AN: For those of you unfamiliar with the works of William Shakespeare, Ophelia is the name of the girl in Hamlet that goes utterly mad and ultimately drowns herself after Hamlet kills her father, denies loving her, and tells her, "Get thee to a nunnery!" Nunnery in this context means "brothel," and Shakespeare's Ophelia, as well as the tragedy of the Prince of Denmark, has a heavy influence in my Ophelia's characterization.

Ballad for Eurydice

-irishais-

2. Piano BLACK

He found her blocking the door to a hole-in-the-wall bar that he usually frequented, and bought her a drink. Not because he cared, but because she'd asked him to, and what the hell, no one liked to drink alone if they didn't have to. Her name was Ophelia--she had cracked several dry and educated jokes about drowning in the rain when he quirked an eyebrow at her name. She didn't care that he didn't care--her whole purpose was to try to drum up business, or at least get a free drink out of her efforts. She made him talk, even pretended to listen when he agreed that it was woman troubles that had resulted in his seeking of solace.

Ah, Ophelia. Spike lit up another cigarette and was about to offer her one when he realized the cellophane package was finally empty. "Shit," he muttered and crumpled the box in disgust. He was broke as it was, pissing his money away on drinks and bad food and more smokes. Anything to help him forget, but it was hard to forget when he had jabbing stomach pains and a myriad of drugs that weren't supposed to be mixed with anything except water.

Morphine mixed well with a shot of vodka--Spike was amazed his heart hadn't stopped yet. He supposed one's body could adjust to almost anything. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

He was fairly certain that whoever said that had never had their heart utterly obliterated. It didn't kill him, but it might as well have. He didn't feel stronger--he just felt empty.

"So, you wanna go fool around?"

He'd been expecting it. Anticipating it. Probably the subconscious reason he bought her the damn drink, to see if a slip of a girl with brown eyes that had seen too much to still consider her a girl would be able to stir something within him. He set the bottle back down on the bar.

I was killed by a woman once.

Smoke wafted across his eyes, tickling his skin.

He woke.

Ophelia sat on the edge of the bed, a cigarette between her fingers. "I'd just take your wallet, but I've got a feeling you'd know where to find me," she said, another wisp of smoke drifting out from between her unpainted lips.

"Wha--oh." He sat up, looking for his pants. She dangled the blue trousers in his face, snatched up from the floor. "How much?"

Ophelia shrugged, and in the dim light of the tiny bedside lamp, Spike could see the fine lines around her eyes. "Whatever it was worth to you."

Was it worth anything?

He passed her some woolongs, hoping that the brush of her hand against his would cause some sort of reaction.

"See you around." She gave him a faint kiss on the cheek and walked out of the seedy room, and out of his life. Spike watched the door long after it had shut, empty billfold dangling from his fingers, wanting to drown in the scent she left behind, her smokes and her...

Maybe.

The scene was set--for what, he didn't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Maybe tragedy.

Spike reached for cigarettes that weren't there.

He'd seen enough tragedy.

He reached for the rest of his clothes.