Disclaimer: Everything not mine, except for John Cusack and Spike, who are both shackled and chained to my bedroom wall. I'm a lucky gal.

Rating: R in this part for language.

Feedback: Yes, please! This story can also be found at the Fantasy AU site, Spuffyarchives.com

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Chapter 2: This Pisshole of a Life

My record store is a modest little establishment in the Sunnydale business district. You think its location in the business district would actually garner business. It's all wishful thinking.

The unfortunate name of my store is "Ye Old Music Shoppe". Believe me when I tell you I had nothing to do with it. When I was still getting started, my father decided to make the sweeping gesture of acceptance over my fall from a secure future and commissioned the whole process of emblazoning the chosen name on the awning and window.

"It appeals to the Old World sentiment, don't you see?" he told me in a flush of pride, cleaning his glasses. "You could have those antique old record players scattered around, wouldn't that be nice?"

"Next thing, you'll want me to have one of those heavy barbershop moustaches and play a lark on the ol' harpsichord for customers," I retorted, rolling my eyes.

This is why we don't have a good father-son relationship.

Anyway, despite the antediluvian name (which I was too lazy and too indigent to change), the store actually sells a lot of good, modern stuff. Most of it is used vinyl, LPs and 45s that we've accumulated into a collection that would make any serious hipster's mouth water, but we have a lot of newer stuff too. Just don't ever request something like the new Linkin Park release. You shall be mercilessly thrown out on your arse if you do.

This morning, I've stumbled into the shop looking like I've spent most of the night getting boozed up, when the reality of it is, I've been just moodily listening to every existing, drippy song about heartbreak while drinking old juice boxes of Hi-C that Buffy left in the larder. With blood-shot eyes, I gaze around the shop and realize one thing.

I detest this place more than life itself.

Everyday, it's the same bloody thing. I stand around, pretending that at any minute, we'll have an imminent customer. The fact of the matter is, we haven't had one in months. Or at least it seems like it. People will drift into the store with their trendy haircuts and glossy indie music magazines and waste my time by just aimlessly leafing through the racks. Then they always look towards me at the cashier's desk a bit nervously, as if they're worried that their purchases are so uncool that they will incur an exclusive, lofty look of disdain from me when I ring it up. Sometimes I feel like screaming at them that I don't care a twopence if they buy soddin' Englebert Humperdink, so long as it pays the rent. Bloody people.

Oz is arranging the new releases display when he sees me glare around the shop disgustedly. "Hey Spike," he says, giving me a friendly nod.

I'm so morose that it takes me a few seconds to nod back. After I do, I become increasingly aware of the pounding cries of rage that are echoing through the store. "What's this you got on? The Misfits?"

Oz nods again. "I'm feeling in a riotous mood this morning," he answers ironically since he's one of the most non-emotive and stoic people I know.

Oz is just of the three other people who work here. It's ridiculous that we have so much customer service when we lack customers, but I don't have the heart to fire them. They work for little less than nothing anyway. It gives them something to do.

"Where's Gunn?" I sigh, wearily climbing up to the elevated cashier's desk.

"In the back. Stocking and drowning in the melodious melodies of Tupac."

"Great. And Xander?"

Oz shrugs. "Got me. He said something about making a special Monday Morning compilation. Hey, we want the new Flaming Lips CDs kind of near the front, don't we?"

I look at Oz admiringly. He's the right kind of bloke for this job. He's not bitter and weary like I am. He doesn't see music as just a shitty substitute for facing reality. He loves music and loves making it. He's even got a band called The Dingoes Ate My Baby. Rips it up on the guitar, he does.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

He must pick up on my sullen, fatigued tone, because his face changes and he's staring at me with concern. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good." Bloody not. Buffy's gone and I have a headache the size of Russia. I rub my temples and Oz starts for the stereo.

"I can turn it down if you want-----"

I stop him. "No, leave it." I don't want it to seem like things aren't normal. Besides, after listening to hours upon hours of whining, teary songs, the Misfits are a welcome change. "I'm feeling in a riotous mood myself."

Just then, Xander strides into the store, jarring my eyes with his hideously bright ensemble. He's got on a Hawaiian shirt, for God's sake. When will the torture end?

"And how are you lovely creatures doing this morning?"

This guy is always so jovial that I would be compelled to hate him if he wasn't a mate. Still, ours is a begrudging friendship. He was Buffy's best friend first, which is the main reason I gave him the job. After some snarking at each other, we settled on a compromise, which stipulated that we stand each other. It's not so bad. He starts to grow on you, I guess. Like mold.

"Good," Oz replies and looks anxiously over at me. I've got my head on the desk and don't intend to pick it up for Xander's sake.

Xander stands awhile, listening to the music we've got on. He makes a face. "You Ragin' Reggies listening to the adolescent cry of the disaffected, huh? Well I got something that really screams punk rock."

He goes over to the stereo and slips in a cassette. He pumps up the volume and grins expectantly. And then the first note sounds. It's the bloody "Itsy-Bitsy-Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" song. Hideous.

Xander begins to throw his head up and down as the music fills the store. "You hear it guys? This is the real anthem of the anti-establishment! Stick it to the Man in style while grooving to the poppy rhythms!" He's starting to do a dance something Oz and I have christened "the Snoopy Dance". Believe it or not, this goon has a girlfriend.

I grit my teeth. My love of five years is gone. I feel murderous. The last thing I want is to listen to this drivel. "Turn it off, Xander," I growl.

"Come on, Spikester! Get into it! She's singing a narrative for the ages. It's about a bikini. How could a song be bad if it's about skimpy, womanly apparel?"

"This one is. Turn it off."

Gunn comes from the back room. "What the hell is this music?"

"It's my Monday Morning Music compilation, dog," Xander notes gleefully, still waving his arms and legs around in a bizarre fashion. "This knocks the socks off P. Diddy, let me tell you what."

Gunn frowns at him. "Don't get me started on Diddy. And how many times I have to tell you never to call me 'dog'?"

"It'd be fine if it was a Monday Morning compilation, Xander, but it's Monday afternoon. So turn it off."

"But you haven't even gotten to the best song!" Xander whimpers. I breathe and prepare myself.

"What is it?"

He smiles widely. "Barbara Striesand and Neil Diamond's 'You Never Bring Me Flowers."

That's it. I stalk to the stereo, grab the cassette out, and proceed to rip the tape up. Xander yelps and makes a jump for it, but I push him off.

"Hey man! That's my tape!"

"Was your tape. And I'm doing you a favor. No man should subject himself to such odious music." I smash the tape up with my bare hands, then throw it to the floor so I can give it a violent stomping. All the frustrations of the day, of the night, of my life are targeted on this helpless piece of plastic. The rest stare at me in confusion as I massacre the compilation.

"Hey chill out, G," Gunn says, reaching for my arm as I start to get out of control.

"Geez, Spike," Xander mumbles darkly while I destroy his property. "Way to carry on a hissy fit. It's just a stupid tape. I feel sorry for Buffy. With you carrying on girly temper tantrums like this, I can't see how she stands you."

The comment breaks me. Blindly, I lunge for Xander's throat and try to get my hands around his puny neck. I shake him brutally, but Gunn and Oz grab and restrain me. There's scuffling and some shrieking on Xander's side, but in a minute, we've all calmed down and I'm stomping off towards the back, slamming the door thunderously.

Trying to calm myself, I collapse into the sofa and attempt to think of nice things. Things besides Buffy and women in general. But there's nothing nicer than Buffy and women, so it's not successful. I light up a fag and take deep, cathartic drags. After a few moments brooding, there's a knock on the door. Oz sticks his head in.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He enters the room awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He's usually not stuck in this predicament because he usually doesn't say anything. So he fidgets around for awhile until he stops and hands me a CD. "Oh umm, here. It's that Sigur Ros CD you wanted me to burn. I did it a couple days ago and just forgot to give it to you."

Great. More sad, old fart music. I feel like I've overdosed on moody, depressing music, but I take it from him. "Thanks," I lie. "I appreciate it."

He pauses, but decides to delve into it. "So I heard about you and Buffy."

I chuckle mirthlessly. "She already disseminating it to the world, then?"

He shakes his head. "No. Willow told me this morning. Buffy was upset last night, and they stayed up pretty late talking about it."

So she's upset and loosing sleep over me. This cheers me up immensely.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Listen, I'm really sorry."

"It's okay. What have you got to be sorry about? You still have a pretty lass at home."

"Still, I mean . . . it sucks for you. If you want to talk . . ."

I envision what talking to Oz about this would look like. I can't imagine anything besides the picture of us grunting monosyllabically to each other. "Naw, it's alright."

"Well . . . I was wondering if you wanted to hang with Willow and me tonight. You know, cheer up some? Willow said she really wanted to see how you were doing. We're going to the Bronze. Some new band is playing there and they're supposed to be really good. You game?"

I think of the alternative. Me at home alone, watching 'Dawson's Creek' while gorging on Hi-C. "Yeah okay."

"Great." He turns to go.

"Hey Oz?"

He looks back at me. "Yeah?"

"Tell Xander if he ever brings in another tape like that, I'll do worse than a hissy fit."

He laughs. "Okay."

After he exits, I sit back and return to my diversionary game of thinking of things besides Buffy. Like soccer. And movies. There was a great looking film I wanted to see at the cinema the other day. Buffy wanted to see it too. Buffy loves the cinema. In fact, we made love one time in the back of a movie theater and----bloody hell. Get the fuck out of my mind, you vixen.

The phone rings before I can continue screaming at Imaginary Buffy in my head. It's my mum.

"Hello William dear, how are you doing?" she croons.

"Good, Mum." My flat tone isn't exactly convincing.

"And how's lovely Buffy?"

My knuckles go white against the receiver. "Lovely Buffy is fine, Mum," I grind out.

"You know, she's a blessing, she really is. That girl keeps you in line. If it wasn't for her, I would constantly be worrying after you and your ways. When you were a lad, all you did was cause me trouble. You need a good girl to take care of you. You'd go stark raving mad if you didn't have Buffy-----"

What is this, Piss on Spike day? It's like the whole world subconsciously knows about Buffy and has chosen to kick me in the balls with it. "Well I guess it's the strait jacket for me," I interrupt curtly. "Because I don't have a Buffy after all."

Empty silence and I can almost hear her shake her head. "Spike . . . ?"

"That's right. She's gone. She's left me."

Shrilly, she nearly shouts, "Gone where?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" I yell back.

"Well what did you do to her?!"

"What have I done?! What have I done?! Thanks for your stunning display of support, you silly bint!"

She has started crying. Good. I stretch out on the couch with satisfaction and listen to her blubber on. "H-how . . . William, you'll never make anything of yourself," she gasps through sobs.

I sit up again and shout through the phone, "It's just a girl, Mum! It's not like college! I'm not gonna go nuts and risk everything to buy a hot dog stand or some shitty thing like that!" In the back of my mind, I feel like I'm lying. I could certainly go crazy over something like this.

"You'll never get married. You'll never have a family. The store will fail and you'll have to live with your father and I again . . ."

I can't take this. How did we get from Buffy leaving to me being a basement-dweller in my parent's home? "Oh shut the BLOODY HELL UP, Mum!!"

She has dropped the phone. I'm about to hang up with relish, but a man has cleared his throat on the other line.

"William." It's my dad, ol' Rupes. "I do believe this is a record. Less than five minutes and already you've reduced your mother to tears. I'd commend you, but I'm the one who shall have to clean up the aftermath."

"She started it. She couldn't leave well enough alone. She just had to go on about . . ." I don't feel much like saying her name at all. It's become too taboo to say aloud. Uttering her name is now the equivalent of saying "cunt" or something.

Dad relieves me. "Yes, I heard what she was saying. And though I don't approve of the way she handled it, I do share her concern. Would you like to talk about it?"

I bite back impatience. "Don't worry about it, Rupert."

"Don't call me that, son. I'm your father. And as your father, I'm here for you, you know that."

"Yeah." A heavy hesitation lingers as I can tell he wants me to tell him effusively about the whole thing. But I won't.

"So . . . you don't want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly, no."

He sighs. "Well I'm afraid I'll just have to pry. What happened?"

"I don't know. Why is everyone asking me that? I don't know." Actually, no one has asked me that. I've been the only one who has, but with all the questions I pose to myself, it seems like it's hordes of people.

"Did you do something?"

"Ha. If I knew, I would be with her, vowing to never do it again, wouldn't I? Not talking on the phone with you like a sad sod. And why does everyone assume that it's my fault?"

"Well . . . usually because it is."

I snort. "Well it's been great talking to you, Dad, I'll call you up again in six months----"

"Spike wait. I'm sorry. I apologize, that wasn't very tactful. All I'm saying is . . . it's kind of a habit with you, isn't it?"

"What is?" I know very well what is.

"This. Breaking things off. Going from girl to girl. But we really thought it was different with Buffy. You had been together for a long time. Now this again."

I grip the edge of the couch for control. "No one can stay married for a gazillion years the way you and Mum have. This is a different generation and time period. Nowadays, relationships fail all the time." This rationalization does nothing to make me feel better. "Besides, I didn't leave her, she left me."

"And you had nothing to do with this?"

"For Chrissakes----how am I supposed to know?! I'm sure she thought she had her reasons, but I'm no mind reader! I thought things were going fine. Obviously they weren't!"

He sighs again. Why is it that people always sigh around me? I must bring it out of them. "Well I hope this has taught you a lesson."

"God. Who are you, my headmaster? This is my life! Don't try to use it to censure me! I'll make my own bloody, fucking mistakes!"

"How many mistakes must you make until you learn, Spike?" He snaps sharply. I guess he's lost his librarian cool. "When can we ever expect better things from you?"

I don't have any witty and biting comebacks other than, "When fucking hell freezes over!" so I bark that and hang up the phone. I stew in my juices for awhile and then the phone rings annoyingly once more. I snatch it and yell ragingly, "Listen you old chuffer, I don't care what you have to say about my fucking love life, I'd rather not fucking hear it, so fuck OFF!"

No one speaks for several seconds and I realize that it's not Rupes after all. A girl clears her throat and says, "Well good. Because I wasn't really in the mood to discuss your love life right now. In fact, I was hoping we could avoid it." Damn it. I've made a horrible mistake. It's Buffy.

"Oh God Buffy, I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone else, I didn't know---"

"It's okay. I'm just glad I'm not a 'chuffer'. I didn't think I sent out a 'chuffer' vibe." She laughs a little and the sweet lilt of it sends shivers down my spine, but she drifts off into awkward silence. "So . . ."

This is it. This could make or break it. Maybe there's a chance of getting back together. One phone conversation can work everything out and we can be together again by tonight, sitting on the couch, watching 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' together. "So . . ." I reply carefully.

"I . . . I was just calling to see when I can come over to pick up my stuff."

One sentence and all my castles in the air are shattered. "Pick up your stuff?

"Well yeah. It would helpful to have it. It isn't serving me by being somewhere else."

"So you've got a place to stay then?"

In a guarded tone, she mumbles, "Yeah."

"Who with? Willow and Oz?" Oz would have told me.

She sighs. "Spike, I don't want to talk about it." This alarms me. If she doesn't want to talk about it, there's obviously something to talk about.

"Why?" I press, slightly harsh. "What's wrong with me asking? Unless it's somewhere bad, you'd tell me."

"Spike . . . just tell me when I can come over to get my stuff."

The question still nags me compulsively. But she's the one who started it with all this "I don't want to talk about it" business. "After you tell me where you're staying."

"Forget it." She sounds tired. "Just forget it. I'll have Xander bring it over. Talk to you later."

Before she can hang up, I rush in and say, "No wait. Wait, I'm sorry. I don't mean it. You can come over tonight and get it."

"Will you be there?" she asks cautiously.

"Jesus, Buffy. I can't even be there? What's the big deal?"

"It's not a big deal, I just think it would be easier that way. If I saw you, we'd only get into an argument and I thought we had finished all the hard parts last night."

"What makes you think we'd get into an argument?"

"When do we not?"

"So that's it. You're leaving because we have the occasional squiffle."

"You know why I'm leaving. We went over this last night. I made myself clear."

"Obviously not clear enough if I'm asking you again. I want to know why."

"Spike . . ."

"A person doesn't just stop loving someone, Buffy." I don't know where that came from. It's like the words have formed of their own accord.

Her voice is shaky. "I didn't say I stopped loving you," she murmurs quietly.

"So what? So why is this happening?" I'm aware that I sound equally shaky.

She sighs. "It's not that easy to explain. All I know is it's not because I don't love you. I wish I didn't love you anymore, it would make things a lot easier. But adult relationships are never that easy."

"Was it something I did, something I said?"

"Well duh. Obviously it was stuff you did and said."

"So it's all my bloody fault then?"

"All I'm saying is that of course you had a part in me leaving. I'm not going to give you the cop out and say 'It's not you, it's me'. Because that's only half-true. It's both of us. We both brought an end to the relationship------"

"No. Don't say that. Don't say 'the end'."

"Spike, please."

"Well, what do you want me to say? You want me to say I'm happy with this arrangement? I'm not. I want to know why. You haven't told me why."

"I told you I don't know! I don't know a lot of things right now. My mind is hazy and confused. And I'm scared."

"So don't go."

"I have to. Out of all the things I don't know, I know that. I know I have to do this for myself." She sounds like a bloody Spice Girls song. Damn women's lib.

"Damn it Buffy----"

"Just tell me you'll clear out of the apartment for a few hours so I can organize my things?"

I sigh defeatedly. "Fine. Whatever the fuck you want."

"Spike, don't be like this."

"Then you don't be like this! Come home, come home and be with me. That's all I want."

Flatly, she mutters, "I have to go. I have to get back to work."

"Buffy, no, please-----"

Strangely, she pauses and says softly before hanging up, "I love you."

What? Is that supposed to make me feel better?

I clench my teeth and fists, groaning miserably. Finally letting out a grunt of rage, I kick the wall. I throw some papers and records around. I even hurl the couch over. Nothing works. The feeling is the same as it was in high school. Buffy hasn't pushed my hands out of her knickers the way Darla did, but she's made me just as stressed and bursting like a volcano about to ooze over into a fiery mess.

TBC……………..