt her. Like that. I was always talking about how evil I was, like it was something to be proud of, but afterwards… that was the moment I felt it. That I really was an evil, soulless thing who never deserved her. Never thought I'd agree with Harris, but there it was. Had to get out of there, had to fix it, get myself changed somehow. So I did. And then, with the soul firmly in place, I knew how bad it really had been, how I had just kept pulling her down, trying to make her as dark and evil as I was myself. Saw how awful I'd made it for her, and how I'd better clear off, leave her alone.
But I couldn't stay away. Justified it by thinking that I needed to help them fight evil, keep the world from ending, but really, it's just that I need to be near her. Can't help it. Be the death of me in the end, I'm sure, but nothing I can do.
Problem is, I've come to the end of self-invention. I can't be William, I'm afraid to be Spike, and I bloody refuse to be Angel. Another fine mess I've gotten me into – didn't fully think through the soul thing, as usual. Only thing I know is that I'll be whatever she wants me to be – which is a problem, since Buffy never knows what she wants. Everything real about her's buried under a shell of God knows what, and I don't know how to break through it. I mean, I tried assault - no bloody idea why that brilliant plan didn't work. Should've cultivated the patience for a more sophisticated approach, but, well, hundred and twenty years being Spike didn't really give me a leg up in that respect.
I'm terrified that what she wants is Angel.
Bloody hell, am I brooding? Goddamn bloody fucking basement, nothing to do but listen to the leaky pipe drip and mull over past sins – well, fuck this. Not my night for patrolling, but sun's down and I'm going out.
Buffy and her boy Harris had already taken the Junior Misses out for a graveyard spin, so the house was strangely quiet. Poked my head into the dining room, where Red had books spread all over the place and was deep in research mode, to tell her I was going out for the evening. Soul's made me all responsible-like, letting people know where they can find me. Pathetic, isn't it? Red looked up, startled, then looked like she'd been waiting for me to show up her whole life.
"Spike! Hey, can I ask you some questions?"
"S'pose so, if it's quick." I hovered in the doorway, but she gestured at the chair next to her.
"C'mon, sit down." I reluctantly sat, sprawling to make myself look as cool and uninvolved as possible.
"You look happy, Red, I must say. You and JFK have a little tumble before dinner?" She looked very blank.
"Who?"
"Kennedy? The Potential? C'mon, you can't think I haven't noticed you two with the doe eyes and the hand-holding under the table."
"Oh! Is that why that annoying girl keeps following… um, right, Kennedy, um, no, no 'tumble.' Can't a girl just be cheerful without everyone feeling the need to make lewd comments?"
"Um… right," I said. The Wiccan Wonder seems off her game tonight. Wonder what that's all about? "So what did you want to ask me?"
"I'm just… well, I'm working on a spell, okay? And I need some information on, um, the relationships between all the Scoobs, 'cause, um, that can affect how the spell works."
"A spell, eh? Back to hitting the sage?"
"What?" She looked blank again. I sighed. This bloody useless conversation was holding me up from either a nice spot of violence or a game of kitten poker, whichever I could find first, and the sooner the crazy talk was over, the sooner I could get going.
"Whatever. What did you want to know?"
"Well, about you and Buffy. You're… not together now?"
"No," I said. "No need to worry, I'm leaving your princess be."
"Hey, no judgment was implied in any way, so put a lid on the hostility, mister."
"Sorry," I said automatically, then glared as I realized she'd made me apologize. Red can be authoritative when she wants to be.
"But you were together last year?"
"Yeah," I said. Less said about all this, the better.
"Before you had a soul?"
"Uh… yeah, last year was, in fact, before I had a soul. You mental?"
"Just clarifying for the spell, no need to get touchy. Now, just out of curiosity… do you think that maybe if you'd gotten the soul before you'd gotten together, you might've made it work?"
"What? Oh, like her and the fucking great poof? I don't know. Maybe. What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"
"Hey, I don't write the questions, I just read them off, and watch the language, bub. So are you still in love with her?"
"That's really none of your business, and what do you mean you don't write the questions? You're trying to convince me that there's a spell that tells you to ask me highly specific hypothetical questions about my love life?" I was getting very annoyed.
"Spike, do you want to defeat the First or not?"
"Oh, fine. Yes. Okay? Yes. I'm still in love with her. Are we done here?" Red looked satisfied.
"Yup."
"Fine," I said, standing up and stalking off in a huff. Red smiled to herself and went back to her books. Bitch.
I really needed to kill something.
by Annakovsky
Part 7/11
See part 1 for disclaimer, rating, etc.
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*
********************************************
Spike: 6:38 pm, Tuesday, February 18, 2003
********************************************
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*
Rupert seemed irritable when he came downstairs earlier, but then he nearly always seems irritable these days. And he doesn't like me much, not that it bothers me. I did use to like it when he watched Passions with me, and the bloke does have an amazing music collection, but with that bloody enormous pole up his ass, who needs him?
Was reading The Great Gatsby over again, trying to avoid the sodding three ring circus always in progress upstairs. If I'm not reading I find that I end up brooding like the hideous poofter, and the similarities between us are already embarrassing enough. Don't need to add furrows that match the ones on his gargantuan brow.
Of course, if I hear anyone headed towards the basement stairs I immediately shove the book under the covers, pull off my shirt and try to arrange the sheet over myself artistically, as if all I do all day is lounge about looking provocative. I've got a reputation to uphold, after all.
Gatsby is one of my favorites. Fitzgerald knew what life was about, even if he were an enormous ass in person (should've let Dru rip his windpipe out after all). It's all about self-invention. Decide who you're going to be, be that person, and pretty soon even you'll start believing it. Which is when the fun kicks in. Take me, for instance. Back when I was alive, I was a nancy-boy ponce who spent all his time fretting about what he wanted to do instead of just doing it, all thought, no action – full of squelched desires and frustration that erupted into poetic rubbish. When Drusilla turned me, it was the beginning of a whole new existence, and I took full advantage of that fact. William was dead and buried and Spike rose from his ashes. Figurative ashes, of course. Cremation doesn't go over well with vampires.
You'd be surprised how easy it was to become the exact opposite of William. Every time I felt the urge to start thinking too much or, heaven forbid, write poetry, I'd go out and kill something. Reflection and introspection were out – impulsivity and self-gratification were in. If I wanted to fuck something, I fucked it, wanted to eat something, I ate it, wanted to take something I took it, and so on. Used to be full of self-loathing, but now I never sat still long enough to brood on what I thought of myself. It was beautiful, really – I'd recommend it.
'Course there are some things so deeply ingrained as to be unchangeable. Became the opposite of William in every way – but I'm still love's bitch. Can't change that, no matter what I am – whether I'm a human, vamp, chipped vamp, chipped with soul, soulled but chipless, you name it, I'm following after Cecily or Drusilla or Buffy like a little puppy dog waiting to be kicked. Never been ashamed of that. Maybe it's not a good quality, I don't know, but it's what I am. Bit of an embarrassment for a vampire, being all soft over a girl, too human and that, but I don't mind. Always gotten a good deal of enjoyment out of human things and don't see why I should give that up. So what if I like football and soaps and crunchy things in my blood? Or if I happen to fall in love with the Slayer… well, one could argue that that wasn't the best idea I've ever had, but it's not like I could help it.
Buffy, now. Buffy. Her name's like this mantra these days, filling up the empty spaces in my thoughts. Buffy. I'll be reading along in my book and then find myself just staring into space with her name echoing through my head, over and over, feeling a mix of happiness and anguish and fear. She's always brought me mixed feelings, and along with those, compulsions, need. Used to pace by her house ten times a night to see if her light was on, stand in her yard smoking and watching, wanting to be near her. I'd take whatever she'd give me, scrambling after any crumbs of affection that she might accidentally drop.
Knew she didn't love me, didn't like me, even. Knew that I might as well have been a blow-up doll for her, one that doubled as a punching bag. Couldn't stop it, for all that. I just wanted her so badly, tried to make myself believe that she wanted me too, needed me, that I gave her something no one else could, somehow.
Then I… in the bathroom. Hurt her. Like that. I was always talking about how evil I was, like it was something to be proud of, but afterwards… that was the moment I felt it. That I really was an evil, soulless thing who never deserved her. Never thought I'd agree with Harris, but there it was. Had to get out of there, had to fix it, get myself changed somehow. So I did. And then, with the soul firmly in place, I knew how bad it really had been, how I had just kept pulling her down, trying to make her as dark and evil as I was myself. Saw how awful I'd made it for her, and how I'd better clear off, leave her alone.
But I couldn't stay away. Justified it by thinking that I needed to help them fight evil, keep the world from ending, but really, it's just that I need to be near her. Can't help it. Be the death of me in the end, I'm sure, but nothing I can do.
Problem is, I've come to the end of self-invention. I can't be William, I'm afraid to be Spike, and I bloody refuse to be Angel. Another fine mess I've gotten me into – didn't fully think through the soul thing, as usual. Only thing I know is that I'll be whatever she wants me to be – which is a problem, since Buffy never knows what she wants. Everything real about her's buried under a shell of God knows what, and I don't know how to break through it. I mean, I tried assault - no bloody idea why that brilliant plan didn't work. Should've cultivated the patience for a more sophisticated approach, but, well, hundred and twenty years being Spike didn't really give me a leg up in that respect.
I'm terrified that what she wants is Angel.
Bloody hell, am I brooding? Goddamn bloody fucking basement, nothing to do but listen to the leaky pipe drip and mull over past sins – well, fuck this. Not my night for patrolling, but sun's down and I'm going out.
Buffy and her boy Harris had already taken the Junior Misses out for a graveyard spin, so the house was strangely quiet. Poked my head into the dining room, where Red had books spread all over the place and was deep in research mode, to tell her I was going out for the evening. Soul's made me all responsible-like, letting people know where they can find me. Pathetic, isn't it? Red looked up, startled, then looked like she'd been waiting for me to show up her whole life.
"Spike! Hey, can I ask you some questions?"
"S'pose so, if it's quick." I hovered in the doorway, but she gestured at the chair next to her.
"C'mon, sit down." I reluctantly sat, sprawling to make myself look as cool and uninvolved as possible.
"You look happy, Red, I must say. You and JFK have a little tumble before dinner?" She looked very blank.
"Who?"
"Kennedy? The Potential? C'mon, you can't think I haven't noticed you two with the doe eyes and the hand-holding under the table."
"Oh! Is that why that annoying girl keeps following… um, right, Kennedy, um, no, no 'tumble.' Can't a girl just be cheerful without everyone feeling the need to make lewd comments?"
"Um… right," I said. The Wiccan Wonder seems off her game tonight. Wonder what that's all about? "So what did you want to ask me?"
"I'm just… well, I'm working on a spell, okay? And I need some information on, um, the relationships between all the Scoobs, 'cause, um, that can affect how the spell works."
"A spell, eh? Back to hitting the sage?"
"What?" She looked blank again. I sighed. This bloody useless conversation was holding me up from either a nice spot of violence or a game of kitten poker, whichever I could find first, and the sooner the crazy talk was over, the sooner I could get going.
"Whatever. What did you want to know?"
"Well, about you and Buffy. You're… not together now?"
"No," I said. "No need to worry, I'm leaving your princess be."
"Hey, no judgment was implied in any way, so put a lid on the hostility, mister."
"Sorry," I said automatically, then glared as I realized she'd made me apologize. Red can be authoritative when she wants to be.
"But you were together last year?"
"Yeah," I said. Less said about all this, the better.
"Before you had a soul?"
"Uh… yeah, last year was, in fact, before I had a soul. You mental?"
"Just clarifying for the spell, no need to get touchy. Now, just out of curiosity… do you think that maybe if you'd gotten the soul before you'd gotten together, you might've made it work?"
"What? Oh, like her and the fucking great poof? I don't know. Maybe. What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"
"Hey, I don't write the questions, I just read them off, and watch the language, bub. So are you still in love with her?"
"That's really none of your business, and what do you mean you don't write the questions? You're trying to convince me that there's a spell that tells you to ask me highly specific hypothetical questions about my love life?" I was getting very annoyed.
"Spike, do you want to defeat the First or not?"
"Oh, fine. Yes. Okay? Yes. I'm still in love with her. Are we done here?" Red looked satisfied.
"Yup."
"Fine," I said, standing up and stalking off in a huff. Red smiled to herself and went back to her books. Bitch.
I really needed to kill something.