The Best In Me
Sometime between "Intervention" and "Tough Love"
Savoir-faire: quickness to see and do the right thing; tact.
Spike sat relaxed in his crypt. It was a shame he no longer had the Buffybot to entertain him. Despite the pain of the bruises Glory had given him, he would have enjoyed indulging in his favorite coital fantasies. Instead, he had to settle for watching Passions.
He'd finally managed to place the TV aerial just so, in a way that he could properly see the Bennett's house sinking into a large fissure. Just as he was wondering how Timmy would be able to escape from it, there was an insistent knock at the door.
He knew it couldn't be Buffy. She never knocked, just broke down the door and strutted in like she owned the place. He sighed longingly at the thought. There was more knocking at the door, as if by more than one fist at once and he could hear male voices. Who the bloody hell was daring to ruin his enjoyment of Passions? He strode across the crypt to the door and tore it open. If it weren't for the chip in his head, he'd bloody well—
A whirlwind of expensive designer clothes draped over two lithe demons whisked around Spike in a flurry of noise and activity. Slowly, it dawned on him that this was the "Savoir-faire Pair" his friend, Clem, had enlisted to help him win Buffy's heart. He'd already impressed Buffy by enduring Glory's torture and keeping the truth about Dawn being the Key to himself. He remembered how Buffy had rewarded him afterwards. Buffy had kissed him softly on the lips, careful not to put too much pressure on the tender places of his battered face. It was because of that measured, butterfly- soft kiss that he had realized she wasn't the Buffybot. It had never occurred to him to have Warren program a kiss like that into the Buffybot. He remembered how feeling her tenderness had sparked wonder in him, like a surge from a naked electric wire. Surely he was close enough to Buffy now that this pair of experts would be able help him win her heart entirely. He reminded himself that allowing Clem to call the gay couple was not an act of utter desperation. Ok. So it was. But nobody else need find out about it.
One of them, a mauve-skinned demon with ivory ridges of bone protruding from the back of his skull and neck, was running his hands over Spike's chest and biceps. "We've got some great raw material here. A real rough diamond," he remarked to his companion. In an aside to Spike he added, "I'm Eric and this is my associate, Hugh. Ooh! Am I glad to meet you, you hottie!"
"Hey, wotch it!" said Spike, thrusting Eric's hands away. He looked around, somewhat distressed as the blue-skinned demon, Hugh, infiltrated his abode.
Eric was blinking into the darkness of the crypt and coughing. "Is it just me, or is it really dusty in here?" He ran a finger across the top of Spike's TV then dusted his hands.
"Are those cobwebs?" Hugh asked, horrified, peering into a corner.
Spike watched nonplussed as the duo pried into his most private spaces. He hoped they wouldn't disturb his collection of Buffy-related objects; clothes and pictures he'd collected into a kind of shrine.
"You don't seem to have a kitchen," commented Eric, puzzled. "Oh, wait. I think I found Spike's fridge." He opened it and stared into its bright interior. "Are you aware that the contents of your fridge consist solely of blood and beer?" He tripped over a pile of half empty bottles on the floor. "And apparently your pantry consists of whisky and bourbon." He looked at Spike with a quizzical frown. "Your main food groups are blood and alcohol?"
"Of course they are. I'm a bloody vampire, you git," responded Spike.
"Oh my God!" Hugh interjected, flinging his blue hands into the air. "There's no bathroom!"
"And I thought having the mother of all cobwebs as a window treatment was going to pose a problem," said Eric. "Just breathe, Hugh," he said, giving his blue friend a reassuring pat on the back in an attempt to comfort him. "Deep, calm breaths." He took in a deep breath in demonstration and coughed again.
"Ok, ok. I can still work with this," Hugh said, determinedly. His horned brow furrowed. "How am I going to work with this?" he wondered.
"Spike, if we're going to help you get this girl's attention," said Eric, fingering photos from Spike's Buffy shrine with a neatly clipped claw, "we're going to have to make some changes around here."
"Like toning down your Richard Ramirez tendancies," added Hugh, tartly, with a pointed look at the photos. "Most girls don't really appreciate it when you go all Nightstalker on them."
"Buffy's not like most girls," Spike protested.
Eric turned towards Spike and sized him up with a queer eye. "We're going to work on bringing out the best in you."
Hugh walked over to the Spike's bed and rummaged through the clothes that lay on the end of it. "You wear way too much black for someone with such a pale complexion, do you know that?" he informed Spike.
Eric ran a hand over Spike's head. "Do you always wear your hair like this? It's kind of severe. This wax is so hard, you could wear it as a helmet. Why not try breaking it up for a more casual, tousled look?" He ran the fingers from both his hands through Spike's hair and mussed it up.
"Now listen 'ere!" cried Spike, swatting Eric away once again. "You're here to do a job and to do it well. I don't want Buffy to think I've turned into some kind of nancy-boy, awright?"
"Relax, honey-buns, you're man enough for me," replied Eric.
Spike rubbed a hand across his bruised face. It was going to be a long day.
Please review.
Sometime between "Intervention" and "Tough Love"
Savoir-faire: quickness to see and do the right thing; tact.
Spike sat relaxed in his crypt. It was a shame he no longer had the Buffybot to entertain him. Despite the pain of the bruises Glory had given him, he would have enjoyed indulging in his favorite coital fantasies. Instead, he had to settle for watching Passions.
He'd finally managed to place the TV aerial just so, in a way that he could properly see the Bennett's house sinking into a large fissure. Just as he was wondering how Timmy would be able to escape from it, there was an insistent knock at the door.
He knew it couldn't be Buffy. She never knocked, just broke down the door and strutted in like she owned the place. He sighed longingly at the thought. There was more knocking at the door, as if by more than one fist at once and he could hear male voices. Who the bloody hell was daring to ruin his enjoyment of Passions? He strode across the crypt to the door and tore it open. If it weren't for the chip in his head, he'd bloody well—
A whirlwind of expensive designer clothes draped over two lithe demons whisked around Spike in a flurry of noise and activity. Slowly, it dawned on him that this was the "Savoir-faire Pair" his friend, Clem, had enlisted to help him win Buffy's heart. He'd already impressed Buffy by enduring Glory's torture and keeping the truth about Dawn being the Key to himself. He remembered how Buffy had rewarded him afterwards. Buffy had kissed him softly on the lips, careful not to put too much pressure on the tender places of his battered face. It was because of that measured, butterfly- soft kiss that he had realized she wasn't the Buffybot. It had never occurred to him to have Warren program a kiss like that into the Buffybot. He remembered how feeling her tenderness had sparked wonder in him, like a surge from a naked electric wire. Surely he was close enough to Buffy now that this pair of experts would be able help him win her heart entirely. He reminded himself that allowing Clem to call the gay couple was not an act of utter desperation. Ok. So it was. But nobody else need find out about it.
One of them, a mauve-skinned demon with ivory ridges of bone protruding from the back of his skull and neck, was running his hands over Spike's chest and biceps. "We've got some great raw material here. A real rough diamond," he remarked to his companion. In an aside to Spike he added, "I'm Eric and this is my associate, Hugh. Ooh! Am I glad to meet you, you hottie!"
"Hey, wotch it!" said Spike, thrusting Eric's hands away. He looked around, somewhat distressed as the blue-skinned demon, Hugh, infiltrated his abode.
Eric was blinking into the darkness of the crypt and coughing. "Is it just me, or is it really dusty in here?" He ran a finger across the top of Spike's TV then dusted his hands.
"Are those cobwebs?" Hugh asked, horrified, peering into a corner.
Spike watched nonplussed as the duo pried into his most private spaces. He hoped they wouldn't disturb his collection of Buffy-related objects; clothes and pictures he'd collected into a kind of shrine.
"You don't seem to have a kitchen," commented Eric, puzzled. "Oh, wait. I think I found Spike's fridge." He opened it and stared into its bright interior. "Are you aware that the contents of your fridge consist solely of blood and beer?" He tripped over a pile of half empty bottles on the floor. "And apparently your pantry consists of whisky and bourbon." He looked at Spike with a quizzical frown. "Your main food groups are blood and alcohol?"
"Of course they are. I'm a bloody vampire, you git," responded Spike.
"Oh my God!" Hugh interjected, flinging his blue hands into the air. "There's no bathroom!"
"And I thought having the mother of all cobwebs as a window treatment was going to pose a problem," said Eric. "Just breathe, Hugh," he said, giving his blue friend a reassuring pat on the back in an attempt to comfort him. "Deep, calm breaths." He took in a deep breath in demonstration and coughed again.
"Ok, ok. I can still work with this," Hugh said, determinedly. His horned brow furrowed. "How am I going to work with this?" he wondered.
"Spike, if we're going to help you get this girl's attention," said Eric, fingering photos from Spike's Buffy shrine with a neatly clipped claw, "we're going to have to make some changes around here."
"Like toning down your Richard Ramirez tendancies," added Hugh, tartly, with a pointed look at the photos. "Most girls don't really appreciate it when you go all Nightstalker on them."
"Buffy's not like most girls," Spike protested.
Eric turned towards Spike and sized him up with a queer eye. "We're going to work on bringing out the best in you."
Hugh walked over to the Spike's bed and rummaged through the clothes that lay on the end of it. "You wear way too much black for someone with such a pale complexion, do you know that?" he informed Spike.
Eric ran a hand over Spike's head. "Do you always wear your hair like this? It's kind of severe. This wax is so hard, you could wear it as a helmet. Why not try breaking it up for a more casual, tousled look?" He ran the fingers from both his hands through Spike's hair and mussed it up.
"Now listen 'ere!" cried Spike, swatting Eric away once again. "You're here to do a job and to do it well. I don't want Buffy to think I've turned into some kind of nancy-boy, awright?"
"Relax, honey-buns, you're man enough for me," replied Eric.
Spike rubbed a hand across his bruised face. It was going to be a long day.
Please review.