DISCLAIMER: Everybody's owned by Mutant Enemy, and so on, and so forth. I didn't mean any harm, please don't come and drown me, please, thank you.
SUMMARY: Spike mentally meanders through his liquor cabinet. Only it's a cardboard box. Nobody ever said he was Ethan Allen's poster child.
NOTES: This is my first work of fanfiction. So yeah, it's probably mockable. But hey, everybody has to start somewhere, right? ;) Many thanks to Lisa, for coming up with the title, and for smacking my grammar into line!
CONTACT: ozy @ comcast . net
Spirits
Spike rummages through the assortment of liquor bottles that clink and clank in their cardboard box. It isn't quite a liquor cabinet, but it'll do. What to drink tonight, is the question. What sharp flavor to add to blood, cigarettes, and Pop-Tarts fresh out of the toaster?
Oh, hey, half a bottle of single malt Scotch. That's Giles. The smell of it brings back a flood of memories of mooching the man's liquor. The good stuff at first, then cheaper and cheaper as Giles realized Spike was drinking most of his alcohol anyway, and it wasn't worth buying the more expensive varieties. Spike hadn't cared. It had been all about the act of stealing, getting under the Watcher's skin. And granted, it had worked.
Absinthe is Drusilla, without question. It's dark, and dangerous, and threatens. It's bitter and sharp, but ethereal and beautiful in its own way. He and Dru and a hundred sidewalk cafes in the dark, pouring the bitter stuff over sugar, and laughing about how it was impossible that anyone could possibly want to drink this stuff, then drinking it anyway. Mind you, the bit where it makes you go a bit whacked and see things probably doesn't hurt the mental association any.
Buffy had been like one of those almost-a-wine things. What's it, Arbor Mist? Bright, sweet, intense, but inherently fleeting. She had to be enjoyed now, now, now, because unlike most of the rest of the alcohol in this box, she wasn't going to become better with time. She'd darken, go bitter, and be exchanged at last for a newer flavor by the Powers That Be. Although she probably wouldn't have appreciated being compared to something that one could drink from a plastic bottle, but in all honesty that fit too.
Spike figures himself for vodka. Sometimes smooth and crisp, but all too often harsh around the edges. Bite for the sake of bite and into everything, be it Screwdriver or Martini or Saratoga Sunrise. Okay, so maybe not the last one. It's pale, colorless, but lacks no intensity for all that. Yeah, he rather fancies the idea of vodka. It isn't quite Know Thyself, but he figures Socrates would approve nevertheless.
He could play this game all night really. Xander was Everyman. Xander was beer. Darla was dry red wine, gone off, so that it made your tongue feel like you'd licked raw tannin. Yeah, still a bit bitter about that old bitch.
But he finds, at last, this evening's poison. An older bottle of Irish whiskey, a little dusty on the outside, but perfectly serviceable. Smooth, mostly mellow, but if you're lucky, it'll occasionally bite back. Angel.
Yeah, that'll work.