Spinning the Wheel 02 - Doomsday
Buffy looked at the address on the slip of paper in her hand than glanced up at the façade of the house. Yep, she was right.
The house was built in a very pretty Mediterranean style, the yellow and orange tones created a warm and comfortable aura, totally opposite to the things Buffy imagined would come up at her in the next hour and in the next 20 days.
Slowly she approached the entrance. If felt like she was going to her own execution, she really didn't want to do this. She could spend her afternoon with load of more thrilling things, like meeting up with Willow and Tara at the Espresso Pump or something like that. But no, she was damned.
There were four names at the door. Rayne was the last.
She pushed the button, waiting for the communication to spring to live. There was a static crackle in the line as a rough voice answered.
"Who's this?"
"Ehm." Buffy muttered. "This is Buffy Summers."
"Bloody hell." came the muffled answer. Like hell, she wasn't supposed to hear that. But she hadn't enough time when the door opener beeped with an ill sound and she pushed the door open.
A staircase was leading up and around an ancient looking elevator. Buffy picked the stair. Since there were just two floors it wasn't that bad.
As she reached the second landing she saw the door on the other site open ajar. Carefully she knocked and stepped in.
The place was dark. No, not the carpet, that was in a pretty apricot tone as far as Buffy could make out, there wasn't just enough light. Although the sun was shining outside, the apartment was barely lit. The curtains were all drawn and just through some slits, subtle light peeked into the room.
The hall lead right into a huge living room. It was more than a combined living-kitchen area with the kitchen placed in the far end and separated with half a wall and counter. The living-room looked as if someone had camped there, with a blanket and a pillow lying on the couch. Food cartons were piled around it and on the coffee table and there was the faint smell of old pizza and cigarettes in the room.
"So you jump right to the lurking then?"
Buffy jumped at the sound of his voice and whirled around.
There he was, staring up at her. The front of his grey t-shirt was soaked with sweat and a few beads were glistening on his forehead.
"Ehm. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I just. I didn't know where you were and."
"I was working out. I usually do that around this time, so get used to it." he snapped, rolling past her into the kitchen. He moved in precise motions like he'd a lot of time to practise
."You were working out?" Buffy asked and she could've slapped herself for that stupid question right after the words left her lips.
"Gosh, the cripple is working out. Can you believe it." he said in a mocking tone, moving into the kitchen. He came back with a sports bottle of water in his lap.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be." She started. Yep, this was going to be hell. She didn't know how to cope with him and his. handicap. He wasn't an alien or something but she just couldn't deal. Every word could offend him.
"You didn't mean what? Look, I don't need pity from you or anything, understand?" he said angrily, totally ignoring that she was standing in the way so she had to step aside. She was following him into the hallway and entered another room behind him.
This room was lighter than the rest of the apartment. And it looked like a gym.
"Would you please stop following me around?" he whirled around, staring at Buffy.
She sighed. "Look, I just wanted to ask if. if there is anything I can do for you. I mean if you want me to do anything." God, that sounded like she was handing herself over to him freely, following the slave-theme her mind had painted out already.
"No, I don't want you to do anything for me. I'm fine on my own, I'm not a baby." he pronounced every word precisely.
Buffy threw her hands up. She didn't know what to do anymore. She'd tried. She really did, being polite and all but he was just as stubborn as a. yeah, as a baby.
"God, I don't deserve this." she muttered under her breath. "I'll just wait in the living-room, so you can sign my hours when you're done with your exercising." She waved her hand around the room pointing at some of the weights lying scattered on the floor.
He was staring at her, his mouth slightly open. "What was that?"
"I said, I'll go wait in the living."
"You think you don't deserve this?" he spat at her, his hands clenching about the armrests of the wheelchair. His whole face grew tense, his eyes were sparkling furiously. "You think you don't deserve being here? Well, listen up, missy. Do you think that I deserve this? That I deserve sitting in a soddin' wheelchair for the rest of my damn life? You think I like depending on other people to open the door for me or taking stuff down from shelves at the supermarket? I don't. I hate to get up everyday, knowing that I will never walk again. That I will be trapped in this thing till the day I die. So come on then, tell me who's the one with the big luck in this scene."
Buffy could see him quivering like he was going to explode any second. She stepped back a little and swallowed. She didn't know what to say. Usually she could come up with a witty answer to everything but this time she stayed silent. There wasn't anything to say to that, because he was right. And she hadn't thought about it.
"You better go wait in the living-room then." he nodded and turned around, leaving her standing in the doorway.
The minutes passed by slowly. Menacingly slowly.
Buffy sat on the couch. She had folded up the blanket so there was space to sit. Usually she wasn't too much for the housework, at all, but this was different. What he'd said had hit her, more than she'd expected, more then she would ever confess. She had been stupid, horribly stupid. She had stumbled into this situation just thinking about how much she would suffer in this. That she was the one with the bad luck.
But now she knew the other side of the medal, the one she hadn't giving a thought, not even when she'd entered this apartment. This young man, she didn't know his first name, wasn't that much older than she was, 26 at the most. He had his whole life stretched out before him but he was going to make his path in a wheelchair. Like he'd said, he was trapped.
Buffy was young, too, but she could still decide which way to take, which turn to follow. But he was forced to go where the wheels were leading him. He couldn't do whatever he wanted like she could. She was in college and after that. who knew what she was going to do. But he had his life already set in stone. He wouldn't become a famous football player or an actor or something like that. He had to sit there and watch all the other people around him becoming what they wanted.
Her eyes drifted, those depressing thoughts in mind, over the rest of the living-room. Before, she hadn't the time to take everything in. And in the far corner, behind the dinning table in front of the counter, she saw what made her swallow. The thoughts came back popping into her mind.
She stood, walked over to it and knelt down beside a glistening, blue electric guitar. It stood in it's holder, waiting to be picked up and played on. On the guitar's body was a silver engraving reading 'Spike'. Buffy's fingers slid over the polished wood and over the strings, making them hum quietly.
"Would you not touch that, please."
His voice startled her again. She didn't even expect him to move the quietly.
"And if you say you're sorry now I'll throw you down the stairs. Can't hear that phrase anymore." he interrupted as Buffy opened her mouth. She shut it and just nodded instead. "So, I have to sign that you've been here, right?"
"Yeah, ehm. " She walked over to the couch were she'd left her purse. "You need to sign this." She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He'd moved over to the table and she placed it before him, along with a trashy pink pen, she immediately felt ashamed for. His eyes roamed over the paper, taking in it's content. Then, he looked at the watch on his wrist, wrote down the time and his name.
"Sir, can I ask you something?" Buffy started, fumbling the hem of her shirt. She still felt pretty uncomfortable around him, not only because of the incident earlier.
"Car accident three years ago, been in a coma for a couple of days but they patched me up again. Said I could never walk again, so here I am. Does that cover your question, Miss Summers?" he said frankly while writing.
"Ehm, that wasn't exactly was I was going to ask." she said, but she was glad that she finally knew. The question had been burning in her mind since she'd seen him in court.
"What then?" he asked. He seemed inpatient, like he couldn't wait for her to get out of his apartment.
"I was... who's Spike ?" Buffy asked, blushing. Yeah, it wasn't the best question to ask but it was a start.
"That's me." he shrugged, turning away from her to roll over into the kitchen. There, he threw the empty sports bottle that had been resting in his lap into the trash can. "It's a nickname. You can call me that, for all I care."
"Oh, ok." Great Buffy. Usually your such a smart ass when it comes to witty replies and now you behave like an idiot.
"Look, Miss. I really need to get a shower right now and your time is up anyway. You can go."
"Oh please, call me Buffy."
He nodded and there was a moment of awkward silence between them until Buffy snapped out of her trance, grabbed the sheet of paper and the pen and stuffed it back into her purse.
"Well then." She turned towards the hallway and started for the door.
"Buffy?" Spike called after her. The way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine. Since they'd met for the first time two weeks ago, he almost sounded friendly.
"Yeah?" She turned around again, facing him. Yeah, there was a kind glitter around his eyes this time.
Spike hesitated. He had other words in mind but he couldn't say them. "You'll be back tomorrow then?" he said instead.
"Sure." Buffy nodded. She knew he was hiding something, she could sense it behind his façade. She didn't know him long enough but he was a horrible liar. "Same time's ok with you?" she added.
"Not that I could go anywhere. See you tomorrow then." With that, he turned around, heading back into the kitchen and out of sight.
Buffy sighed quietly, then headed for the door and left the apartment.
Spike just sat there for a couple of minutes before he turned around again, rolling into the living-room and towards the corner where his guitar was standing. He looked at it for a moment, then lowered his hand towards it's neck, lifting it into his lap. His finger slid over the strings, playing a few notes without a specific melody.
His gaze dropped to the floor and he closed his eyes. His hands were shaking, unable to play any more.
How long has it been since he'd played the last time? Three years? Something like that. Not since the accident, that was for sure. He couldn't bring himself to play, just like now. A few notes, nothing more. It was too hard, too painful to remember.
Within fragments of seconds everything had been lost. When he remembered it it seemed like hours passing by in slow-motion, although it had just been a few heartbeats. The two cars on the rainy street, the argument, the screeching of breaks, the crunching of distorted metal, the splash of blood on the wind shield and the blinding pain in his legs.
Spike shook his head, forcing the pictures out of his mind. But it was impossible. He could ignore them for some time but they were burned into the back of his eyes, like the negative of an old photo. His hand clenched around the guitar. If he had enough strength he could snap it in two. With a deep sigh he put the instrument back in its place.
Then he turned around, facing the mess that was his apartment. That was his life.
That Buffy-girl was a menace. Not only was he was sure that she wasn't even allowed to drive a car without the presence of an adult, she was an arrogant little bitch who never gave a thought about other people. She stumbled into a situation without a second thought, her tongue was faster than her brain. Great. And he had to spend 19 hours with her. He just had to keep her busy so that she wasn't a thread for him with her questions and apologies. When there was one thing in the world he hated more than being trapped in that wheelchair, it was the patronising look of all the people around him, If there was a smell for pity, they would reek of it, a nasty, penetrating stench soaking them through and through.
Reluctantly he rolled over to the couch, picking up the pizza and Chinese food carton that had piled up there for a couple of days. If he did that bit of housework himself, he could keep her from poking her arrogant teenage nose into his business.
