Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. The characters are Mutant Enemy's and the basic plot is Nick Hornby's.
Rating: R in this part for language. And yes, I know the language can get excessive sometimes, but I'm just writing in character. I don't really curse this much in real life. Well okay, I do.
Feedback: Yes. It's like a drug. In fact, if I could stick your words of praise directly into my arm, I'd be set.
Author's Note: Okay, so let's get one thing straight first off. I know some people are worried that this new fic will take me away from the two stories I'm currently writing ("Summer Sanctuary" and "Haven"), but rest assured that it will not. This is just something fun I was inspired to write after watching and reading "High Fidelity" a few too many times. The other two stories remain my priority, but let me have my fun writing this.
*****************************************
Chapter 3: Distractions
When I accepted Oz's offer to go out tonight, I did so under the impression that it would be just us males with the exception of Willow, whom I look on so platonically (which is atypical in the World of Spike since I rarely see women as anything besides sexual foes) that she becomes nearly male in my eyes anyway. I can see now it was all one big trick.
When I arrive at the Bronze, I feel a cold chill spread within me as I approach Oz's table. And I know why. I have entered the nauseating kingdom of Coupledom.
They're all there. All the boys and their honeys. Oz is there with Willow, Xander with Anya, and Gunn with Fred. They look so damned smug that I could kill them.
"Hey, Spike!" Willow greets me cheerfully, a little too cheerfully, as if she thinks she can compensate for my obvious lack of cheer. "How goes the wonderful world of music retail?"
I shrug. "It . . . goes." I turn immediately to the crowd of beers lined on the table and pluck one up before anyone else can greet me. They all exchange worried looks they think I can't see.
"Glad you could make it man," Gunn says, patting me on the back like a school counselor. "Feels like we haven't hung out for awhile."
I give him a look. This is not only an egregious comment since our job is so slow that it practically qualifies as occupational hang-out-time, but it also doesn't come across as comforting and nice as intended. Because before, I was too busy with Buffy to have a Guy's Night Out. He is just drawing attention to the fact that I've been relieved of my more enjoyable burdens. Taking a long swig of beer, I squint at him a little and grunt, "Yeah."
"I'm glad you could make it too," Fred exclaims in her alert, nervous way. "The band that's playing tonight is s-supposed to be great."
They're struggling, I can tell. They're walking on glass around me, tiptoeing so obviously that it makes me clench my teeth.
"That's what Oz said." I'm cold and menacing and gloomy, but I don't care.
Fred looks like she just insulted my dead grandmother. "O-oh. R-right."
"Right."
Two minutes with the gang and already I've smothered the atmosphere like a proper wet blanket. They all shift silently and awkwardly, like they're afraid any sudden movements or words will result in me bursting into tears. Oz must have told them what happened. Xander seems fidgety and penitent most of all. I guess he feels guilty after our little skirmish at work.
"So Spike . . ." he starts in the same annoyingly placating tone Gunn employs, "How . . . are . . . you . . . doing?" He nods his head and raises his eyebrow exaggeratedly as he tries for the sympathetic effect. He makes me feel like the poor little down-and-out kid whose puppy just got run over.
I explode, unable to play this charade any longer. "Oh, for FUCK'S sake!"
It has unnerved them, and they all go in an uproar. With worried eyes, they reach out for me, "Oh, Spike!" I'm suddenly attacked by Fred and Xander, who plaster themselves to me in a bone-crushing hug. "It'll be all right! We promise! Oh poor, poor Spikey!"
I push them off of me, revolted. "I implore you, in the name of everything holy, don't ever do that again."
Fred rubs my back soothingly, and Xander looks close to tears. "Just let it out buddy, let it all out."
Extracting myself from them, I grumble, "There's nothing to let out. Please, the lot of you, don't get your knickers in a twist over me."
"We're just concerned about you, Spike, that's all," Willow pipes up. "We know how . . . well . . . how upset you get over things like this."
"Things like this." I know exactly what she means by "things like this." She is referring to Dru, who successfully set me on the path of ruin I walk down today. She is referring to my revenge that did nothing but bite me in the ass and leave me broke and messed-up for the rest of my life.
"That's very considerate of you. But I really don't need your concern. I'm doing fine without . . ." It's the c-word dilemma again. " . . . I'm doing fine by myself."
"Spike, it's not good to wallow in denial," Xander coos. "We're your friends, we're here for you to lean on."
"Seems to me if Spike doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to talk about it," Anya notes indifferently, studying her nails. I smile gratefully at her. She's probably the only one amongst the bunch who can rival me in dryness and at the moment; it makes me want to kiss her. She was never one for conventional subtlety. Her blatant disregard for the normal, human code of social interaction is so odd that at times, I wonder if she's from another planet or dimension. Like Canada. Whatever it is, I appreciate her right now.
But she continues. "The amount of the misery he's feeling in the wake of Buffy's departure is obviously so large that he feels the need to repress." My expression shifts into a frown. I rescind all appreciative comments.
"Nice girl you got there, Harris," I growl, and Xander, red with embarrassment, puts his arm around Anya reprimandingly.
"Remember the thing we talked about, hun?" he says through a tight smile.
"That thing where you told me I'm not supposed to point out how sad and pathetic Spike's situation is?"
Discomfited, Xander chuckles and jabs Anya in the ribs. "Right. Do that."
I sigh. "This was a huge, bloody mistake. I shouldn't have come." There is an uproar as they plead with me to stay, but I shake my head. "Sod it all. I'm going home, I've got a bottle of whiskey to crawl into --" I stop and groan. For I remember that tonight Buffy's coming over to gather her things. I can't be there. Fuck. First, I'm suddenly single, now I'm homeless. "Damn it. I can't go home."
"You bet your bottom dollar you can't go home!" Fred exclaims in her bright Texan drawl. "You'd be missing out some fun high jinks, Mister!"
I look blankly around. Gunn, Oz, Willow and Xander are all staring back at me with piss-warm bottles of beer in their hands. This is not exactly Fun Central.
"Look at it this way, English," Gunn reasons. "There are worse places to be. Look around, smell the hotties. You have a whole club-load of them at your disposal."
Willow frowns at Gunn. "Gunn, don't encourage him to get back in the game so early --"
But my mind's already churning at the suggestion. "No, Willow, wait. Gunn's right." I gaze around me at all the scantily-clad specimens giving me come-hither looks. "Maybe a distraction is the way to go."
She furrows her eyebrows, dismayed. "S-Spike, you and Buffy haven't been broken up for 24 hours and already you're looking for other girls --"
"Hey! She left me, all right? I'm just trying to play the cards she dealt me." I give her a hard, sharp look that silences her immediately. I turn away and contemplate this new idea.
Yeah. Maybe another girl would be the cure. After all, I'm not obligated to anyone any more. If Buffy and my mum and my dad and my mates think I have a problem as a flighty male, I'll just . . . well I'll just prove them fucking right. How dissident is that? Not only will I get a shag, but it'll probably make Buffy's blood boil, and I definitely like that idea. Satisfied, I straighten the lapels of my black duster, try out the old smirk and look around at all the other fishes in the sea. That's right, ladies. Big Bag Spike is back in town.
******************************************
Three hours later, I'm on my seventeenth cigarette, sulking in the corner. Plan New Girl has failed miserably. It's like I'm transported back to junior high school, before Cecily or anyone else ever touched me. Deep down, under the layers of leather and black, I'm still uncool, unlearned William. And I'm totally inept at the flirting thing. I've attempted it with many girls who give me an inviting smile, but as soon as I open my mouth, I get hopelessly choked up and gasp for air. Disgusted and puzzled, the girls will walk away while I'm left wheezing for my life. And as I suffocate on my own social gracelessness, I come to one conclusion.
Buffy has ruined me for anyone else.
I go over to Oz, who's laughing with Willow. "I'm heading out," I mumble, throwing a thumb in the door's direction.
"What? You can't. The band hasn't started yet."
"Yeah, well they're three hours late. I could need a hip replacement by the time they start."
"Hey, come on, stay. It's a good show. The drummer's my friend, he told me --"
The lights darken, and a colored spotlight hits the stage. The crowd goes quiet as the band still goes over their sound check.
"See? You can't leave now. You're still in the prime of life, and they're starting. It's win-win."
I sigh and plop into the chair. I begin counting the minutes until I leave. Moment I'll get up to fifteen, and I'm out the door. Nursing my third Heineken this evening, I don't even notice that the band has started until a smooth, velvety voice soars across a pair of jangling guitars that strum a moody intro. I look up and see a girl holding the microphone like she's making love to it. Her smoky-lidded eyes are deep and unfathomable, and her red-painted lips press seductively against the mike. She's got choppy, dirty blonde hair with pink and purple streaks in it, and she's dressed in clunky, knee-high boots and a distracting, shredded-and-safety-pinned dress. Her voice is husky and thick, and she's swaying to the music with her whole body in an incredibly sexy way. In short, she's hot.
"Who's that?" I murmur, my eyes still fixed on the stage.
"That's Veruca," Oz nods. "Lead singer, obviously. She's all right. A little odd, but pretty talented."
Willow scrunches up her faces and studies her closely. "I dunno. She's kinda got that mysterious Tori Amos thing going for her, but the punk gear seems to be trying too hard. It's a shade Avril."
"What's a shade of what?" Xander arrives with drinks and snacks. "What are we talking about?"
"We're discussing the band's singer and her poseur factor. What do you think of her?"
Xander squints and smiles dreamily. "I don't know about poseur, but from what I see, the girl's got quite a set of --" Anya slaps him upside the head just in time, and Xander shrinks diffidently. "Of pipes. Vocal cords. Sound-making devices."
Gunn chuckles. "Nice save, Xan, but boy, are you incredibly whipped." He makes a whipping motion while Xander grimaces and Anya beams.
"What do you think of her, Spike?" Fred asks, turning to me while I'm still in a glazed state.
"Uh -- wha…? Oh. Umm, she's not so bad." And by not so bad, I mean highly shaggable. This Veruca chick looks right up my alley. She's cute and talented and . . . I mentioned highly shaggable? Anyway, she looks like she'd fit me. Buffy always looked too clean for me somehow. It would be strange to see her grab one of my Sex Pistols shirts in the morning as she padded into the bathroom clad in J. Crew slippers. I can imagine this Veruca in my "God Save the Queen" shirt, though. We'd make a regular Sid and Nancy.
But then all I can think of is Veruca, with her hair all tousled and her legs peeking out of my shirt, and then I get nervous with how much I want her; because, for some reason, I can't leave it off there. It's twisted. The only woman I've wanted for a long time has been Buffy, so any lust for any other woman makes me think of her. It's almost habitual. It's like I want Veruca so much that it stops being about Veruca and becomes more about the simple feeling of physical yearning, which in turn makes me remember of how I've wanted Buffy. And suddenly, I'm filled with an intense, aching longing for her. My mind is a warped and perverse instrument.
I'm caught in this wistful daze that Anya shakes me roughly out of. "Spike. Spike." She turns to Xander. "I think that's it. He's finally gone nuts."
"I haven't gone nuts," I mutter without looking at her. "I'm just enjoying the show."
"Enjoying the show or enjoying Veruca?" Fred teases coyly. I've been found out.
"Aww, homeboy's blushing!" Gunn adds with a smile. I look over at Willow, and she looks less than pleased. I suppose she thinks she's being loyal to her best friend. If only she knew how loyal I am to Buffy, despite my desire to be otherwise. I take Willow's consternation as an excuse to duck out.
"Well, kiddies, I'm all tuckered out," I say, faking a yawn. "I'm going home."
Xander waggles his eyebrows at me. "Oh come on, Spike, don't you want to ogle your new crush for the rest of the set?"
If I ogle Veruca any more, I'll miss Buffy so much, I'll die. "The Manchester United match is on the telly. Can't miss it."
Willow puts a hand on my arm before I can leave. "Hey. You think we could meet up for lunch tomorrow at the Espresso Pump? I wanted to talk, just the two of us. Wanted to talk more in depth about . . . you know."
I really don't know, but I'm assuming it's something Buffy-related. Maybe she thinks she can intervene somehow. I see that look in her eyes. She thinks we should get back together. Maybe her hope is enough to make it happen. I nod. "Sure, Red. Whatever you want."
"We know what you want, Spikey." Xander gives me a snarkish grin, cocking his head at the stage. Everyone titters knowingly, but before anyone else can make a crack about Veruca, I'm gone.
*********************************************
I enter the apartment with a sigh and throw the keys on the side table in the hall. But then I glance to see Buffy's camel-colored suede coat splayed across a chair, and I stiffen. Gingerly, I creep to the bedroom where I find her sitting on the bed, staring at an old picture of us, taken one sunny day at the Sunnydale Marina. She's hunched over, and I secretly rejoice when I think she's crying, but she hears me and turns, dropping the picture on the bed. Her eyes are satisfactorily rimmed with redness, but she's not fully weeping the way I want.
"Spike."
I shift uncomfortably, but loiter near the door. "Hey. Sorry, I thought you'd be done by now, I didn't think --"
"No, it's okay. I think I have the last of it anyway." She motions to the pile of bags lying in the corner, and it surprises me how little space it takes up. It seems like she occupied so much more of my life than six duffel bags.
There's a suicidal silence that follows, mostly caused by both of our reluctance to move. Gazing away from her, I suddenly close my eyes and bang my head against the doorframe. I can hear her get up and put a light hand on my shoulder, and a surge of electricity racks my whole body. Opening my eyes, I shake my head. "It doesn't make any sense, Buffy," I whisper softly. "You leaving doesn't make any sense." Her whole body seems to go limp in dismay, but I continue in haste. "I know I've been a cad. A horrible bounder. But I've always been a horrible bounder. This is old news. Why is it suddenly an issue?"
"Because you haven't changed, and I have. I might have been okay with you being a bounder before, but I need to move on. I need to grow up."
"Oh, fucking please. Forty-eight hours ago, you didn't feel the need to grow up. We were happy. Are you telling me you've aged ten years in one day?"
"This isn't sudden. You had to know it was coming. We haven't been happy for a long time. Face it, you haven't been happy for a long time. Maybe longer."
"Okay. So again, this is about me. You say it's not my fault, then you say it is."
She grits her teeth and throws her hands up in frustration. I take that as a good sign. It's more feeling I've seen her emit since the start of this thing. "Spike! You can't be this oblivious!"
"Oblivious to what?"
"You know why I left?" she rages. "Because you wanted me to."
"Don't fucking start this psychological mumbo-jumbo --"
"I'm serious. You're always so miserable because you're so afraid that I'll leave you. You use that as an excuse not to get on with your life. So I thought I'd do you a favor and just give in to what you always knew I'd do."
"So this is for my good?!" Honestly. Women make absolutely no sense. "And I'll tell you why I'm miserable! I'm miserable because my girlfriend has it in her stupid, silly littl' head that she suddenly can't stand me and my so-called depressed ways."
She tries to move past me, grabbing one of her bags. "I told you we'd only get into a fight --"
"Well, get this into your head, pet." I grab her arm and whirl her back against the wall. I smash my lips against hers, plundering her mouth with my tongue. She wants to pretend that it's not real anymore, so I show her just how real it is, how real it's always been. It's almost scary how deep and consuming the kisses can still be. It's bitter and painful, but blinding and overwhelming at the same time. My heart is throbbing in my throat, and I get the acute feeling that the kiss is bigger, much bigger than me, and I'm just a small, insignificant ant, drowning in a sea of wet passion. I feel dizzy, and my knuckles are white against her slight arms, but she's moving against me, wriggling her head back and forth to give me different angles of access. She's clutching me, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I hear her moaning small little whimpers into my mouth. Just when I think I'm losing it, I've finally died in her arms, she slips out from under me, brushing past. I'm left with my forehead against the wall as her footsteps clatter frantically against the floor. She scurries out the door and slams it with quaking strength. I shut my eyes tightly and restrain the impulse to thrust my fist through the wall.
Everything's fucking topsy-turvy. The distractions only make me concentrate on Buffy more. The "good" life she's letting me have by leaving is much worse than our "miserable" existence together. I'll never understand it.
TBC………………….
