Story Title: Black
Author: TestaALT (TestaALT@aol.com)
Rating: 18 (adult language, sexual situations)
Summary: Buffy has picked on Spike for years of high school, blackening his very existence and making life hell. The skittish little guy just takes everything she throws at him and bottles it up. He has, amazingly, found love for her, despite her harassment and valley girl persona. But when Spike’s parents split, he decides to make a few changes, one of which includes having her. All human; set in high school; really angsty at times.

Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Email me for permission to post this story.

[A/N: This is my second fic and first all-human fic. An idea kept reverberating in my brain, despite finals and a term paper, and I decided to act on it. If you're just starting up on this, please don't hesitate to review past chapters if they speak to you. Nothing makes me more giddy than seeing someone review work from a previous chapter. Well, maybe reviews for the current chapter, which I'm always a little scared about, but that's a different... err... story. Title of story is ambiguous; it can mean a hell of a lot of things. Got it from Pearl Jam's "Black," but I was also thinking "Paint It Black" and "Fade to Black" and the state of Spuffy, the state of people's lives, and the stereotypes at school (being "black and white"). So it's open-ended. ^_^]




Chapter One: "Changes"



Spike hated this. He hated that he liked her. She had tormented him throughout middle school and the first half of high school. She had ruthlessly picked on his fuzzy brown hair and love for poetry. It wasn’t just poking fun; she took great pleasure in inflicting pain on others. She scarred Spike for life. And Spike hated to feel this way for her.

But things are different now he thought with a smirk as he climbed the steps of Sunnydale High School. I ain’t no bloody whippin’ boy anymore. True, Spike had changed immensely over the summer of his sophomore year. His parents had done more than just separate; they abandoned him completely. He lived by himself in their old house, while Mom was off in Cabo partying it up and Dad was back in England probably shaggin’ some prostitute listening to old U2 albums.

At least they give me money his mind replied optimistically. Spike hated the optimistic part of his mind more than anything else. That was the part of him that gave him hope, and hope inevitably shattered. He tried to purge the optimistic side of him as much as he damned well could over the summer, but it had always crept back to him. Spike had changed his appearance; now, instead of brown fuzzy hair, he bleached it yellow and slicked it back, and he mostly wore black clothes, with a matching trademark duster.

And the outside appearance had, amazingly, changed his outlook on life. He was no longer going to eagerly complete assignments to please teachers. No more doing homework for other people. No more letting people walk all over him. He was going to be a badboy. He smoked. He drank. And he was only seventeen. Spike had mastered the art of sarcasm and, as a result, earned what apprentices of the art called “the sardonic grin of death.” He used this often.

But as much as he changed himself, he couldn’t cleanse the optimistic side of him. Or his apparent love for her. Love’s bitch doesn’t even begin to soddin’ describe me. Spike no longer made poems about her, but he felt that even the sight of her would make him tremble and revert back to the Bozo the Clown days. It wasn’t that she had picked on him. It was that he liked her in spite of it.

Spike walked through the front door of the high school. He bumped into a tiny freshman and yelled “Sod off!” with a gesture of his hands before he continued going again. The freshman cowered in fear and ran away.

Junior English he said wistfully to himself. And she’ll be there. She’s always in my bleedin’ classes. Spike wondered what they’d read this year. Probably some stupid Salem witch book, some Shakespeare again, and some Steinbeck. The teacher’s always assigned books that Spike had already read, and it made him angry the school system had to attend to the idiots more than the gifted. Spike wanted to read Catch-22, not The Red Pony.

His mind wandered back to her again. The valley girl. Cheerleader. Inevitable Prom Queen. Fiesta Girl in middle school. If Spike gave Riley, her senior boyfriend, a punch in the gut every time she said “oh my gosh,” Captain Cardboard wouldn’t have any blood left in him. She was superficial. She had no deep thought or meaning. She had terrorized him for years. Stupid golden hair and golden skin. And those eyes... fuck, those eyes.

He hated this. He hated feeling this way for her. He didn’t want to like her. He shouldn’t like her. She treated him like the cake on her shoe when she wasn’t tormenting him. She had called him names, threw spitballs at him, and even questioned his masculinity a few times. I should hate her... So why don’t I?

Spike opened the door to the classroom and moseyed directly to the back of the room. He didn’t give much thought to the archetypical classroom. It had beige desks with connecting burgundy chairs, a blackboard, and a big window with a view of the parking lot. She was in the classroom, just like he knew. He could feel her presence before he even opened the door. With great regret, he also saw Riley. The big Poofster probably failed English and had to take it again.

Probably failed just so he could take it with her. Stupid git.

Spike was amazed that nobody said anything to him as he sat down in the back, cocking his head up a little too high. Usually Parker or Cordelia would make some half-conceived insult pointed towards him. He would have ignored it in the William days, of course. But it didn’t help. They just glanced and giggled at him and made him feel even more inadequate after that.

But this time, they didn’t even notice him. It was like they were afraid of him. None of them made any glance at him whatsoever. In fact, whenever they had to look in his direction, they did it purposely fast. That was, at least, until Riley came up to him.

“Hey man, that’s my seat,” he pointed at the desk, superiority in his voice.

Spike snickered. “I don’t see your soddin’ name on it.” He glanced at Riley with a mad, almost crazy look in his eyes.

Riley shuddered. He usually got what he wanted. Football captain. Dumb as a cheerleader but he was big. And strong. No one knew to mess with him. Not like he had his own Fight Club after school and he had never proven himself in a fight, but he was a big pile of man at six-three.

Just as Riley was about give some lame-ass response, Spike fumbled for his Zippo in his pocket and a cigarette from his duster and quietly lit up. He puffed some air into Riley’s face and gave him his best wicked grin as he draped his arms over the desk. This feels great, standing up to him. Riley glared at him for a few more seconds and silently walked away from Spike with his tail between his legs. Spike would have laughed, but he didn’t want to start anything. Not yet, anyway.

“Um... sir?” The teacher called from his desk in the front. He looked apprehensive although his voice was authoritative. “You have to put that out.”

“Oh, come on, ‘teach,” Spike replied dogmatically. “I just need a lil’ to ease my mind. You know what I mean?”

Everyone in the class was staring at him now and the teacher looked a little annoyed.

“Put that thing out or you’ll go to the principal’s office,” the teacher bit, but he had lost some of his confidence. Probably flustered from having to send someone already. New teacher, perhaps?

Spike looked like he wasn’t going to put it out for a second. Everyone was still staring at him. They weren’t thinking “this guy is stupid,” but “this guy is a total badass.” After a handful of seconds, Spike sighed and got up from his chair.

He strolled over to the trashcan at the front, smoking along the way, and threw it in the bin. The teacher had to put his foot inside the trashcan to make sure it was out. He didn’t want the school to burn down.

Spike snickered. New teacher.

“You got a name, teach?” Spike called as he stalked back to his chair in the back.

The new teacher took this as an opportunity to introduce himself to the class. “Yes, I’m Mr. Davis.” He said this as he wrote his full name, “R-I-C-H-A-R-D D-A-V-I-S,” on the board.

“Mind if I call you Richard?” Spike shot from the back of the class. The teacher glared angrily at him. “Or Rich? Richie? Dick?”

The last name had the class laughing on the ground. The teacher called for order.

“One more quip from you, Mister—Mister...” he lost his thunder as he didn’t even know the student’s name.

“Spike,” Spike replied coolly. “And no mister, either. Titles are for people with sticks up their arse.”

The class erupted again. Mr. Davis—err, Richard and Spike leveled a gaze at each other. The stare-contest lasted a handful of heartbeats. The whole class was watching them both intently, switching back to each face every few seconds. Mr. Davis finally admitted defeat by looking down.

“I’m going to do the roll,” he sighed out. He quietly called everyone’s name as they said they were here. He decided to do it backwards, because he was new and he wanted to be cool like that.

“Buffy Summers?” Mr. Davis called.

“Here,” she replied with a wave of her hand. It made her long blonde hair tumble a little and as a result made Spike quiver. Damnit, her again his mind raced. Oh, bloody hell, stop that he told his straining erection.

Spike gulped a little as his name came up. “William Giles?”

Everyone in the class searched for him. They didn’t see William here.

“Here,” Spike responded from the back of the class with a small wave of his hand.

Everyone turned their heads – Buffy, Riley, Parker, Scott, and Cordelia included – and looked at him in awe. The clocks had just struck thirteen. A small grin escaped Spike’s lips.




Did you like it? How do you think everyone will respond to Spike's new image? What does this mean for Spuffy? Will Spike be kicked out of class before the bell rings? Reviews are appreciated. ;)

[A/N: Oh my, overwhelmingly positive response ahoy! I love it. Keep it coming and you’ll reap the best of this harvest. But you guys suck, too. I might have to put a little Robert Frost in here just to keep it legit to my term paper. Title is from Episode V of Star Wars. Enjoy the story. And, as always, review like crazy! ;]




Chapter Two: "The Empire Spikes Back"



Spike did his best evil laugh when they wouldn’t stop staring at him. He knew the best way to freak them out even more was just to shrug the whole thing off. But he loved the positive attention. The shock. The awe. They looked at him like he just came back from hell and knew exactly what little naughty stuff they did last summer. Yeah, this is me, you stupid wankers. The guy you picked on can bleedin’ break you in half now. The teacher called Cordelia’s name, but she didn’t answer.

When no one took their eyes off of him, Spike decided he should just go back to what he was planning to do. So he grabbed a Sharpie from the person sitting next to him and started writing “S-P-I-K-E” in big letters on his desk.

“Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing?” The teacher was beyond annoyed now, but he was starting to think Spike was the ringleader of this bunch, so he didn’t dare threaten the principal’s office to him.

“Oh, just,” Spike replied casually as he gazed sideways at the word he just wrote on the desk, “writing my name so certain incoherent wankers know this is my desk. And mimicking you.” He gestured to Mr. Davis’ name on the board before getting back to work, completely intent with darkening the letters.

Riley stifled a convulsion. The whole class knew Spike was talking about the football player; they had all intriguingly watched the heated conversation between the two of them over the desk currently being branded. Spike was showing superiority to Riley, which completely dumbfounded the class. This was William, the same guy who Riley picked on a few months prior for breathing inadequately. Everyone thought Spike had lost his marbles or swapped bodies with a biker.

“That’s not acceptable,” Mr. Davis managed.

“Y’know what, you’re right,” Spike looked up at the ceiling for a second, deep in thought. He was looking for an answer, so he did his best philosophical chin touch. “Oh, I know!”

Mr. Davis thought for a second that Spike was reforming his bad behavior. Only for a second, though. Spike whipped out his lighter and dropped to the floor. He put the flame to where the metal leg of the chair met the linoleum floor in a hilarious attempt to wield the desk to the floor.

“It’s removable, see,” Spike announced in a didactic manner with a point of his finger. “Can’t have that happening.”

The whole class laughed while covering their mouths. Spike even thought he heard a cackle from Riley and Mr. Davis.

“Well, yes...” Mr. Davis was sure that Spike was the head honcho of the group now, and if his lessons on teaching had taught him anything, it was that you didn’t mess with that person. That and the alpha-male spiel he got in biology. He concluded that he should just let Spike slide. “But let’s focus on English.”

Spike glanced up at the teacher for a second and it looked like he wasn’t going to stop. But slowly, he nodded his head and plopped back on the chair. He made it look like it was his decision and not the teachers.

“We’re going to read The Crucible first this year.” Mr. Davis stated in a giddy tone, even though he was probably shooting for educational. It was like the guy was in a candy store. A guy that was going to show all his friends the yummiest type of candy.

Spike snorted. “Oh, great,” he mumbled from the back of the class.

Mr. Davis caught it. “What’s that, Will—err... Spike?”

Spike looked up at the teacher. “It’s just that, Mr. Davies, I’ve read that before. Bloody boring to read again.”

Mr. Davis was irritated that Spike didn’t even know his name. “Oh, really? This is the book The Crucible, not the instrument.”

He thought that Spike was stupid. He was wrong.

“I soddin’ well know that, Mr. Deedies.” The class had picked up on Spike’s alternating names for the teacher and started to stifle giggles. Mr. Davis still looked unimpressed, so Spike sighed and continued. “In the end, everyone gets hanged, even Proctor. Abigail gets her way. Stupid bint. Shoulda been a blonde.”

The last quip was a shot at Buffy and, despite her superhero ability of valley girlness, she sensed this and reddened a little.

Mr. Davis was amazed that Spike had read the book. A book. He was also mad that Spike had just ruined the story for everyone in the class. He didn’t know whether to be perturbed or pleased, so he just chose to ignore Spike completely.

“We’re going to the library to get our books now,” he announced to the class.

Everyone nodded and started for the library. Spike walked a little slower than everyone else and was able to duck out, even with the watchful eye of Mr. Davis on him. He went to the restroom and started smoking.

Well that was a good start he assured himself silently in his head as he took a drag. Everyone knows who I am now and not to mess with me. Spike was really happy with his first class thus far. All the goofy and funny stuff was really winning over the crowd. He was also punishing the populars, which was just about the noblest thing someone could do in High School. He suspected that everyone would be whispering “do you know that Spike?” in the halls by lunchtime. No more William. No more being made fun of. Now, it’s my turn to play. Payback's a bitch.

He also felt Buffy’s eyes on him, which warmed him to a simmer. She wasn’t insulting him or making stupid jokes about him now. She was admiring him. She probably thinks I’m cool he wistfully reasoned. Just for one second, he thought about Buffy without the added backage of the past and smiled a little. It quickly faded as all the mean stuff she’d done to him hit him like a freight train. I love that stupid piece of hair.

Angel had told him he was “cool” a few days ago, and Spike was finally starting to believe it. Angel and Spike had been tentative buddies all throughout school, clinging to each other as the populars picked on them. They were decent friends, although they disagreed a lot. Angel was the only guy that ever saw Spike over the summer. At one point, when the twosome was working out together, Angel muttered that Spike had changed. Spike just grinned and continued pumping away. He finished the rest of his set without breathing, just thinking about Angel’s words. I’ve changed.

Now he knew he changed. He was thrown in a swamp full of crocodiles with ham wrapped all around him and managed to make all the grizzlies cower behind a log. Which remind me of my Steve Irwin impression he thought with a grin. He threw his cigarette in a sink and stalked back to class.

The students had returned from the library by the time he got back and were reading the book silently. Spike waltzed in and immediately everyone stopped reading and glanced up at him. I have the attention of the entire class by just presence alone he thought with a grinned.

“Hey, Mr. D,” Spike casually addressed the teacher with a scratch of his head. “Sorry, kind of got lost.”

The class giggled. They all knew full well that Willia—err, Spike knew where the library was located.

Mr. Davis was prepared for such an instance, however. He was a new teacher, after all, and desperately trying to become a cool teacher. He whipped out a copy of the book with a sly smile and handed it to Spike. “I thought you had, so I took the liberty of getting you a copy.”

Spike held it in his hands for a second, deciding whether or not just to throw it in the trash. Or burn it. It was a good book, yeah, but he had already read it. Hell, I probably have a soddin’ copy of it at home. He grudgingly went back to his seat, “accidentally” bumping into Parker’s shoulder on the trudge back. Parker didn’t say anything.

He sat down and examined the book in his hands. He titled it sideways and acted like he thought the book was going to do something like jump out at him. The students who were still looking at him chuckled and finally went back to their book.

Spike tore a page out of the book and wrote “VALLEY GIRL” in big letters. He gathered up enough courage and threw it at Buffy’s hair. When she glared back at him after the hit, he almost lost it. Oh, god... she’s so hot. Look at those penetrating eyes... those luscious lips... But she saw the paper on the ground beside her desk and giggled as she picked it up. She probably thought Spike was sending little love letters to her. When she read the two words, she looked back at Spike in a quizzical manner.

He just shrugged in response and opened the book, although he didn’t read it. So she doesn’t even know what she is? That’s bloody ironic. He didn’t know whether Buffy really was stupid or not. She always completed her assignments and everything. She just inserted “like” in, like, every other, like, word of the, like, conversation, and so he, like, assumed, like, that she was, like, stupid. But he didn’t like know she was stupid fo’sho’ or not.

But he was happy that he taunted her. Even if she didn’t know what it meant, she would innocently ask Riley during lunch and he’d tell her. She’d either tell him that Spike, not William, had called her that, or she would just bottle it up inside of herself. A smack down with Hall Monitor’s face versus Buffy thinking about him every second of class. He’d take both in a heartbeat.

She needed a taste of her own medicine he thought, but the soft part of his mind was screaming at him, telling him to stop. That was another weak characteristic Spike had tried to suppress over the summer, but he just couldn’t. He stuck his foot in it, but like sticking a foot in a spring, it just kept bouncing back up. And the harder he put his foot down, the higher up his foot went in the end.

So what’s that mean? I’m gonna soddin’ revert back to everyone’s bitch? Bugger that! If anything, I’ll be William the Wise Ass... He wanted to reassure himself, so he tore another page out of the book and lit it on fire with his Zippo. It was a rather crude way to get the attention back on him, but he didn’t care. He waved the kindled piece of paper in the air over his head rhythmically, gazing into oblivion with a happy smile on his face, while everyone stared at him. It was like he was at a concert listening to an amazing encore performance.

The teacher smelled smoke and shot up. “Mister... Spike!” Mr. Davis yelled. He might take little wise cracks, but he didn’t want to burn down the school.

Spike snapped out of his catatonia. “Oh, sorry!”

He quickly threw the enflamed piece of paper on the ground and stomped it with his feet, effectively putting the fire out. He did this with hilariously fearful flinches in his every movement, probably trying to mock what anyone else would have done in his situation. But everyone knew by now that Fire and Spike were close buddies. Well, everyone that was smart. So not Riley.

“I was jus’ thinkin’ of a Freebird solo I saw on Youtube the other day,” Spike stated blankly as if it answered everything. “But I guess we have, like, cell phones, and, like, oh my gosh, blueberries for that now!”

His sarcastic words burned the populars in the classroom. He wasn’t just throwing salt on the wound; he was screaming curses at it now.

“To the principal’s office!” Mr. Davis yelled angrily. He had finally decided maybe classes on classes weren’t the best guidelines for teaching. He pointed to the door.

Spike frowned a little, but he wasn’t sad. It was clearly a “yes, I’m getting the fuck out of her” frown, maybe even a backwards grin, and everyone picked up on it. He grabbed the book as he walked to the door.

Mr. Davis snatched the book before he could exit. “I don’t want you burning this or anything.”

Spike shrugged. “You’re probably right. I’d use it as a catalyst to burn some poor girl’s hair. Or some football player’s locker.”

He grinned wickedly at the thought and nodded goodbye at Mr. Davis. “Mr. D.”

He waved tootles at the class. “Class.”

And he left.




Whomg! Principal! Is he friend or pal? Will Spike even show up to the principal’s office, or go sadistically burn Riley’s locker? And whatstehflick is up with teh no Spuffy? Review to find ou... gah, I’m such a drag...

[A/N: Oi! I should be studying for my finals right about now. Wilkins is Mayor Richard Wilkins III, baddy from season 3 of Buffy (obviously). Title is from The Cars song; I just look through my music collection for chapter titles usually. When I originally wrote this, it went on much farther in the day. But I cut it up and fleshed out ideas. Oh, and venereal means “arising from, connected with, or transmitted through sexual intercourse, as an infection.” *winks*]




Chapter Three: "Shake It Up"



Spike extinguished his cigarette on the ground beside the principal’s door. He straightened his duster a little and slicked back his bleached hair a little more with his hands. Time to play with the principal. He opened the door to the office.

Mr. Wilkins was playing golf with a coffee mug as the hole. He had, rather ingeniously, used the binders and folders and all that office crap to make a little course. The office was rather plain; manila walls, filing cabinets, and a desk with a big red chair. Wilkins was just about to swing when he glanced up at Spike, a smile on his lips.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite student,” Principal Wilkins chirped happily, long forgetting the shot. “What brings you to my humble abode?” He gestured in a greeting manner with his hands, golf club still in one.

“Uh...” Spike didn’t know exactly what had gotten him here. He decided a broad generalization would be best. “Got kicked out of English.”

“Oh,” Principal Wilkins frowned and put the golf club down. “Take a seat.”

He gestured for the chair in front of his desk as student and disciplinarian assumed the position.

Wilkins put his folded hands on the desk. With his suit and collar, one would think the guy was uncomfortably hot, but he wasn’t sweating. “This is very serious, Spike.”

Spike grinned when the principal referred to him by his nickname.

He nodded and concurred. “Yep, I know. And it won’ happen again.”

Wilkins stared at him for a few seconds with that authoritative look. It looked like he was going to suspend Spike. Crash the hand of justice right down on him. Punish him for his evil sins. Exile him to the insane asylum otherwise known as detention. At the very least verbally denunciate him.

But Wilkins quickly burst out in laughter. “What did you do, anyway?” he managed between chuckles.

“Oh, it’s English, new teacher, you know,” Spike replied as he relaxed a little in his chair. “Teacher’s a little skittish to fire.”

Wilkins snickered. “Just don’t burn the school down. You know as well as I do that I can’t possibly expel you. Your father owns too much of this town as it is.”

Spike looked down a little. Yeah, I know that. Daddy’s here to bail me out, even when he’s not here.

“And besides, we’re friends!” Wilkins shot up and threw his arms in the air. “Tee time on Saturday still?”

Spike grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it, ‘mate.”

“Now get back to class,” Wilkins shooed him with his hands playfully. “Or just walk around the halls the whole period like I know all you kids do.”

Spike happily exited the room and spent the remainder of the period chain-smoking in the parking lot. He knew that everyone in his English class, including his teacher, were probably spying on him, but he didn’t give a damn. The Crucible my ass. A third grader could read that!

The loud bell echoed out to the parking lot and Spike knew it was time for second period. Calculus BC he thought with a smile as he threw his cigarette on Riley’s windshield. At least I’ll learn something in there. Spike had already decided that he wouldn’t be a badboy second period; all the kids in the advanced classes were smart and kind. And he heard the teacher was pretty cool, with a friendly southern accent to boot.

Spike traveled to the class, content with how calm, peaceful, and instructive second period would be. He wasn’t going to be in a room full of enemies. No one in Calculus would have ever picked on him or made fun of him. They probably would have stuck up for him if they weren’t terrified themselves. Spike entered the class and saw some familiar faces, but decided to sit at the very front of the class, right in the thick of things.

He was enjoying the look of the classroom. Calculus books were stacked along the walls and derivatives were written in the places where there weren’t any books. It had a nice chalkboard and a roll-down map. Spike wondered why on earth a math class would have a bleedin’ map. The teacher looked exactly like he had envisioned; a nice southern man, little plump with a Hawaiian button-down shirt, booming voice and beard.

All of a sudden, he was knocked out of his thought. The Buffy senses kicked in. Couldn’t be her. But, sure enough, she entered the classroom a little while after he sensed her. Her tight dark blue jeans and baby blue shirt filled out in all the right places. She talked casually with the teacher for a minute, handed him a slip, and sat in the seat adjacent Spike. Oh soddin’ hell. Well I just won’ talk to her.

Class started and Mr. Anderson, the teacher, was reviewing some stuff everyone should have learned in Calculus AB. Spike wasn’t paying much attention. He had already learned and knew it; no point in going over the ABCs again if you already read Lolita. He tried not to, but all he could do was think about Buffy. I soddin’ hate this. She controls my bleedin’ mind.

And what the fuck is she doing in Calculus? Spike almost blurted out. She’s s’pose to be a valley girl. Dumb as a brick. Buffy certainly conversed with that appeal, but Spike wasn’t all that sure if she fit the profile of a valley girl anymore. It looked like she had a pretty good grasp on math; if she was in a Calculus class she must have taken the prerequisites. Perhaps her knowledge extended to other subjects, maybe even existentialism, literature, and current events. If that’s the bloody case, then why does she act like she was just beamed down from The Real Orange County?

“Gonna be bad in this class, too?” she whispered across to him.

He could feel her mischievous grin on him. It made him uncomfortable. “Maybe. ‘fraid I’ll light your hair on fire or something?”

She giggled. “Not really. You are William. The same person that—”

“Sod it,” he stifled quickly in a cough. Buffy was about to say something when Mr. Anderson turned around.

“Buffy Summers,” Mr. Anderson called to her. “Can you tell me what the antiderivative of this function is?”

He pointed at the chalkboard and Buffy looked at the problem, completely perplexed with her mouth agape; it looked like she was trying to read Sumerian that had just been translated from Egyptian with a crossover from pig Latin.

“Um... no,” she stated aloud, embarrassed that the whole class now knew her total lack of Calculus skill. “I told you I was a little behind.”

Spike snickered at that. “A little?” he added with a chuckle. Buffy reddened further.

“Spike,” the teacher now glared at him. Spike’s body immediately went ramrod straight like that of a Marine.

“Sir, Mr. Anderson, Sir.” He barked with a salute.

The whole class erupted in laughter from Spike’s basic training impersonation. Spike didn’t want to josh his way passed this class, but he wasn’t learning anything here, either.

“Cut the crap. Perhaps you would like to tutor Miss Summers on her apparent lack of knowledge?” Mr. Anderson asked this as a question, but everyone knew it was an order.

Spike looked a little bummed. Can’t disappoint my favorite teacher already. Or get him soddin’ hating me.

“Sure,” he sighed finally.

“Good, now let’s get back to work,” Mr. Anderson started substituting the 3x in the integral, which was probably obvious to everyone who wasn’t Buffy.

Spike stole periodic glimpses at Buffy every chance he got. Since they were sitting in the front, Spike could only imagine what the people behind him were thinking. Probably that I’m a wanker his head whispered to himself. But... goddamn, fuck it, she’s gorgeous. True, even Buffy’s toenails were in some way beyond breathtaking to Spike, but he had to get himself together. This is the same wench that picked on me. What in the buggerin’ hell would incline me to give her the time of day? He took another look at her vibrant face and found his answer almost too swiftly.

The bell rang and class ended without as much as another peep from Buffy or Spike. Spike thought he would grunt in pleasure if he saw Buffy get up and walk out the door, so he decided to jump up and run out as fast as he could.

“Hey, Spike,” she cooed softly from her desk. Spike spun around at her and grinned sardonically. Okay, I can do this. Just keep up Spike. No William. She’s still a bitch.

“Hey, Buffy,” he replied mockingly with the same soft tone.

Buffy looked a little cut by his mockery, but she continued anyway. “We need to discuss when and where we’re going to study. I was thinking my hou—”

“No soddin’ way,” he cut her off. But the idea of being in Buffy’s house was strangely erotic. His house was a good idea, too. Really, any idea with a house involved – a good idea. But... what...? Why am I thinking this? Does her intelligence amend for her past crimes? Just because she might not be a valley girl on the inside doesn’t mean she's a-okay with me. Far from it. Maybe I’ll bang her hard and make her scream or something. But no bleedin’ Shakespeare crap.

“Well we can’t do it at yours,” Buffy muttered, breaking his train of thought. “I can’t get a ride.”

Spike sighed heavily. Melodramatically. Like they do in those teen dramas on the WB. He did this purposely just to piss off Buffy. “Fine. After school today at five. I know where you live.” The last sentence sounded a little too stalker-esque.

Buffy had a surprised look on her face, judging the last sentence in much the same way as Spike.

Spike tried to cover it up with a shrug and a cool grin. “I’ll help you. But if I get a disease or anything, I’m killing you.”

Buffy smirked. “Oh, no, you won’t. Maybe a venereal disease, but that’s a stretch.”




Yes, I seriously just left you hanging. I’m sorry. Tell me I’m a mean, bad man in the review. Do it. Also tell me how you like the “study group” subplot. Because, yeah, they’re going to study. Yeah...

[A/N: Done with finals, yay! I’m free! Seems like less and less of you are reviewing, which makes me a very, very sad person. But kudos to you all who do review; I really appreciate it. You all make my day. As for the chapter, we end a cliffhanger and warp into another. Spike’s reasoning might seem a bit crude, but he’s thinking crude, so yeah. Song is “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. I encourage you all to download it; it’s one of those must-haves.]




Chapter Four: "Closer"



Spike tried to cover it up with a shrug and a cool grin. “I’ll help you. But if I get a disease or anything, I’m killing you.”

Buffy smirked. “Oh, no, you won’t. Maybe a venereal disease, but that’s a stretch.”

Spike was taken aback by that. Oxygen wasn’t reaching his lungs. Blood wasn’t coursing through his veins. The clock’s hand didn’t move. The particles in the air weren’t even colliding with each other. Time had stopped completely. And to top that off in a complete paradox, his libido was going crazy. ...did she just? This is Buffy, right? Same Buffy who’s going with the ape man? Same valley girl Buffy just used “venereal” in a sentence? What in the bleedin’ hell is she trying to pull?

He was about to respond, but the clock suddenly jumped five minutes and Buffy was nowhere to be seen. He put up his finger up to retort, but he was pointing at the Calculus books on the wall. He shrugged it off and went to find Angel.

As Spike walked through the corridors, he was tangled in thoughts of Buffy. A big part of Spike was still repulsed by her. The things she’s done to me... you’d expect I would burn her hair. But Spike didn’t feel malice, too drunk on the lust and the thought he craved for years. So she wants to shag, eh? I can do that. Spike wouldn’t just bang her senselessly; he would do that in the end, of course, but he would torture her first. He would make her beg for it. Slowly caress her smooth skin and explore her heavenly body, searching and finding her points of pleasure. He’d completely desolate the points. He’d lick her in big sensuous laps and make her writhe in pleasure. He’d do this until she was close to the edge, close to going overboard, closing the gap to the great abyss, and then he’d suddenly stop. He’d just stop. And Buffy would glance up at him, big beautiful eyes and a pitiful expression on her face resembling a little baby who’d just had her favorite toy taken away. And she’d plead for him to do it, too high and too close to care about the neediness. She’d beg him. And that, ‘mate, would be the best torture of all.

Spike grinned at the thought, happy that he’d made a reasonable alternative to his desire for Buffy. He’d fuck her senselessly after that, of course, pounding in and out of her so fast and hard that it made them both climax instantly. He couldn’t imagine what repercussions it would have on her relationship with Riley. And shagging me, probably still not the best option for popularity. Her walls would come crumbling down. She’d be left with nothing but the blissful memories of popularity that lay bleeding in her hands. And Spike would finally have what he wanted, to fuck her in both meanings of the word.

He finally found Angel, who was outside on some ledge eating his lunch. He was dressed in black pants and a nice button-down black shirt. The two of them were a black hole at school, sucking up all the energy, especially when compared to the warehouse of preppiness of the conforming students.

Spike immediately yanked Angel by the arm. Might ruin his stupid spiked hair if I pull him fast enough.

“C’mon,” Spike urged Angel. “We’re moving. No more of this soddin’ ledge crap.”

Angel obeyed, completely aware of reborn-Spike’s ability to lead. “You got Weight Training last period, too?”

“Yep,” Spike nodded wickedly. “We’ll be workout partners.”

Angel was happily content with following Spike until he figured out that they were heading to the cafeteria. He openly resisted. “Hey, no man. You know we can’t go in there.” He shook his head and gestured “no” with his hands.

“Because what? Because some soddin’ jock or skirt says we can’t?” Spike thundered this both bitterly and sarcastically.

Angel thought about that for a minute. He touched his chin. “Well, yeah.”

Spike sighed. “Just come the fuck inside with me.”

Angel shrugged and followed his friend. He called from tow, “You really have changed, y’know that.”

“I do,” Spike replied softly. “And so will everyone else soon enough.”

The twosome scared some third-string football player away from his table and sat down. Spike, of course, picked the table across from Buffy’s table. Both groups were facing each other. Parker had a stereo, and, as a result of his lackluster musical taste, had a horrible rap song playing. It blared through the cafeteria and made anyone who wasn’t a fan cringe at the lyrics. Something about humping hoes and dealing drugs, from what Spike could gather between the rapper’s grunts and moans.

Angel was looking intently at Cordelia as he sunk his teeth into his ham sandwich.

“You really do like her, ‘mate.” Spike sympathized matter-of-factly as he caught the stare.

Angel nearly choked on his sandwich. “Yeah,” he coughed. “You know that. She’s going with Parker, though. Whole thing’s not much different from your obsession with Buffy.”

Spike just nodded humbly. Normally, he would be upset that Angel had brought up Buffy, just as Angel would be upset that he had brought up Cordelia. Bringing up chicks you can’t have but desperately want isn’t the best subject unless you’re rating them on some skewed backwards scale. But I’m close to having her. I can feel her desire.

Another rap song started and Spike just couldn’t take it anymore.

Spike stomped over to Buffy’s table and violently swiped the stereo before anyone could respond. He thundered back over to Angel and slammed the stereo on the table, reverberating a loud sound throughout the room and effectively getting the whole cafeteria’s attention. With his back turned to shocked looks of the populars, he changed the station to hard rock. One of his favorite songs was playing. Spike slid the volume dial up.

I've got no soul to sell
Help me
The only thing that works for me
Help me get away from myself

This time he sat on the table and lit a cigarette. Spike gazed lustfully at Buffy as the next lyrics came up. It was painfully clear to everyone in the room who was still watching the debacle what Spike had on his mind. Buffy tried to ignore him, focusing on anything in the room besides his heated gaze.

I want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to god

Now Riley was talking to Buffy, but she had started to stare back at Spike. Her eyes are so beautiful he pensively thought. So much depth in them. They are a million hues of color. I couldn’t ever pinpoint their color to merely one lame category; doing that would shortchange their ethereal qualities. And her radiant hair. And her effulgent skin. And I’m gonna fuck her until the neighbors send flowers. Spike didn’t even notice as Riley angrily stood up.

You can have my isolation
You can have the hate that it brings
You can have my absence of faith
You can have my everything

Help me
You tear down my reason
Help me
It's your sex I can smell—

Riley turned off the stereo with a loud bang, almost breaking the flimsy device.

Riley was over at the table now. Spike didn’t even notice. Spike had gotten lost in Buffy and the all too appropriate lyrics. But Riley looked mad. He glared at Spike.

“What’s your problem!? Buffy’s mine!” Riley barked possessively.

Now Spike was mad. He wasn’t sure if it was the possessiveness or the hostility in Riley’s words. But it was probably the fact that he had wanted to take a swing at Captain Cardboard for a very long time. Spike slipped off the table and popped the cigarette out of his mouth.

“You wanna scuffle, ‘mate?” Spike stood up tall. It looked like he was about to throw a punch, but instead, in true badass form, he pressed his cigarette into Riley’s blue sweatshirt, leaving a sizzling black hole that made everyone in the room scream “fight!”




I suck, I know. ‘Stopping right before the action. Next update probably not until Thursday. :( Tell me how much you hated the story. Because, really, self-esteem needs some breaking if I stop right before the bleedin’ action...

[A/N: Okay, so I lied about updating on Thursday. This story is just too contagious to go a day without writing more. The fight might seem a little lackluster; the implication is that Riley is a really, really big coward. I introduce Faith and the “plan” here, two plot points that I think will give the story more pizzazz. Title is from the song by Filter.]




Chapter Five: "Hey Man, Nice Shot"



“You wanna scuffle, ‘mate?” Spike stood up tall. It looked like he was about to throw a punch, but instead, in true badass form, he pressed his cigarette into Riley’s blue sweatshirt, leaving a sizzling black hole that made everyone in the room scream “fight!”

And then Spike did it. He punched Riley. He connected into Riley’s jaw with such force and rage that it made the oversized man fly to the ground. It was just one punch. One super punch. A punch that could have destroyed nations. Riley was on the ground clutching his face. Goddamn, that felt so good. I’ve wanted to do that for years.

“Yeah, stay the fuck down, you stupid git!” Spike screamed at Riley.

This made Riley quake on the ground. He's scared of me?

“Not the brightest idea, picking a fight with me now,” Spike bit out as he towered over Riley.

Riley cowered and slowly pawed away from Spike, still on the ground. Riley knew now, with perfect clarity, that Spike was completely reborn. And so did everyone else in the room. No one would dare pick on him or mess with him. Everyone also knew that Riley was a coward and all talk. If he was really as big and bad as he said he was, he would have gotten back up and tae-kwon-do’d Spike’s ass.

But he didn’t. In fact, his posture on the ground screamed passivity.

“Hey, I was just protecting my girl.” Riley said possessively as he got up, still holding onto his jaw. “You wanted to fight her, remember?”

Spike openly laughed. At first, he chuckled, but when he fully realized Riley’s stupidity, he leaned forward and bellowed some horse laughs that chilled the entire room. This soddin’ wanker thinks that I want to fight her? The lyrics aren’t that ambiguous...

“Yeah, ‘mate,” Spike replied jokingly as he sat back down on the table. “I wanna beat her up. The song obviously means that. ‘Fuck’ always means fight.” Spike wondered for a second if Riley and Buffy ever had sex, but he quickly shuddered that thought away. Not something I want to think about, as much as I hate her; that is a deeper part of hell than even she deserves to be in.

Riley barely caught the sarcasm. “Oh,” he finally coughed. It was beyond obvious now that Riley wasn’t going to retaliate. To the watchful eye, he looked somewhere between terrified and bewildered. He probably never thought that Spike would have hit him, especially with such great force. Riley was about to say something when Spike got out his Zippo.

This time he burned a wooden cross. He lit a cross on fire in his hands.

“Either this or bridges or your face...” Spike trailed as he gazed at the pretty bright light. But his eyes quickly saw something brighter. Buffy was staring at him in some sort of awe. Hate or admiration from the bint? Can’t really tell.

Riley shuddered at Spike’s words and ran back to the safety of his table, hugging the stereo like it would protect him. Spike threw the enflamed cross in the metal trash bin.

“Do you want to start something?” Angel finally asked. He had watched the entire scene with great surprise and admiration for his friend. He was finally sticking up for himself and it almost inspired Angel to do the same thing. If Spike dated Buffy, he might gather enough courage and date Cordelia.

Spike slid back down into his chair. “Maybe with him,” he gestured to Riley with a point of his lighter.

“But not them, right?” Angel asked innocently as he pointed at the religious table. They were all staring angrily at Spike, ready to throw the book at him.

Spike shrugged. “Maybe them too. Stupid religious slaves always trying to soddin’ convert me. I have to repent for my bleedin’ sins.” He said this mockingly with a wave of his hands. “This whole place is segregated worse than antebellum South. Gah, bugger’em. Bugger’em all.”

“That’s a great outlook on life,” Angel pointed out. “And not one that will get us through the school year.”

“You’re too modest, Angel,” Spike replied as he sized Angel up. “We’ve been working out all summer. If it weren’t for all that drinking and lack of sleep, we’d look like beasts.”

Angel cocked his head a little. “True, I guess. But I don’t want to hit a nun.”

Spike chuckled at that. Positive thought, that’s what he needs. “When I have Buffy and you have Cordelia, we should do a double date sometimes.”

It was fun to dream. “That’d be cool,” Angel replied wishfully.

“Maybe even have a foursome afterward,” Spike stated in a too-serious voice with a grin.

“But... wait...” Angel was beyond bewildered as he pointed at Spike. “...have you? And how does that work, anyway?”

The bleached man just cackled in response. “Oh, Angel, we gotta get you a girl, ‘mate.”

Angel looked at Spike unimpressed. “Like you’ve gotten any...”

“As a matter of fact,” Spike grinned as Faith walked up to their table. Faith Wilkins was the principal’s daughter. Wilkins loved his daughter very much. While golfing with the principal, Spike had to... err... care-take to Faith. It wasn’t all that bad, actually. She was great in bed. An animal. Rawr! They shagged like bunnies all summer. And she had that sarcastic vibe that should have turned Spike on beyond belief.

But she just didn’t do it for him. She’s just so... attainable. And the slut of the school. One could observe that notion very easily by the short skirt and skimpy white blouse she was wearing. ‘Least she’s not preppy.

“Hey, Spike,” Faith waved her hand. “‘Heard you made a quite a scene here. What’s up?”

Spike shrugged. “Just putting some populars in their place. You?”

“I was just sitting, hangin’ with some friends outside,” Faith replied coolly. She had her own little “gang,” which was known by everyone as the death metal potheads. Spike didn’t want to join. “Then I heard my favorite song play...” she waggled her eyebrows a little with a mischievous grin, obviously implying that they go do some hanky-panky in the principal’s office.

Spike glanced at the clock. “Not now, Faith. Bell’s gonna ring soon.”

He tried for his best disappointed face, but he wasn’t sure if it was there or not. Right now, he wanted Buffy more than anything. And fuck, he hated that train of thought more than anything. Buffy needs to do a hell of a lot of repenting. Spike was afraid that even if he got it on with Faith, he’d just end up fantasizing about Buffy while they were connected at the groin. And that, ‘mate, is not something I need right now.

Faith shrugged it off. “No big. Mind if I sit?” She pointed to the chair.

Spike gestured openly. “By all means. We can make fun of the jocks together.”

Faith sat down on the chair next to Spike. She secretively looked right and left before she began.

“Still on for the plan?” she whispered.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Spike replied softly. “The paint’s already in the rafters. Just get your people there at the assembly tomorrow.”

Faith nodded. “It would have looked suspicious if I got it. This way, no evidence or implications.”

“He’s your father, Faith,” Spike managed between chuckles. “Don’t think he’s gonna expel you or anything. Or me, for that matter.”

Faith grinned. “He likes you, y’know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Spike responded. He was about to say something else, but Faith slowly put her head on Spike’s shoulder, caressing his sexy chest.

Spike gulped as he glanced over to Faith. “Uh... Faith?”

“Yeah, Spike?” she replied coyly as she lapped her hand over his chest again.

“Could you... I need to...” he could barely mumble anything. Oh, shit, I’m in a bloody bind now. I don’t want her at all and she’ll be pissed if we don’t shag anymore. It’s like seeing Buffy’s finally made me realize... But his mind quickly shut that thought off, the idea of Buffy controlling his promiscuity irking him. Dun’ wanna piss her off because of the plan and the fact that she’s Wilkins’ daughter.

The bell rang, forcing the cattle to herd to their next class. It was the best loud and obnoxious ring he ever heard. I’m a lucky bastard.

“I need to go to class,” he mumbled quickly as he gently placed Faith back in her chair and walked with Angel to his last class. Weight Training. Whee! Now that’s a class I can learn something in. And with Angel! He didn’t even notice Buffy’s perturbed and jealous gaze as he walked to the gym.




Okay, so we're almost done with one day of school! And what a day so far! I'm very interested to hear what you all think about the secret plan involving paint. What you think it will be, what you want it to be, etc. Because, honestly, I can't think of anything really creative for it, and it has to be a defining moment. Oh, and I’m totally not going to go Spike/Faith in any non-Buffy related ways. If anything, Faith will become an antagonist down the road.

[A/N: I’m really hesitant about this chapter, so make me feel all giddy and warm inside with reviews. I wrote what I knew. And I know a lot about working out. Just an fyi: squats are the king of all exercises, taking enormous effort for each repetition. In the exercise, with the weight on your back, you lower yourself to a squat position and fire back up. If you don’t know anything about exercising, you might be a little lost this chapter. Just take it as Spike and Angel doing incredible feats at huge weights. I tied in working out with Spike’s past. I also included a flashback here, to clarify the oppressiveness of Spike’s life as a result of Buffy. Title from the killer band.]



Gym at Sunnydale High was probably different than most schools. Here, students were only segregated by gender for their freshman year; after that, the school assumed they were mature enough not to act out and mixed everyone together. The school was bloody stupid.

Which means Buffy will be in this class, too Spike almost sighed out as he put on a black tank top in the locker room. The last thing he needed right now was more painfully satisfying images of Buffy bouncing around. She made him feel that way, and he didn’t want to feel that. Not with her or anyone else, for that matter. But especially not with her. Stupid valley girl probably has a perfect life outside of school. Perfect parents that are probably still together, two perfect siblings, and that nice perfect picket fence I’ve driven by more than a few times. Everything’s bloody perfect. Bloody perfect life.

And the plan. Bloody hell, the plan... Spike didn’t even know if it would be successful or not. I mean, really, Faith was spearheading the damn thing. How much could you expect, really? But if it works... I might finally have my revenge.

He smiled a little at that as he walked into the weight room. Well, the facilities are okay, I guess. No t-bar, but how much can you expect from public schooling? The room had all the necessities of a gym: a few squat racks, a ton of benches, a plethora of barbells and dumbbells, and a slew of treadmills.

Like any other Weight Training class in high school, Spike was sure that all the guys would work out with shit-poor form just to impress the ladies. They would swing their whole body into their bicep curls, which were, sadly, the staple of their routine. Their spotter would practically pull up the entire weight while they were benching. And the squats, fuck, the squats...

You couldn’t even call them squats. The stupid gits just went down two inches and popped back up, acting like they were the best thing in the fucking world. And, yeah, they could do 275 pounds with that, but so could anyone with a death wish for a broken back. The guys did that stupid grizzly bear impression before they squatted, flexing and all and it just pissed Spike off beyond belief. Time to show them all sissy squats soddin’ suck.

Spike and Angel loaded the squat rack as the remaining students and the teacher arrived in the room. Surprisingly, the teacher was a woman. She had dirty blonde hair, heavily tinted sunglasses, and a tan Spike only saw in Southern California. She looked fit. I’d do her.

“Okay, class, this is weight training,” the teacher declared. “I’m Mrs. Gonzalez.”

Every man in the room let out an inward sigh. Mrs. That meant it’d be that much harder to...

“Today we’re going to go over form,” she continued didactically. And what bloody fucking work on form they need.

Spike and Angel stopped paying attention. The bar was finally loaded at 225 pounds. Angel ducked down and did his warmup set rather quickly, pumping out fifteen repetitions without much of a sweat.

Spike let the weight rest on his trapezoids for a few seconds, reveling in the challenge. He quickly shot up and down fifteen times to complete his warmup set. Spike didn’t even look fazed as he finished.

The teacher was going over the fine art of the bicep curl when she saw Spike and Angel.

“What are you two doing?” she managed, gawking at the plates on the bar. “Although that weight is rather impressive, we’re over here working on curls.”

Spike snorted at that. He and Angel put another 45 pound plate on each side, bringing the total to 315 pounds.

“That’s... that’s not safe,” Mrs. Gonzalez asserted. This made everyone in the class turn away from what they were doing and stare at the two men. Angel and Spike both looked intently at one other when they were performing a set; they were spotting each other.

Angel was working on his set of twelve when Spike saw Buffy. And fuck, was she a vision. Nice little strappy white tank top, hair still down, and baby blue shorts. Bloody hell, those shorts. Every inch of Buffy’s thigh, to Spike, was like a mile of heaven. Her legs just looked so delicious, tanned perfectly and shaped heavenly. He wanted to screw her right there, on the ground in the weight room with everyone watching. Then he saw Riley.

Haha, bloody ponce has a big bruise on his face now. His thoughts of Riley still didn’t keep his shorts from bulging, an erection forming from the likes of Buffy. Fuck, how am I gonna workout now?

Angel finished his set, huffing and puffing a little. An experienced bodybuilder could see that this was Angel’s ideal weight. He barely got the twelfth rep out, letting out a deep hoarse breathe as he pushed up with every ounce of strength in him. On every repetition, Spike and Angel went down as deep as possible. Ass-to-grass, bodybuilders called it. This way, the quadriceps received more work, and the remainder of the thigh – the glutes and hamstrings – also received a harsh workout.

When one did deep squats they quickly figured out that they were a ruthless, painful exercise. The descent to the calves and ascension back up was one filled with arduous labor. Most people couldn’t even do full squats. They either weren’t flexible enough and they made up some excuse like their doctor told them it was bad for their knees. But full squats... full squats were the king of all exercises. Full squats could turn a skinny 100 pound fourteen-year-old into a 200 pound beast.

Spike finished his set at 315 pounds without a noticeable struggle. Everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing and watched the twosome blast the hell out of their legs. Both Angel and Spike did another set at 315 pounds before they put even more weight on the bar. Everyone in the room whispered doubts to one another.

They put another 45 pound plate on each side, bring the total to an amazing 405 pounds. You just didn’t do this weight in high school with perfect and deep form, unless you were on steroids or something. Everyone thought it was their maximum effort. That they would only do one repetition and that was it. They were wrong.

The weight of the bar on Angel’s back made him lean forward a little. He did three repetitions with stifled grunts and was about to do a fourth when he caught Cordelia staring at him in the mirror. His face immediately turned bright red as he racked the weight.

Everyone in the room glanced over at Spike now. They thought he would only get a few out, too.

My turn. Spike got under the bar and lifted it off the rack’s hinges. The weight of the world, 405 pounds, was on his back. And fuck, this shit’s heavy as hell. The bar bent a little because so much weight was on each side. The steel bar bent because of the weight. Normal people would collapse to the floor, but Spike stood ramrod straight, loving the feel of the iron on his back. He knew who his enemy was when he had this much weight strapped to him.

Spike took a deep breath and started. Here’s for the time they called me names. He plummeted to the ground and shot back up, rage plastered all over his eyes. He was starting to look like some berserk animal.

And here’s... here’s for the soddin’ time they beat me up. He shot up for a second time, this time with such force that the bar flew up in the air a little. He didn’t need no key. He’d fucking break in.

Here’s for the time they... but his mind was swept in a flashback.


William had just finished reciting a poem in front of the class. A love poem. And everyone was laughing at him.

“You’re so lame, Bozo,” Parker bit out between giggles.

“My dog can write better than you,” Scott added in the same bitter tone.

Cordelia took her hand from her mouth. “Really, did you write that for anyone?”

William looked to the side. He had written it for Buffy.

“Like me, William?” Buffy eerily completed for Cordelia, like she could read his mind. She was twisting the knife in his gut. Throwing salt on the wound. Kicking him while he was down. She knew that he liked her.

Buffy batted her eyelashes mockingly. William reddened to a deep purple. It seemed impossible to redden to a color besides red, but William did it. Everyone took that as an answer and openly laughed. William hung his head low.

“You’ll never have her, Bozo, she’s mine,” Parker declared possessively, wrapping an arm around Buffy. She openly showed comfort in his embrace.

William looked beyond crushed. He put his head down, fighting back tears. His mom had told him that when a girl picked on him, they were just flirting with him and that they were actually interested in him. But it didn’t look like Buffy was flirting with him now. Or that she was interested in him. At all. Her disgusted stare at him had answered any ambiguity that was still up in the air.

William sat down at his desk in the front of class with his head down. Everyone was still laughing at him. He started to cry on his sleeve. Somebody threw a wad of paper at him, which quickly turned into a shower of spitballs and assorted school supplies. You’d think the bloody teacher would do something, but she found it funny, too. And that was cruel. The teacher was laughing at him.

At lunch Parker and Scott beat him up. They cornered William and started taking cheap shots at his gut. When he fell to the crowd after a barrage of kidney shots, they kicked him a few times. They said Buffy didn’t want him. William just took it.


Spike had completed nine more repetitions on that memory alone. It filled him with such rage and hate that he just wanted to pound out repetitions until his legs broke. Spike turned his hate into some type of furious force. A force that could squat the world and punch out the sun, making it a black hole in the bleak sky. It almost made him crazy. Like rabid dog crazy. Feral. He felt like he could break the barbell in half right about now, and if it wasn’t on his back, he probably would have. He felt like tearing off Parker’s arms and beating Scott with them.

His legs were screaming at him, telling him to stop, on the verge of collapsing, but Spike’s mindset was one of ferocious determination. I’m getting this last fucking rep out if it’s the last bloody thing I do. If Spike didn’t do this, he was afraid he wouldn’t have drained all his rage that was recently kindled by the memory. And that would be bad. At least for anyone who had terrorized him in the past.

“Spike, stop this!” Mrs. Gonzalez screamed at him. She probably had been yelling at him the entire time, but Spike’s flashback completely drowned out everything, even his motions with the weight.

“You’ve obviously gone over the point of failure!” she continued loudly.

“Fuck off,” Spike bit lowly, the bar’s weight not allowing him to turn and give the teacher a death stare. Angel did this for him, luckily. The teacher slowly backed away with a sigh and ignored them for the rest of the period, happy that at least they weren’t her problem anymore.

Spike looked at himself in the mirror. He was shaking, not from the weight but from the anger of the memory. His eyes were bloodshot red and he could see all the veins in his body. The vascularity in his arms looked disgusting. A big puddle of sweat was forming, dropping like piercing raindrops, on the ground.

And then he saw it. He saw Buffy in the mirror. She was staring at him. She looked impressed, which made Spike feel great but at the same time filled him with rage. Spike was so confused about everything. He had this rage to kill her – to desolate her and mercilessly rape her perfect existence – and yet a part of him loved her.

Stupid bitch!!

And with a fiery and explosive passion he pushed up his last rep.

Angel helped him rack the bar, but it still made a cacophonous crash as it slammed back on the squat rack. Everyone in the room jumped at the sound, but they went back to their bicep curls and tricep extensions after a few angry looks from the twosome. Arm exercises don’t do shit.

But Spike and Angel weren’t done yet. They both quickly stripped the bar back to 315 pounds and started again. Angel got out three reps. Spike got out six.

And then it was back to 225 pounds again. The warmup weight was now tiring them out because they had demolished themselves already. Spike’s legs had finally stopped screaming; they knew now, with perfect clarity, that when Spike had this type of mindset, nothing could stop him. Not a teacher, not the police, not a bullet, not a meteor shower. Angel pumped ten reps and Spike pushed twenty.

By the time they were done, half of class was already over. Buffy, Cordelia, and Riley were on the treadmill now, trying to hold a conversation with each other but still taking isochronal glimpses at Spike and Angel. In fact, everyone in the room was constantly aware of the two insane individuals, impressed by the daunting weight. It was hilarious that Riley was on the treadmill; you’d think he’d be man enough to actually pump some iron.

Spike and Angel finished the day with some lunges, stiff-legged deadlifts, and leg press. The lunges didn’t seem that impressive to everyone, but anyone who did them knew that having 100 pound dumbbells in both hands while lunging across the room was a bitch. The deadlifts and leg press were more like the squats; done at unbelievable weight with perfect form.

They were both back in the locker room now. Spike took off his tank top and thought he heard some of the men in the room gasp in pleasure. Closet cases... probably too scared to tell anyone. Especially here, in wankerland.

“You wanna do something after school?” Angel asked casually.

“Nah, man, going over to Buffy’s house,” Spike replied in the same casual tone. It was a huge thing, but he said it like he was walking his dog. Well, maybe...

He knew what Angel’s face would look like. Complete unadulterated shock. But he just didn’t expect the paramount of awe in Angel’s face; it was like he found out where the Holy Grail was located or something. Spike grinned in a devil-may-care fashion as he put on a black shirt.




School’s finally out! Bring on the tutoring! I’ll probably have a little bridge before we go to Buffy’s place, so the tutoring scene, in its entirety, won’t be next chapter. It will probably be a partial attempt, with a nasty little cliffhanger at the end or some other evil thing I can think up. But don’t fret. It will be great when it comes. I promise.

[A/N: Coming back with everything I got. For Buffy’s grandpa, I was thinking Alan Arkin from Little Miss Sunshine. Great movie, too; if you don’t mind people saying “fuck” once in a while (and why are you reading this fic if you do? :) then you’ll absolutely adore it. This was written rather quickly without much revision, so if you have any questions about anything, please ask. Some plot points will be discussed next chapter.]




Chapter Seven: "Tutoring Part 1"



Spike was wondering what impetus had made in change into different clothes. It was like one minute he was looking for an iPod case on the internet, and the next he was dressing all formally. Sure, a red button-down shirt and brown leather jacket might not be formal to some, but Spike saw it as a sign of weakness that he changed clothes.

That I’ve changed for Buffy.

He pondered the fuller meaning of that thought as he parked his black DeSoto in Buffy’s driveway. Buffy’s house was as normal and typical as houses came these days; two stories, adequately size, the lawn was dying (but what could you expect, really?), and a one car garage.

It’s bloody perfectly normal. Like her life. Her perfect life.

Spike hopped out of his car and started stalking to Buffy’s door. He was shaking a little, which he found unbelievably unnerving. Stay steady, ‘mate. Just Buffy. Just the girl you’ve desperately wanted to bang and screw over for years. Spike took a deep breath at the door and was about to knock when it opened.

Buffy had opened the door. She opened the door without him even knocking. Spike’s apprehension and clothes-changing seemed insignificant now, because not only had Buffy opened the door before he even soddin’ knocked, but she was also dressed completely different from school today. Now she was wearing a dark blue top and light blue jeans.

And her hair. Fucking orgasmic. She had put it up and her brilliant golden bangs framed her face perfectly. He dreamed about running his hand through her magnificent hair more times than he could count. In fact, Buffy’s hair was the staple of Spike’s wet dreams. He would give his kidney (and he sure as hell bloody needed it) for a lock of her hair.

Buffy started. “Hey, Spike.”

“Buffy...” Spike nodded, still a little too drunk on the image of Buffy.

“Can we just go upstairs and get started?””

Spike caught a hint of fear in her voice. Like she was trying to hide something that was downstairs that she didn’t want him to know about and if he found out about it that very thing would ruin her life and she probably also knew that Spike would be so happy about doing that if that happened so he just walked right in and sized the place up, trying his best not to give a rats ass about Buffy but at the same time knowing he cared too much about her if he wanted to do this.

His eyes circled the house. Stairs, kitchen, a room off in the left, and...

Spike blinked a little as he walked into the living room. An old guy was on Buffy’s couch. He looked pretty hammered. He had something up to his nose, but Spike couldn’t quite make it out. He looked old. Like around seventy old. If Spike were to size up his image, he’d saw a New Yorkian Jew. And that stereotypical outlook irked Spike a little.

That was until Spike recognized what the old guy had up to his nose.

He was sniffing it.

It was cocaine. Spike could clearly distinguish the white powder now.

Someone in Buffy’s house was snorting cocaine.

Buffy quickly yanked Spike’s arm. He resisted with a stifled and undistinguishable grunt, too interested in the portrait in front of him. The grunt made the old man throw his cocaine on the coffee table and cover it up with some porn magazines. He covered up cocaine with porn magazines.

The man glanced over curiously at Spike. “Who the hell are you?”

Buffy interjected as speedily as she could. “This is Spike; he’s tutoring me.”

Spike was about to nod when the old guy said something.

“You need it, Buffy,” the old guy bit with a point to Buffy. “You’re so dumb and worthless. Just like your mother. My fucking dead dog is worth more to me than you. You’re gonna amount to nothing and live with that fucking fag of a boyfriend you have and flip burgers at Doublemeat.”

Spike should be loving this, but he cringed just the same as Buffy. Perfect might not be the word for her life.

“This is my grandpa, Spike,” Buffy whispered to him as she pointed at the man. “You don’t want to know his name, trust me.”

Spike finally nodded. “Gramps...”

“Hey, fuck off. I could take you,” Buffy’s grandpa asserted harshly. He quickly softened a little, like he just figured out the last piece of a puzzle.

“Dinner’s at six, Buffy.”

Spike almost looked as shocked at that as Buffy. This wanker can make dinner? Spike thought about that for a second. Well, he’s probably an expert at making meth. But he doesn’t seem like the dinner type... maybe the drug dealing type.

Buffy quickly yanked Spike’s arm to the stairs.

Okay, maybe Buffy’s life is a little fucked up. That doesn’t mean anything. So her grandpa snorts cocaine. Everyone’s got their problems. That’s no bloody big deal. Cocaine is a soddin’ cliché now, anyway, a bandwagon jump like Guns n’ Roses. Millions of buggerin’ middle class sniff it because they think their problems are like the fucking crucifixion.

Buffy and Spike were in Buffy’s room now. It was completely different than Spike had anticipated. No boy bands or Britney Spears on the walls. The walls actually looked a little worn. The bed wasn’t the bloody Little Mermaid, but plain blue sheets that were stained with what look like blood. The carpet was stained heavily, also. The room looked kind of desolate, really. Like a guest room or something. Like a guest room that’s been shit on.

Spike also realized that he didn’t see Buffy’s parents. Or any siblings. Maybe they’re out?

They both sat down by her desk. Her rather shoddy and old desk. Buffy got some paper and Spike took out the Calculus book.

“So where are your parents, Buffy?” Spike asked innocently. “Any siblings?”

Buffy choked a little when he said that, pain obviously arising from the mention of a family. She started doodling something on her paper that Spike couldn’t make out. She kept darkening whatever it was that she was doodling while she spoke to him.

“They’re... gone,” Buffy managed. She had a hard time getting out the next words, like they were in some foreign language.

“They died in a fire a long time ago...”

Spike’s mind collapsed. What...? Did she... just say.... that?

Spike thought his head was playing tricks on him. Did I fall in the shower and have a nightmare?

He had to ask again. In a roundabout way, though. “How many siblings did you have?”

“Umm...” Buffy tried to act casual, but Spike caught the despondency in her face. “Two. One was about nine months, and the other was a year younger than me. So four.”

Spike gulped. So she’s lived with the grim reaper all her life?

“I’m sorry,” Spike finally blurted out. It was something that people were obligated to say in this type of situation, but Spike really felt sorry.

This explains a lot. She’s only had control of her life at school.

“It’s okay,” Buffy asserted, trying her best to smile.

She made it look painful to smile.

“It happened a long time ago. I’m over it. And life with grandpa hasn’t been that bad...”

Spike shrugged. If she’s okay with it. “Let’s get to work, then.”

Buffy nodded. “So I’m befuddled and perplexed on the concept of integration by shells. I surmise that it is akin to disks, but the affinity is just...”

Buffy trailed off as she realized that she’d just ruined her cover. “I’m bugged with shells.”

Spike had to blink at that. Not so stupid after all. Is all the Clueless lexicon just a cover up?

“Uh...” Spike started. “Well, you have to find the area between the two curves first.”

“Mmm hmm... go on...” Buffy moaned with a hint of pleasure.

What the fuck? Is she getting hot off of Calculus? But he continued anyway.

“And then wrap it around whatever axis they asked...” He demonstrated this by putting an arm up and circling with the other.

“Mmm... yeah,” Buffy surmised almost too happily. The words did have sexual suggestion, Spike had to admit. At least in the eyes of a really, really demented mind.

With the skill of someone who obviously knew what they were doing, Buffy started to caress his shoulder.

At first he welcomed her touch. She touched so softly and with such care, like she was touching the most delicate object in the world. Her touch electrified Spike. It was like the sparkplug in an engine. Spike was already horny from just the sight of Buffy, but now... now he was straining for control.

He finally pulled away. Do I really want to do this to her?

“What?” Buffy looked mad. Spike stared innocently at her.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want to, because I know—”

“Buffy, that’s not the problem,” Spike sighed out. Why am I not just letting her? “In fact, the soddin’ problem is suppose to be about Calculus.” He pointed at the book.

“And what would Riley think?” Spike threw his arms in the air. “And the bloody heartless school?”

Spike gulped after he said that. What the soddin’ buggerin’ bloody hell? This is what I want. To ruin her life. Why does her lack of family and abusive high grandpa make it any different now?

Maybe because she has a reason now? his optimistic side whispered from purgatory. He didn’t try to oppress the unwanted side this time, though. That side of him was right. She had a reason. A reason for everything.

He almost forgot Buffy was there.

“But I wanna, Spike,” she pitifully stated with a pout. “Seeing you... work out... all sweaty... and now...”

Fuck, it’s just like I soddin’ planned. Set this up too perfectly...

“No,” Spike declared in a tone of authority. “I’m not gonna... gonna do that to Riley...”

Buffy cackled at that. “But you hate Riley. And no one would know...”

“I would, Buffy, and that’s enough.” Spike couldn’t believe what he was saying. This was his chance, his golden opportunity to fuck over Buffy in both denotations of the word, and he was passing it up like he didn’t give a damn.

“Fine,” Buffy bit harshly, but Spike could hear hopefulness in her voice. “I’m gonna get some water.”

She got up from the chair and swayed over to the door. Another painfully satisfying image of Buffy. In motion this time. Buffy’s backside. In motion. He was really holding back now.

He gulped. What the hell? She’s trying to seduce me?

“You want anything?”

“No thanks, Buffy,” Spike tried to say in a non-squeaky tone, but he was sure he sounded like Mickey Mouse high on helium. Soddin’ hell... how can she do that to me?

Buffy smiled coyly, probably happy with how uneasy she could make him, and left the room.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Spike stifled loudly after she closed the door. “What the sod am I thinking? What I’ve buggerin’ worked up to for months, to screw Buffy, and I let it slip out of my hands...”

Spike’s eyes went back to the paper Buffy was doodling on when they were talking about her parents. He moved over to take a glimpse at the doodling on the page, a little too curious to care about personal space.

It wasn’t doodling. It was words. Clear words. Words with power. Words with meaning. Words that turned everything upside down. Words that tossed Spike’s world down the hill like Jack and Jill. The clocks weren’t striking thirteen; their weren’t any bloody clocks now. He wasn’t even breathing. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the probable yells from Buffy’s grandpa. It was just him and the words. The words...

They were just words. But they were big words.

They all died in the fire I started.




Oh, my! I tried to foreshadow this last chapter, with Buffy being so *perfect* in Spike’s eyes. I guess she isn’t. What does this mean, though? Can Buffy’s hellish life really make up for Spike’s suffering? The night’s still young... and it’s seducto-Buffy. Let’s see if she gets lucky...

[A/N: And the night continues. I explain all of the plot points I didn’t last chapter, including grandpa, Faith, Spike’s mindset, Buffy changing clothes, and Buffy’s life. That’s why I acted all cool and put it in two parts; the latter explains most of the stuff in former. Spuffy relationship is going to be pretty drawn out, with a ton of angst, really a wild roller coaster ride. Buffy’s bad life, to me, affects what happens after they get together, but not them getting together in the first place. Too much backage for that.]




Chapter Eight: "Tutoring Part 2"



They all died in the fire I started.

The words should have meant nothing to him. They meant everything to him.

So she... Spike’s mind even stammered at the thought. She started the fire that killed her entire family and left her here. In a dark, black world with her abusive grandpa. She was only, what, five? It couldn’t have been her fault...

But the way she said it, the way she went about telling him, the pain in her eyes, screamed otherwise. She thinks it was her fault.

Spike’s mind started to race. Everything started to make sense. The torturing, the stupid boyfriends, her mask – everything she’d done in her life had been after that event. Everything was probably because of that event. Everything she would do in the future would be because of that event.

That event.

They all died in the fire I started.

He truly didn’t know what to do. Spike felt a boatload of sympathy for Buffy, for the person he loathed, the person he hated to love. He just wanted to deliver her from evil now like some gallant white knight. He wanted to stop hating her. But I can’t...

Spike thought hard about that. His workouts had been fueled completely by his rage for Buffy, and he felt that they were helping his anguish slightly. Every time he pumped iron, he did it because of his past. The past that Buffy blackened. I can’t just forget everything. Not because of this... can I?

If Spike was sure about one thing, he knew he couldn’t take advantage of her now. Or have her take advantage of me...

He took off his leather jacket. He was already unusually hot, and he knew it was only going to get hotter.

Buffy reentered the room, water bottle in hand. She took a nice long gulp of it. The way she held it to her lips, slowly pouring the water in her mouth, with her neck so delectably... Spike twitched a little, the image of Buffy drinking water too satisfying for him. Bloody hell! How can she just do that?

Buffy grinned as she sat down on her chair, obviously picking up on Spike’s dilemma. “Still don’t wanna?”

Spike thought hard about that. He was thinking hard about a lot of things. She... here... and us... and her.

“No.”

Buffy’s grin immediately turned upside down. “Is it because of Faith?”

Now this caught Spike off guard. Faith? What the hell? “Huh?”

“Faith,” Buffy stated in a tone too clear, almost like she was annoyed. “The girl that was hanging all over you at lunch.”

Spike had to chuckle a little. She’s jealous of Faith?

“You don’t have to worry about Faith, Buffy...” But he wasn’t all that sure if he believed that. No one could trust Faith, really. “Just like I probably don’t have to worry about Riley.”

“Is it because of me?” Insecurity seeped through Buffy’s voice.

“No...”

“You don’t want me?”

“God, Buffy. Of course I want you,” Spike blurted out too quickly to hold back. Good going, William. “Can’t you see I’m in a bloody bind?”

“Well there’s me...” Buffy cooed as she moved from her chair to his lap.

“And then there’s you...” She whispered as she started to touch his lips with her fingers.

At first, Spike openly embraced her touch. It was more than electric, it was heavenly. In this moment Spike was in heaven. And he had to stop it.

“Buffy, no. Stop.” He pushed Buffy off of him. “It’s just all too much right now. I need some time.”

“What’s too much?” Buffy was starting to get a little mad as she slid off of his lap. “My screwed up life? So my family died in a fire and my grandpa isn’t exactly legit. Just forget about it. Act like before, when you didn’t know. I don’t want your pity, Spike.”

But you’re getting it, or else we would be on the floor right now. “You won’t get any, Buffy. But what you did to me...”

She sighed. “Spike, I might have blackened your life a little. But look at my life. Completely black. Hell, I bet they’ve made bleak and dark songs about my life. I don’t have any light at the end of the tunnel. I’m stuck as the train comes and bulldozes me over.”

Spike winced at the imagery. She’s right. He could only respond to one thing.

“You didn’t blacken my life just a little, Buffy,” Spike bit bitterly. “Life at school was living hell. The things you guys did to me... it makes me want to make life living hell for you... and I don’t think I can ever get over it.”

Buffy didn’t fluff it off as something small like before. Amazingly, she understood. “I know, Spike. Is there any way you can get over it enough so you can turn a blind eye? At least temporarily? I’m not talking complete forgiveness... or maybe forgiveness really at all... but just enough forgiveness so we can actually do something without the past destroying it before it starts. Possibly pry off some of Parker’s fingernails or something? Would that help?”

Spike chuckled at Buffy’s cavalier behavior towards her supposed friend. “That’s a good idea. But no... I have something a little more classic in mind.”

Buffy was eagerly awaiting an explanation of the punishment when Spike didn’t continue. She gave him her best ‘well...’ face.

Spike decided on suggestiveness. He couldn’t hold a secret when Buffy was staring at him like that. Or when she was in the room, really. “You like paint, pet?”

Buffy’s eyes lit up. It could have been the paint or it could have been the pet name; Spike didn’t know. “You’re going to splatter paint on me?”

Spike nodded. “And the entire cheerleader squad and football team. At the assembly in front of the entire school tomorrow. My way of getting a little back.”

His eyes narrowed. “Of course, if I was really trying to make life living hell for you, I probably shouldn’t have said that...”

“It’s okay,” Buffy nodded with a giggle as she relaxed in her chair. “I’ll take it like a man. I’m sure it will take days to get that icky stuff out of my hair.”

Spike gulped. Well I don’t wanna soddin’ ruin her gorgeous hair.

“Worst, cruelest, most malicious punishment in the world,” she finished with a sarcasm and playfulness that turned Spike on even more. “But if it rectifies everything enough...”

Spike really wanted to bring up what he saw. The paper. The words. The big words. He wanted to explain to her that that’s really what gave him sympathy for her. Sympathy she doesn’t even want. He knew that it would probably make her mad. Very mad. He looked on her paper and discovered her darkest little secret that no one else probably knew. She was so steadfast in the no sympathy clause, Spike was sure things would be completely ruined if he brought it up.

He still tried to bring up the subject, but the words didn’t make it to his mouth from his brain. And even if they did, his tongue definitely wasn’t going to say anything, because his tongue only wanted one thing right now. And it had something to do with French. “So you changed clothes and showered for me?”

He pointed to her clothes and hair curiously. Buffy stifled a giggle.

“No... I had my driving test after school...” She stated this glumly, obviously meaning she didn’t do so well.

Spike tried to finish for her. “You didn’t pass?”

“No, that’s the problem,” Buffy continued, looking down. “I did.”

Now it was Spike’s turn to giggle. “What, afraid you’ll have to go on a few drug runs for ‘gramps?”

When Buffy didn’t respond, Spike quickly stopped laughing.

“So he really does...”

“Yeah. He traffics.” Buffy was matter-of-factly about it, like they were talking about the weather, which irked Spike to the bone. “Has his whole life. And now that I have my license, I finally have no reason not to help him...”

Spike shook his head quickly. “Just don’t help him, Buffy. Just run away or something.”

She looked almost disgusted by his answer. “Run away? Spike, I have nothing. I am nothing. I couldn’t start a life on my own...”

Gramps really has done a number on her. “Buffy... don’t say that...”

“But it’s true, Spike,” Buffy replied harshly. “I won’t get anywhere in life, either. Not like I have the money or the grades for college...”

“You could try the SATs.” Spike was just trying to help. “Bloody stupid colleges base all their decisions on some stupid aptitude test that measures how well you can add backwards...”

“I know about the SATs, Spike,” she retorted. “It’s just that...”

“You’re taking the SAT Saturday,” Spike insisted in an authoritative tone. “No one ever takes it at school, so you can get in on standby.”

Buffy looked like she was about to resist.

“No, Buffy,” Spike wasn’t going to relent. He hated her, but he didn’t want her to just give up. It should be a struggle, if anything. “I’m not gonna let you throw your life away. We have to see if, when you take off that bloody glued and plastered and stuccoed mask, what you really have in you.”

Buffy started to speak again when Spike stopped her. “Buffy... you’ve got a lot of potential. But it’s like you’re chained to the soddin’ floor. I’ve seen just a little of your oppressed sparks of genius... and they blow me away.”

This time Buffy couldn’t say anything. She was too moved by Spike’s empathy and care. Neither of which she wanted to have if it was because of...

“You’re not doing this because of my life...” she trailed. “Are you, Spike?”

Yes! Of course I bleedin’ am! You think you killed your family, for Chrissakes!

“No; so you’re life’s a little fucked up, mine isn’t much better.” He didn’t dare bring up what he was thinking, fearing the worst.

Buffy macerated the situation as best she could, but even she, who was a half hour ago hellbent on lust, was having trouble.

“See?” Spike had finally found a way to stop her lustful and desperately wanted come ons. I don’t want them he tried to assure himself. Yeah, I don’t bleedin’ want them. “Told you I don’t wanna tonight. Too much shit going on.”

Buffy pondered that for a second. “This will have to do, then, I guess.”

And Buffy slowly leaned in from her chair. Spike knew what she was going to do. He knew that he shouldn’t do it, either. Or submit to it, even. Because one thing would lead to the next, and soon they’d both be on the floor screaming in pleasure. But he wanted it. He wanted it more than anything in the world. To touch her heavenly lips with his rough, coarse ones. To have his tongue explore her mouth and discover her surreal taste. Just one bloody kiss.

And so he let her kiss him. They didn’t use any tongue; it was a nice, innocent, and electric kiss. If either party was doubtful about the obvious vibe and connection, it was lost forever in the kiss, like a ship sunk in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.

“Buffy... that was...”

“...really, really good...” she finished for him.

Oh, screw it. Screw everything. Hate to love her, love to hate her. “Thank you, may I have another?”

Buffy giggled at his carefree phrase. “Mm hmm...”

She leaned in for another kiss. This time Spike leaned in a little, too, eagerly awaiting the otherworldly experience that was to come.

“Buffy! Dinner in five minutes! Set the table!”

It was gramps. Dinner was almost ready. Buffy and Spike both quickly went back to position on their chairs two feet away from each other. They were like two boxers on opposite sides of the ring.

“Did I ever tell you that I hate your grandpa? And why is he being so nice all of a sudden with soddin’ dinner an’ all? Doesn’t seem like the type to make something that doesn’t make you high.”

Buffy giggled. “He probably thinks you’re from child services or something. And if he loses me, he loses the whole cagey background thing he has going.”

Spike smirked. “Well, I guess I better leave...”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Buffy looked crushed.

Spike scratched the back of his head as they both headed downstairs. “Didn’t get much tutoring done, though...”

Buffy laughed. “Nope, we sure didn’t. Always can later, I guess.”

“Yeah...”

Spike put his leather jacket back on as Buffy opened the front door. He awkwardly nodded goodbye to her with a small sly smile and started the walk to his car.

Buffy called for him. “Spike...”

Spike looked back, the night sky further intensifying his bleached hair. “Yeah, Buffy?”

She gazed straight at him with a blank expression. “This doesn’t change anything, does it?”

Spike took a few heartbeats to find the right answer. “No, Buffy,” he replied as he looked down, avoiding her gaze. Does it change anything? “Not a thing.”

A smile formed from her lips. It was clearly a fake smile, but Spike didn’t catch it.

“Good,” she emitted softly.

Spike grinned wickedly at her. Guess she’s a-okay with things being the same as before. He turned back around and walked to his car.

Buffy watched his figure recede to the black car before she closed the door. Her smile quickly faded as she leaned against the door for support.

“Good...”




This is really, really confusing. No one knows what they want or if they can even get it. People are hiding secrets and their true feelings. And, of course, school is always there just to make life even more miserable. If anybody’s still reading this, please check your pulse and say hi and tell me how you think everything's progressing. And Merry Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Saturnalia, etc. to everyone!

[A/N: Less people are reviewing. :( I hope that doesn’t mean less people like the story. You all give me the motivation to write. I write for you, as well as myself, of course. :) I know I threw a curveball with Buffy’s past, but trust me when I say we’ll get a boatload of badass Spike, probably even more now. Before I wasn’t getting anywhere Spuffy-wise, and now at least I’m circling. Fully aware that Robert Frost’s poem is The Road Not Taken and not The Road Less Traveled, however the poem is remembered for the latter and it screamed “title” for me.]




Chapter Nine: "The Road Less Traveled"



Spike was about a half hour late for school the next day. He was up awake most of the night restlessly thinking about Buffy. He hadn’t a clue as to what her horrible life meant for their relationship. What soddin’ relationship is that, Will? A big part of Spike still wanted to kill Buffy. But somewhere deep inside of Spike, passed all the hate and anger and rage, lay a part of him that wanted to save her.

To save Buffy. The girl that I’ve wanted to desolate since the dawn of time. Everything was the level beyond confusing for Spike. Can’t imagine what this is like on her, either. Not only were his feelings paradoxical, but Buffy herself was also one big humungous contradiction. She was smart and yet acted like a valley girl. Her home life was a disaster but she pretended she had a perfect life. But she doesn’t... not even close.

Spike gulped inwardly as he stalked to first period. And she doesn’t want my sympathy. She made that quite clear yesterday. But Buffy didn’t know that Spike knew her deepest darkest secret, that she started the fire that killed her family. If he ever told her that he knew, it would probably be the end of things. End of... what? That amazing kiss?

He didn’t know why he allowed Buffy to kiss him. Sure, it was probably the greatest moment of his life, but it further complicated the situation. Now he also had to worry about Buffy getting lusty and taking him to dreamland. And as much as he wanted his dreams to come true, he knew that everything was already fucked up and would only get more fucked up if they shagged.

But he also knew that if Buffy came onto him again, he wouldn’t be able to resist as valiantly as last time.

Spike was blasting Killing In The Name on his iPod. He had a nice, shiny black eighty gigabyte iPod he bought off of Amazon.com with his Dad’s credit card. The rather explicit ending was beginning when he walked into the classroom. The attention of the students immediately turned to him, even though Mr. Davis was in the middle of a lecture.

The first thing Spike noticed was, of course, Buffy. She was wearing her cheerleading outfit. And goddamn, did she look hot. It was green and white – the school colors – and rather form fitting, particularly around the torso area. The skirt was a tad bit short, probably from years of using the same uniform, and left little to the imagination. In Spike’s case, the quadruply overworked imagination.

Since it was rally day, all the sports slaves were wearing their jerseys, signifying their obvious superiority and supremacy to the other students. Riley was dressed in his green jersey; he was the football captain, so of course he would wear his badge of stupidity. What made Spike chuckle was that Parker and Scott were also donning jerseys. Oh boy, would I fucking love to meet them both on the football field.

He quickly glanced over to his seat at the back of the class. It wasn’t occupied. Hell, Spike’s name was still on his desk. No one was even seated at any adjacent desks to his desk. Supremacy, yeah. Populars got supremacy. Sure...

“And so Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken is about nonconformity,” Mr. Davis finished dully.

Spike’s iPod might have been blaring, but you could be deaf and still hear those misinformed and unenlightened words.

Spike snorted as he took off his headphones. The music on his headphones was so loud that everyone could clearly hear the “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” repeated furiously by Zack de la Rocha at the end of the song. Somehow the words seemed very fitting to Spike’s new persona, and everyone – even the populars with IQs not reaching double digits – understood this perfectly.

Mr. Davis’ eyes narrowed. Already Spike had pissed him off by being late for class, blasting explicit lyrics, and laughing at him.

“Decided to join us, Spike?” Mr. Davis asked rather indignantly.

Spike wasn’t paying attention. He was looking down at his iPod, turning it off. It looked like he hadn’t even heard the teacher. Or was just completely ignoring him. He waited a handful of heartbeats before he said anything.

“Yeah, D.” He glanced up at the clock. “Little late, though, I guess.”

“Do you have a note?” Mr. Davis finally had a cut-and-dry reason to kick Spike out of the class.

Spike thought about that for a second before annoyingly replying with a question. “Do you have my book?”

Mr. Davis irritably pointed to a copy of the book on his desk. Spike immediately went over to it, tore a page out, and started to write a note.

Spike’s continuation of defacing the book just added to Mr. Davis’ fuming malice towards his favorite bleached student. Spike handed him the note with a sly grin.

Mr. Davis read the note out loud to the class. He learned in college that teachers did this as punishment – read what a student wrote to the whole class, because usually students didn’t make coherent thought, and when they did, it usually didn’t reach paper. In fact, Mr. Davis went as far as believing that students should be locked up in a school for their childhood and learn the crap the government wanted them to learn. Students were ignorant.

Spike wasn’t.

“William Giles is late on this first Tuesday of the new school year, the year of the dragon, because he had an ailment and was therefore inclined to arrive at a malapropos time.” Mr. Davis couldn’t pronounce “malapropos” for the life of him, and since he was just reading it to the class and not reading over it himself first, he let the last sentence slip.

“Please allow him to further turn his mind into mush.”

The class erupted in laughter. Spike grinned sardonically.

“It has to be written by a legal guardian,” Mr. Davis seethed as he dropped the note on his desk like a bottle of lava. “You can’t just—”

“Well you can call my ma’ in the Bahamas,” Spike interrupted. “Or my da’ in England.”

Mr. Davis hadn’t an shred of insight as to Spike’s parents. Sure, he had searched every nook and cranny of Spike’s permanent record and transcript yesterday. Both were, abashed to him, impeccable. Spike had aced every class, even the arduous AP courses, and was president of the chess, science, and robot clubs. He was even a National Merit Scholar and probably the forerunner in the area for actually attending an ivy league university. Or attending college at all. But even with all of this useful information, Mr. Davis didn’t know anything personal and recent about Spike.

Mr. Davis quickly realized why Spike had changed so dramatically over the summer. He stroked his chin with his index finger and thumb. “Oh...”

“And don’t go psychoanalyzing me or anything, Doc,” Spike quickly read Mr. Davis. “I can for you, ‘cause you’re a teacher just out of grad school teaching us the bullshit you learned. But you can’t do the same for me.”

Mr. Davis’ anger – which had dissipated at the mention of Spike’s lack of family – became reinvigorated by Spike’s disrespectful comments towards him. But he was too curious as to the latter part of Spike’s argument to send Spike away on the former part. “Why not?”

“Because...” Spike took a shy glance at the board and saw Mr. Davis’ explanation of the poem. “Because The Road Not Taken isn’t about nonconformity. You want that, try listening to Rage Against The Machine or something.”

“Then what is the poem exactly about, Mr. Giles?” Mr. Davis proposed to Spike in his most formal tone as he sat on his chair with the poem in hand. He would get back at Spike by putting him on the spot and forcing Spike to tell the class his comments on the poem. Students always had funky opinions on everything, dementing the world to a Romeo and Juliet tragedy.

Spike reveled in the challenge, ready to spill his opinion on a poem he read a few years ago. “Nonconformity’s a terrific lesson, especially for some of the more immature students in the class...” Spike paused and took a long glance at the populars in the class, reddening them to a deep purple.

He continued. “But it’s not about that. It’s just about making a choice.” He was gazing directly at Buffy now, the ice blue and wise green lost in each other. “About coming to a fork in the road and taking one path, but always regretting that you couldn’t take the other. That you couldn’t experience both and decide which suited you more, or just the experience altogether.”

Buffy finally looked down, trying to hide her obvious connection to Spike.

“The poem’s called The Road Not Taken, not The Road Less Traveled, for soddin’ sakes,” Spike finished with some bitterness from the widespread misinterpretation of the poem.

Mr. Davis was unimpressed. “How do you know the poem means this? A poem can mean a lot of things...”

Spike sighed. “A poem doesn’t mean, Deeds. It just is. But this poem... this poem that’s soddin’ preached at graduations like some call to nonconformity and correct decision-making...” he mockingly shook his hands in the air, “this poem that’s memorized without really being read... this cursed poem... well, just read the first fifteen lines of it. The speaker clearly states that both paths were the same.”

Spike snatched the sheet of paper with the poem on it from the teacher. A true badass might have lit it on fire and left the class, but Spike was enjoying teaching the class and, more importantly, the teacher. He was showing Mr. Davis that he knew his shit, he really did. He wasn’t just rebellious for the hell of it, he was rebellious because he was dissatisfied by the public school system and the people in it.

“Buffy,” he called to her. “Read the poem.”

Buffy gulped and turned a bright red. Everyone in the class was looking at her now. She knew that if she read the poem the way it was meant to be read, in a rhythmic and intelligent manner, people would start thinking she was actually smart. And that would be the worst thing in the world to her. So she read the poem really fast in one breath, like any other student would.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

“Though as for that the passing there,” Spike echoed to the class. He was spiting Mr. Davis because Spike wasn’t just proving he was right, he was also leading into his rightness. “Had worn them really about the same.”

Buffy glanced slantedly at the page. “Oo! And both that morning equally lay.”

Spike nodded, surprised by her unrestrained shimmer of intelligence. “That’s right. The poem was written because Frost would go on walks in a forest and his friend would always regret what would have been when they came to a fork and took a path.”

Mr. Davis softened. Spike was informed, well-educated, backed up his beliefs with evidence from the text, and knew the history of the poem. The history that Mr. Davis didn’t even know. “You know, that’s an altern—”

“So the poem’s about choice,” Spike cut the teacher off as he skillfully moseyed over to the board. He erased the rubbish that was written on it and wrote something else:

“I don’t take life very seriously. It’s hard to get into this world and hard to get out of it. And what’s in between doesn’t make much sense. If that sounds pessimistic, let it stand.”

Spike put the marker down and faced the class. “Now who do you think said that?”

Cordelia chuckled. “Probably you.”

Spike lowered his head and touched his cheek, feeling the blow. “Our charismatic and influential leader, otherwise known as the prom queen with an expiration date at graduation, says me. Anyone else?”

“Dawson?” Parker asked.

Spike openly laughed as he sat on Mr. Davis’ desk, still facing the class. “No, sorry; was never really into Dawson’s Creek, anyway. Too much angst.”

“Frost?” Buffy offered.

“Yep, good ol’ Robert Frost, who saw all of his children and his wife either die or become insane, said that.” He glanced back at the board again with a small smile.

“Kind of makes you wonder about the inspirations or at least impetuses behind his poetry.”

He looked back at the class to see that everyone was staring blankly at him besides Buffy.

Spike looked down. “Bloody hell, teaching all of you is like teaching a blowfish how to figure skate...”

He glanced at Buffy again. “Just remember, nonconformity is great and all. Hell, I’m soddin’ proof of that. But experience life the way you wanna experience it. Don’t let other people change you unless you wanna be changed. Peer pressure is Satan’s bitch.”

And with that, he went to his seat in the back of the class and sat down.

Mr. Davis got up from his chair. “Well, that was an enlightening lecture by Mr. Giles, but it’s just about time for the assembly, so let’s get going so we can get a good seat.”

Everyone happily rose from the oppressive confines of the classroom and started herding to the gym, where all pep rallies and popular events were located. Spike was bringing up the rear and smoking, as usual. Mr. Davis didn’t seem to take offense, still hurting from Spike showing him up earlier in class.

“Buffy?”

Buffy was a few paces ahead of him. She wasn’t with her friends, oddly. Usually she’d be “oh my gosh”-ing with Cordelia, but not now. Now she was walking alone. She glanced back and slowed her pace so they were walking together. “Yeah, Spike?”

“Here,” he handed her a piece of paper, which made them both stop. He stomped his cigarette on the ground and explained. “Admission ticket.”

“Spike, you didn’t have to—”

“Hey, it was no big deal,” he interrupted. But it is. It is a very big deal, me showing the slightest compassion for you. “Try the road less traveled. It’s an exciting one.”

She smiled kindly at him. “Thanks.”

Spike nodded. “Yeah.”

The twosome looked ahead of them, but didn’t see the class.

“Ah well, guess we soddin’ lost the class,” Spike started, scratching his head.

“Might miss the assembly...” Buffy trailed with a suggestive undertone in her voice. She gave Spike her best seductive look as she put her hand on his broad chest. His stomach fluttered.

Spike swiped Buffy’s hand away. He took her seductive look and raised her a blank look. “Buffy... I don’t think we can... not here... and...” She’s making me stutter. She’s turning me back into William.

Buffy just grinned and pointed to a door in the hallway.

It was a closet.

It was fate.

And before either of them knew it, they were both in the closet madly making out.

“Buffy...” Spike managed between kisses. He started working on her neck. Her neck’s even more delicious than I dreamed... pure bliss.

“Spike...” Buffy gasped.

A ton of bricks fell on Spike. Not literally, of course. Bloody hell! With her! What the sod am I thinking!? He immediately pulled away. Buffy whimpered at the loss of suckage.

“What the fuck is this, Buffy?” Spike glared at her. “I hate you.” And the only reason why I succumbed to this heaven in the first place is because you have a horrible life and I feel sorry for you. Or else I would be laughing at the more colorful you right now.

Buffy was cut by his words, but didn’t miss a beat. She wanted this, whatever it was, and whatever it meant she had to do.

“I hate you too, Spike,” Buffy replied with a grin. She was bordering sarcasm and possibly some really suggestive and loose connotation of the word “hate.” She took Spike’s hand, which was still on her lower back, and lowered it a bit further...

Spike whipped his hand away. “This is just lust, Buffy,” he concluded, knowing that Buffy was lying when she said that she hated him. But am I lying, too? “Nothin’ more. I don’t love you. I don’t even bleedin’ like you. You’re just... you’re just an infatuation.”

Buffy nodded, hurt deeply by the words but knowing that acquiescing was the only way she’d get any from Spike.

Before they could say anything else, they were snogging like horny teenagers at the movies again.

“...who... cares... what this is.... right now...” Buffy cooed as she started planting kisses on Spike’s neck. This quickly turned into full-on sucking, which brought Spike dangerously close to the edge. Her lips... so soft and yet so aggressive... her tongue... divine. This was the heaven Spike had dreamt about for years. Fuck it. She knows I hate her. I want this... I need this...

“...yeah... who cares.”




*gulps* They might miss the assembly! And that would absolutely... suck. Yes, suck. Lots o’ suckage here. Spuffy is completely lust, of course, with the door swung open because of Spike’s sympathy for her life. I hope I didn’t have to tell you that. Possibly the assembly next chapter. Yes, they'll even have enough time to make it to the assembly. And start a heavy metal band too!

[A/N: Do you guys think I need a beta? I know where I’m going – at least the end result – but I’m kind of having a difficult time getting there. When I started writing this, I was acting on an emotion I felt (hating to love someone), and it made for really easy writing. Now, though, things are getting a little more intimate, though just as messed up, and I don’t have firsthand experience on the second step. When I write this, I just unleash the writer until I get to where I want to go. Then I look back and review things, and the majority of the writing is really the revision. The walk to the gym didn’t even have dialogue when I first wrote this, then I find myself writing a page of dialogue on it. I dunno, I just feel like with every chapter I screw up this story a little more, and I dunno if that’s a good thing or not. o_O]




Chapter Ten: "Disease"



Neither Buffy or Spike knew how much time had passed in the closet. It would have been impossible to tell, even with gigantic clocks plastered all over the walls that chimed and announced every minute on the minute how much time they had spent in there. Spike and Buffy were in their own little world in that closet. Nothing, not the oppressiveness of school or the past, of Buffy’s superficial friends, or Spike’s hateful attitude, were in that room. The room was untainted. It was like a safe haven. A place where they could just act out on the obvious feelings they had for each other. A place where they could madly make out.

Spike started licking Buffy’s neck. So... delicious... amazingly soft...

“Is this a cure...” he took another lick, making Buffy shiver, “or is this a disease?”

A shimmer of hope filled Buffy at that. Spike was actually considering her as something more than malaria, possibly even the antidote for malaria. Maybe this could actually be something bigger than lust. The lust was great, sure, but Spike was different to Buffy. Spike rightfully hated Buffy, and yet he encouraged her to become something in life and tried his damn hardest to get her there. Spike was one of the few people that knew Buffy, the real Buffy, not the fake one she put on every day. The only person that didn’t run away screaming when they found out her life was...

“Definitely a disease,” he concluded as he took another long lick at her neck. Again Buffy was crushed by his words, but she didn’t allow the feelings to get to her, too lost in the moment to care. “But if ever a cure, a placebo...”

The door suddenly opened. The light blinded them. There was plenty of light in the closet, but light from the actual world seeped into the room now. It was a wake up call. Their little world had become tainted. Everything was back to normal because of the light and the door.

It was the janitor. He looked like Jim Carrey.

Buffy and Spike immediately pulled away and looked at all the very intriguing and alluring cleaning products in the room. I mean, really, the school had quite an array of cleaning supplies. It was really quite amazing. Spike thought they should steal it all and start a maid business. They’d be set for years.

The janitor chuckled, interpreting the twosome’s presence in the room as, obviously, what it was. “Didn’t mean to interrupt...” He sounded like Jim Carrey, too.

“Oh, you didn’t interrupt anything,” Buffy quickly started, but regretted that she said that, not knowing where she stood with Spike.

“Yeah, we was just gonna...” Spike snatched a bottle of Draino from a shelf, “gonna clean the pipes.” It took Spike a second to realize the sexual connotation of what he just said. He winced.

“I just need to get a broom,” the janitor stated, “to sweep a chimney or something,” he winked at Spike, “and then I’ll be out of your way...”

“Oh, we were just leaving,” Buffy nervously announced, nudging her head to the door, trying to signal Spike to leave. She thinks this is embarrassing for her? What about me? I’m the soddin’ guy who hates her. Shows what type of person I am, snoggin’ the bleedin’ enemy.

Spike suddenly found himself out of the closet without really knowing how he got there. He thought Buffy might have pushed him because she was outside, too. The Draino was still in hand.

“Got what we needed, I guess,” Spike stated as he held the bottle in the air with a little jingle.

The janitor laughed. “I bet you did.”

Buffy and Spike quickly scurried away from the closet and over to the assembly. They both knew the janitor wouldn’t say anything, but if anyone from school caught them... well, it would be end of everything. End of this... this fiery relationship fueled by pity? Sounds more like a relief.

“What is this, Buffy?” Spike asked as they walked through the halls. “Because it certainly isn’t—”

“I know,” Buffy sighed out. “This isn’t anything to you. You despise me. It’s just one dimensional lust from a one dimensional infatuation...”

Spike stopped and tossed the Draino so the bottle rolled back down the hall. “Buffy, you’re not one dimensional.” He put his hand on her shoulder, making her jump a little from the electric shock. “If anything, you’re the most multi-dimensional person I’ve ever met. You’re like a bleedin’ Coldplay song without the meaningless clichés...”

Buffy was warmed by Spike’s kindness, but also curious as to why he was being so nice to her. Spike was so hot-and-cold; one minute he wanted to humiliate her in front of the entire school and the next he was giving her motivational speeches. A ferocious pit bull on the outside with an inner golden retriever tucked away.

“Why are you so nice to me sometimes?” Buffy looked to the side. “I don’t deserve that from you. It’s not because of my life, is it?” She pierced his eyes with hers. “I don’t want pity from you, I think I already told you that. I’d hate you if this was all because of...”

Spike looked down from her gaze. Hit the nail right on the head with that one. “It’d be a pity to see the school system produce another burger flipper when they could do so much better...” he mumbled. Partially true, at least.

“That didn’t answer the question,” Buffy replied, a little irritation scathing her voice.

Spike decided he’d change the subject. And to help with this u-turn, he’d be blunt. “You want me?”

Now it was Buffy’s turn to look down. “Yeah... I guess...”

“Good, ‘cause I get these pangs of insanity where I want you, too,” Spike allowed, not ashamed of his feelings now that he knew Buffy was feeling the same way. “What about Captain Cardboard?”

“What about Riley?” Buffy started pacing with Spike to the gym again. “Your nicknames pretty much sum him up... he’s safe... he knows everything about me, too... it’s not like I’m gonna break up with him or anything because of you.”

Spike ran into a locker. He didn’t know how that happened. Bloody hell! I’m not suppose to care about shit like that in this fucked up relationship, if you can even call it that.

She continued, picking up on his distress. “You made it quite clear that this is nothing... I’m your curse.” Buffy looked glum, but quickly started to perk up. “Besides, perks come with being the football captain’s girlfriend. We used to have the whole cafeteria to ourselves...”

Spike grinned coolly. “m’ changing things around here...”

“Does one of those changes...”

“...include having you?” Spike finished for her. Screw it. Want. Take. Have. “Yeah... What’s the saying, mind over matter? Definitely matter over mind for me. ‘least when I’m around you... you’re a tumor in my head... an anchor on my heart... and everything’s just black... you’re my disease.”

Spike was really destroying Buffy. He was making her drink hot molten lava. He was eviscerating her slowly and painfully with a dull knife. It was like he had dulled the guillotine’s blade purposely so it would take multiple tries to get the job done. None of this salt on the wound bullshit; he was openly throwing haymakers at the wound now. If he was trying to get back at her, he was doing a damn good job at it.

They reached the gym at the exact same time it was dismissed. They missed the prank. Spike knew what happened, though; Faith filled some balloons with paint and had some of her people drop them on the populars, who were seated in their pretty jerseys and uniforms on the ground opposite the entire school. She probably threw a stink bomb or two in their just for good measure. It was probably really vindicating, but Spike didn’t much care. He had been in heaven, and that was a good enough excuse to miss it. Wait... heaven? Heaven or hell?

Spike quickly shook that thought off by laughing at some football players and cheerleaders that exited the gym. They were completely covered, head to toe, in white paint. They all looked like slimmer versions of Frosty the Snowman. With bad hair. And yellow teeth.

Cordelia came up to them. Her clothes were soaking wet, but there was no sign of paint; she must have gotten it off by quickly hosing herself down. Spike couldn’t have imagined the pleasure Angel got from seeing Cordelia all wet. Well, I guess he could have. Just switch Buffy for Cordelia and there you go...

“Where were you?” Cordelia started to Buffy, but she was looking curiously at Spike. It almost felt like Cordelia was interested in Spike, like she wanted to jump his bones or something. Normally, Spike would happily oblige to Cordelia’s offering in a heartbeat – she was a pretty brunette with nice vibrant earthy colorings, after all. She was Spike’s type physically, if he even had one. But Angel... and Buffy... Buffy the Plague. Yeah, she’s definitely a plague, ‘mate.

“Um... I was... sort of tied up,” Buffy replied in a squeaky voice, clasping her fingers.

“Tied up, eh? With him?” Cordelia pointed suggestively at Spike.

Buffy interjected quickly. “Oh, no! Spike and I were just...”

“Working on some derivatives and stuff,” Spike finished for her in a flat tone.

“Uh huh.” Cordelia winked at Buffy. “Derivatives and stuff. Sure you were.” Cordelia knew her best friend better than anyone else. “A man like that is tutoring you...”

“Would everyone stop it with the speculations?” Buffy moaned, thinking of the Jim Carrey janitor and now her best friend. “It’s getting rather annoying.”

Cordelia smiled. “Fine.” She did her best giddy look. “I broke up with Parker just now.”

“That’s great, Cordy,” Buffy replied dully. “Now you can...”

“...date guys from UC Sunnydale? I know, I know!” Cordelia was starting to look really happy. She hadn’t noticed Buffy’s apparent lack of interest.

Spike took this as his opportunity to duck out. The last thing he wanted to hear about was the “oh so hot” college guys. He decided that he should tell Angel about Cordelia’s singularity. Pointy haired man might act on it. Spike thought about Buffy. Especially now...





Yes, yes, I *know* Spike is kind of being really cruel to Buffy. I guess it’s just his way of getting back at her. But she deserves it. Gotta tell me how much you hate me for it, but realize that it just makes everything that much more... I dunno, tragic. Angel/Cordelia will be in this fic, although definitely not the main focus.

[A/N: I’d just like to say that this isn’t some revengeful fic to get back at a girl or anything. Sorry if I mislead you. I’m enraged by the school system, certain horrible teachers I’ve had, and populars, but I’m not writing this because of “a girl.” Things will get better in the story, I promise. I find a struggle much more endearing. This isn’t a “let’s have Buffy and Spike together with unrelated outside stuff as the plot” but Buffy and Spike coming together as equals, and with love, care, and passion, as the story. So pretty much angst. Lots o’ that. Title from the Boston song.]




Chapter Eleven: "Let Me Take You Home Tonight"



The bell rang, signaling it was time for second block. Spike thought the Sex Pistols were onto something with “Schools Are Prisons.” He walked slowly, almost decrepitly, to his class, thinking all about Buffy along the way. He tried his damnest to think about anything besides her, but it was a losing battle. Spike could think about the starvation in Africa or some bill that was passed in 1952 and still, somehow, his thought process would return to Buffy. Yeah, disease is a good word for her.

Spike sat down in the back of his Calculus class this time, hoping that Buffy would get the message and stay in the front where she was seated yesterday. Spike didn’t realize that changing seats to be away from her was a low blow; he just didn’t want a relapse of the closet session. Okay, maybe he wanted that, but he wanted to not want that. Maybe he could want that now, after the closet session, he wasn’t really sure. He was confused, and just needed space.

Buffy entered the classroom, saw Spike in the back, and sat down next to him with a bright smile on her face. She effectively crushed his plan without consciously thinking about it. Or so Spike thought. Spike’s small action did hurt Buffy, she just tried not to show it.

“Take a hint?” Spike whispered over to Buffy as class started.

“I just figured that it would be better if I wasn’t in your view,” Buffy replied with a shrug, a little innocence in her eyes. She was right, of course. Spike might’ve gotten a little... err... excited if Buffy was in front of him. But that still didn’t mean it was fine she was sitting next to him. Spike could feel her presence, it was some unintelligible sixth sense he had, and it made him crazy that she was so close. It was like a wave, a force field, surrounded Buffy, and whenever Spike went inside of it, he was completely lost in her.

“Test tomorrow on derivatives,” Mr. Anderson announced happily. The class responded with grunts and moans.

“Hey, hey, you guys should already know this stuff,” Mr. Anderson put his hands in the air. He figured he’d size them up. “What’s the derivative of cosecant?”

“Tangent x secant x,” Buffy mumbled from the back of the class, more to herself than anything. It was subconscious; she knew it like a baseball aficionado knew Barry Bonds took steroids. No one could be that skinny and suddenly become...

“That’s right, Miss Summers,” Mr. Anderson glanced at Spike with a smile. “Good tutor, I guess.”

Spike was about to interject and state for the record that he hadn’t taught Buffy anything yesterday, but Mr. Anderson was already on his next question. And he thought it would have been a bad idea to bring that up, because someone might question what they had done.

“Derivative of arc secant?” Mr. Anderson asked to the class.

All the students were openly whining now. They didn’t know that they had to remember the arcs, too. That was brutal. That was inhumane. That was like remembering the definition of every word in the dictionary in backwards order. It was impractical, but still mildly useful. The class thought it was impossible to answer the question.

“One over the absolute value of x times the square root of x squared minus one,” Spike murmured from the back of the class akin to Buffy’s mumble. It was subconscious for him, too, like singing the ABCs. A is for Angel and B is for... bloody hell!

Mr. Anderson and all the students stared at Spike, shocked looks washed over their faces.

“That’s correct, Spike,” Mr. Anderson proudly announced. “Nice job.”

It was a good thing Spike knew his stuff, because he wasn’t paying any attention to the lecture on basic trigonometric derivatives that followed. His mind was already preoccupied with thoughts on Buffy. And when he wasn’t thinking about her, he was taking gut wrenching glances at her. Which made him think about her as a result. So, really, all he was doing was thinking about Buffy. Spike wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. He figured that, with Buffy, he’d just let the wave take him wherever it went. It was impossible to control the wave. The Buffy wave, anyway.

Spike took another long glance at Buffy, who must have felt his eyes on her because she kind of reddened in that absolutely adorable Buffy way. His eyes trailed from her soft cheeks to her luscious neck. He couldn’t believe that he was just licking that gorgeous neck not an hour ago. That had to be the smoothest material in the world. And so very vibrant. Delectable. They probably made depressive 90’s grunge songs after her skin. Like that Creep song by Radiohead everyone was raving about. And she put his hand on her...

The bell suddenly rang. It was doing a lot of that lately. All this thinking about Buffy must have eaten up all the time. Spike quickly got up and pretty much ran over to his table in the cafeteria. He didn’t want to be trailing Buffy or anything. That might incite something he didn’t want. Or something that he wanted but didn’t want to want. Err... something he wanted? He didn’t know.

Angel put his lunch bag on the table. It was the same table as yesterday, which meant that they were seated across from Buffy’s table. Spike decided to sit with his back to the opposing faction, hoping that it would efface his thoughts on Buffy. Spike was, of course, sadly mistaken. Nothing could cure that.

“Hey, Spike,” Angel nodded as he sat down. “What’s up?”

“Not much, man,” Spike replied dully, almost glumly. He tried his best to put some zest in his voice, and it’s not that he didn’t want to talk to Angel, because they were good friends and all. Spike just knew what Angel was going to ask him.

“You and Buffy do anything?” Angel had a hopeful look in his eyes as he took a bite of his sandwich.

Spike tried to scoff it off. Do I really wanna tell him? Buffy might care... “Nah, we didn’t... no... definitely not...” Better not take any chances.

Angel eyed Spike, which quickly turned into a long stare. Angel was an expert at prying information out of Spike by not saying anything at all, just by looking at him. Angel’s intense gaze was too much for Spike. He cracked under the pressure.

“Okay, so we did kind of make out,” Spike confessed in a whisper, “but it’s different... I dunno, I went to her house and kind of felt sorry for her. Her life’s pretty fucked up, ‘mate.”

“Like ours isn’t,” Angel chuckled. “How messed up can a varsity cheerleader’s life get? Dog die in a fire?”

Spike sighed. He’ll find out when I’m drunk anyway. “Replace dog with her whole family and you’re close... she thinks it’s her fault. And her guardian, who’s her grandpa, is a drug dealer...”

Angel looked down, trying his best to digest the information. “Oh...”

“Oh,” Spike echoed mockingly to his friend. Spike took some of Angel’s potato chips.

Suddenly the blue eyed man remembered something that might be of use to his friend. “Did you hear about Cordelia?”

“No, what!?” Angel was already up off his chair, ready to fight or run or serve or protect in the name of Cordelia. If she was in trouble...

“Calm down, Superman, everything’s fine.” Spike’s smirk put Angel at ease. “Put the blue cape down. Slowly.”

Angel sat back down and looked quizzically at Spike. “It’s a red cape.”

“Do you want me to tell you or not?”

“Of course... what happened?”

“She broke up with Parker today,” Spike stated flatly.

Angel shot back up again. “I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna ask her out.”

“Little fast, isn’t it? She just broke up with Parker like two hours ago.”

Spike stared blankly at the table. “But I guess it is...”

“It’s Cordelia,” Angel finished for him with a nod. “And if you can makeout with Buffy, with the past you two have, I sure as hell can get a date with Cordelia.” And with the fierce determination of a mother ape who just lost her kin, Angel stomped right over to Buffy’s table to converse with Cordelia.

Spike slid over to Angel’s chair so he was facing the show. It was a baseball game to Spike. A baseball game he bet his house on. He took a few big bites of Angel’s sandwich. Angel and Cordelia were actually having some type of rapport; she wasn’t shooting him down. She smiled brightly at Angel and he responded with a nod. Making plans, are we?

Angel trotted back to the table, a big smile plastered all over his face and a little extra oomph in his walk. He sat down and didn’t say anything.

“Well?” Spike blurted.

Angel feigned innocence. “Well what?”

“Did she say yes?” Curiosity was killing Spike.

“We talked...” Angel was pondering what just happened. “Yeah, we talked...”

“And?”

Angel looked down. “It’s sunny tomorrow.” He sighed. “We talked about the weather.”

Spike chuckled. Not too fast for her, but definitely for him. “Always sunny here.” Spike might have pressed, but he didn’t want to break Angel’s self-esteem. “Paradoxical, if I do bleedin’ say so myself. Livin’ bleakly in sunny weather.”

Angel shyly nodded, glad that they put that behind them, and snatched his sandwich from the clutches of Spike.

Last period was rather uneventful. Spike had an arduous time with his workout. He just didn’t seem to have the same rage or anger as yesterday, and it affected his perseverance and focus. Angel also seemed a little unmotivated, probably still reeling from the news of Cordelia. Lack of news, really.

The workout was a nice vacation from Buffyland for Spike. He didn’t think about her for the entire period. Well, that was a lie. He didn’t think about her until she walked into the room. So maybe three or four minutes. But those three or four minutes, really good minutes in Spike’s mind. But his mind was filled with Buffy, so he couldn’t really trust it anyway.

Spike was getting ready to leave school. He was out in the parking lot on the driver’s side of his black DeSoto, fumbling with the keys, when he heard a familiar voice.

“So where’s your house exactly?”

Spike looked up. It was Buffy. She was on the other side of the car with her hand on the door.

“Buffy, I’m not—”

“Test tomorrow on derivatives,” she echoed with a suggestive bat of her eyelashes, “and I wanna pass.”




Oh boy, I wonder what will happen tonight at Spike’s house! And with no parents! Or chaperons! And, most importantly, with all that want and lust and hate they have for each other. Predictions? By the by, Angel’s suppose to be a parallel to Spike of sorts. This will have Angel/Cordelia, but it’ll definitely not be the focus. Do you think that’s a good idea? I want our favorite twosome to have friends, and what better then another pairing that could mirror them. Next update will probably be after the new year, just an fyi.

[A/N: Picture Spike’s house as Angel’s mansion (seasons 2 and 3 of Buffy), but more modern and technologically advanced. Spike’s wealth (his father’s wealth, really) was grazed over in the third chapter. This chapter took an excessively long time to get out because it was just so damn difficult to write. So much stuff going on here. Updates might start to become less daily, maybe biweekly, because school’s starting up soon.]




Chapter Twelve: "Push"



Really, it was starting to become cliché. The whole “let’s go study so we can makeout” routine. Spike and Buffy weren’t fooling anyone anymore, least of all themselves. As they drove to Spike’s house, they both knew the last thing they would be doing is memorizing derivatives. Maybe the shape and feel of certain body parts, but definitely not derivatives.

“Can I use your restroom?”

“Sure,” Spike replied casually. “Third door on the left down the hall.”

“Which one?”

Spike pointed to the left hall. “That one.”

“This house is ginormous, you know that?” Buffy called as she strolled down the hall.

Spike shrugged. “When your father owns most of the town...”

From the way Spike dressed, an unknowing person would think he lived in a crypt or on the streets. Maybe a small, beat-down house colored with mold and blood. But Spike... Spike lived in a mansion. It was the house you saw on television in those “Top Ten Houses You Can’t Afford But Would Die To Live In.” It wasn’t Spelling or Hefner or Hearst sized, but it could definitely fit a dozen or more people. Rather plain, though. White walls, white carpet, some random pieces of art scattered about, and mostly brownish furniture. But plain in the “this house is friggin’ huge and the white space makes it bigger” kind of way.

When Buffy returned, Spike was playing a song on his guitar.

Okay, so it wasn’t a real guitar. Spike wasn’t trying to serenade anyone. It was a plastic video game controller guitar with buttons as the frets. Spike was playing Guitar Hero, a video game where he played notes that came up on the television screen. And he looked like he was having an enjoyable time, too, shredding with the guitar behind his head in a Stevie Ray Vaughn fashion. What a show off. Buffy wondered if Spike played any instruments; he was certainly talented enough at the video game. The lyrics submerged into the depths of her mind and snatched any hope of whimsical thought.

I wanna push you around, well I will, well I will
I wanna push you down, well I will, well I will
I wanna take you for granted, I wanna take you for granted
I will, I will

It didn’t take a professor in English at Yale University with honorary degrees from Oxford, Harvard, and Duke to interpret the meaning behind the lyrics. Spike wanted to be rough. Well, Buffy was okay with that. Not like she hadn’t had rough all her life. As the song ended, Buffy remembered something else. “Um... where’s your computer?”

“Uh, upstairs,” Spike put the plastic guitar down and turned off the video game. “Let me show you.”

They both climbed the stairs, skipping three at a time, to the second floor and entered some type of entertainment room. Every square inch of wall was bookshelf, and every bookshelf was stacked with movies that probably chronicled every blockbuster back to the silent film era. All the movies had a rather overwhelming feel to the room, almost taking the role of an armada of soldiers sieging the room. A rather magnificent plasma television centered the room opposite a black sofa. The television was that special piece of art that just made everything “fit.”

The computer was tucked in a corner.

“What do you want to look up, anyway?” Spike asked curiously as he turned on the computer.

“Oh... just some lyrics.”

When the desktop wallpaper popped up, Spike immediately realized his lack of judgment and practically draped himself over the computer in a sad attempt to shield the screen from Buffy. At first she didn’t know what he was trying to cover it up. Porn? A robot club reminder? A poem to his mother? Gay porn? Slowly her eyes were able to see around his silhouette and at the screen.

Buffy could faintly see the desktop. Some computer icons were scattered about the side of the screen: recycle bin, Mozilla Firefox, and iTunes. Spike wasn’t trying to cover that up, surely.

“What are you trying to hide, Spike?” This was getting rather intriguing to Buffy.

“Uh... s’nothing,” Spike blurted. “Just look the other way for a sec.”

“Okay, Spike.” Buffy chuckled. “Your bisexual tendencies will be safe forever.”

And so she turned away. Spike opened an internet browser and maximized it so the desktop was covered.

Buffy jumped in the seat and immediately minimized the browser.

It was a picture of Buffy. Spike had a picture of Buffy on his desktop. His wallpaper. It was her yearbook photo. If that wasn’t obsession, Buffy didn’t know what was...

“So this is—” Buffy started in a playful tone, but Spike quickly cut her off.

“Disease,” Spike spit out. That one word exhaled a perfect explanation to Buffy.

Buffy sighed and typed something in on Google.

“Ah ha!”

“What?”

Buffy recited what she found.

“Just a burden in my hand
Just an anchor on my heart
Just a tumor in my head
And I’m in the dark”

Spike reddened and sheepishly scratched his head.

Buffy smirked and glanced back at Spike. “Something you want to say, William?”

The usage of Spike’s real name upset Spike. Spike’s real name was becoming a derogative term. But the desktop – kind of a William thing to do. So he could live with someone addressing him that way. But just this once.

“So I couldn’t think of anything original and used some Soundgarden lyrics,” Spike bit with a roll of his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel that way...”

Buffy’s head fell. Another shard of shimmering hope was stomped on by Spike. She glanced to the side and spotted a warehouse of television seasons. One caught her eye.

“Hey!” Buffy grabbed a box set from the shelf. “I thought you didn’t like Dawson’s Creek.”

“Uh...” Spike was stumped. “That’s Mom’s...”

“Sure...”

“Hey! I got Prison Break...” He pointed to the first season of Prison Break.

Buffy nodded with a small smile. “That you do. Much more your style, really. Dramatic and suspenseful anal prison rape...”

Spike chuckled. Buffy probably didn’t watch the show, but she definitely got the gist of it. And the subject got them out of more embarrassing endeavors. “Actually, I watch it mainly for the relationships.”

Badass Spike watching a prison show for the relationships? Buffy was about to laugh when he continued.

“See, Michael, an inmate, is trying to get out of prison. And Sarah, the doctor at the prison, is his key out...” Spike stopped for a second to catch a breath. “...so he charms her. She falls for him even though it goes against everything that she soddin’ stands for. And he bleedin’ uses her... he secretly kisses her and swipes her keys so he can escape prison. In the end, she ODs.”

Spike didn’t mention the part where Michael fell for Sarah; he figured that would have been too hopeful. And he certainly wasn’t trying to give Buffy any hope. No, he was attempting to spill a little despair on her. The suggestiveness was screaming at her, telling her that this would be nothing more than someone using someone else. And Buffy understood this. She was a smart girl, after all. A smart girl that wanted something more, but was happily content with just sex. With just being used.

Buffy tried her best to shrug the whole thing off. “Did that little story have a point?”

“Eh...” Spike stroked his chin, thinking of the answer. “ODing is bad for you?”

“I’ve always hated those acronyms... they are just so, I don’t know, impersonal.” Buffy shook her head disapprovingly. “OD and DOA... just euphemisms to make it seem better.”

Now it was Spike’s turn to understand; he had a similar realization a little while back. It was like Buffy and Spike were both on the same train track as far as thought process went. When Buffy started speaking in that intelligent and well-educated manner, Spike started to get a little...

“Why do you want me, Buffy?”

Again Spike was being overly blunt to hide his insecurities. Buffy talked to the computer when she told him, too afraid to look him in the eye.

“I dunno... you’ve just changed... and you’re so...”

“Unattainable?” He finished for her.

“Yeah...” She glanced at him now. “And sexy and intelligent and caring sometimes, when you’re not being... well, you know...” Buffy secretly hoped for a similar confession of compliments from Spike.

She didn’t get that. “Mostly unattainable for you,” Spike responded with a shrug. “We’ll see about the intelligence Saturday at the SATs... and the other stuff...” There wasn’t much other stuff Buffy listed. Just the caring and... well... that... what was he suggesting?

“So...” Buffy batted her eyelashes. “Where do you sleep? In this big house all alone?”

Spike stammered with a gulp and a hue of red captured his cheeks. “I... uh... um...” He was a mess.

Buffy giggled. She was doing a lot of that today. Spike immediately straightened in response to the giggle; no symptoms of William would be regained because of a silly little bint.

“Same room as always... guess I could sleep in my parent’s room or any other bloody room in the house, but that room is... I dunno, special to me.”

It was a common feeling, really. When someone slept in the same room for extended periods of time, they became attached to the room. The room became a living, breathing person that viewed and experienced everything. It was like a friend. A friend that didn’t talk. But a friend that protected you from the harsh winter cold outside.

The “tour de casa” trick was pretty worn, especially with the usage in every b-list teenage flick, but Spike tried it anyway. She obviously wanted it. “You wanna... see it?”

Buffy titled her head sideways a little. The proposition entailed much more than merely perusing Spike’s room. “Sure.”

Spike’s room was downstairs, next to one of the guest rooms and the kitchen.

“Nice bed,” Buffy bounced a little on his fluffy bed. It had black satin sheets, of course. “And the posters...”

“Rock is my music,” Spike reminisced as he sat down, gazing at the posters. “I think I bleedin’ have every album of rock that was ever created.”

Buffy was becoming more and more interested in Spike. He was a puzzle waiting to be solved. A rough badboy on the outside, but definitely a soft and caring gentleman on the inside. He must have been that, why else would he help Buffy with stuff like the SATs and life?

“What else do you like?”

Spike looked flatly at her. “Why do you wanna know?”

“I dunno...” Buffy looked down and thought of a question. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Uh...” Spike was going to say gold, the color of Buffy, but that would be way too Romeo. “Black, of course. You?”

“Blue. Favorite book?”

Spike scratched his head. “Catch-22, I guess.” No need to hide dark comedy.

“Hmm... favorite beverage?”

Spike’s favorite beverage was Sprite. But that sounded way too wussy and personal. He didn’t want to be viewed as a girly man. And definitely didn’t want things to be personal. “Jack Daniel’s...”

“Oh?” Buffy crept a little closer to Spike.

“Does that ever make you...” she took his chin in her hand so they were heatedly staring at each other, “drunk?”

What type of question was that? I mean, really? Alcohol made you drunk; it wasn’t quantum physics. It wasn’t a question you asked. That was like asking if the grass was green or the sky was blue. They just were. You didn’t ask stuff like that. Not unless...

Buffy wrapped her arms around Spike’s neck. “You wanna know why I want you? It’s because your beautiful,” she kissed him on the cheek.

“And sexy,” a small lick trailed a little closer to Spike’s lips.

“And gorgeous,” a kiss caught the corner of Spike’s mouth.

“And...” But instead of saying anything, she dove in for the main event.

Spike pushed her away after a good minute or so. They were both catching their breath jaggedly, like lifeguards whose lunges were screaming after a rescue mission. “Buffy... not here...”

“Why not?” The classic Buffy pout formed. Did Spike not want to go for it? But why wouldn’t he? “Study” was their little inside term for a snogathon, just like “disease” was...

“Guest room...”

High on lust, yes. But even while high, some of the brutally obvious things were still understood. And Buffy understood this. Because it was brutally obvious. Spike didn’t want to do this in his own room. That was too close to him. Too personal. Spike wanted the affair to be anything but that.

They both slipped into the adjourning guest room. Buffy was hellbent on not having Spike’s subtle suggestions ruin her good time, so she playfully giggled.

“Shall we get started?”

Spike saw the girl he wanted. But he also saw the girl he hated. “Buffy... you wanna...” He looked down at his pants and...

Spike wanted that. He wanted Buffy to do that.

Buffy clicked open his belt with a clunk. She had chalky knuckles, a little shaken by the tawdry task to be executed. The zipper screeched as Buffy almost stagnantly pulled it down. The lower the zipper went, the more sordid and squalid the situation felt. Buffy jerked down his boxers in a tug and saw it. The King Cobra. Normally, Buffy would have been flabbergasted and blown away by the sheer size of that thing, but she... she was going to...

Buffy got down on her knees. It wasn’t just Buffy, though. No, it was the entire school, everyone that had made fun of Spike and picked on him and told him he was nothing. It was the cheerleaders. It was the jocks. It was the teachers. They were all on their knees begging for it. At the very mercy of Spike. It was just Buffy that was going to suck, yes, but Buffy was the embodiment of everyone Spike hated. This wasn’t an intimate or loving exchange, to show Spike how much love was in the air, but a vulgar, disgusting, and dirty tragedy.

Buffy put it in her mouth and started.





This is probably as bad as its gonna get, so stop screaming. No! Don’t press that little X! Stop creeping your cursor to the top right corner of the screen! Don’t do it! No! NOOOOOOO! And stop it with the back button. Me needs feedback. Tell me how much the situation sucks (yes, I realize it does in more than one way).

[A/N: Wow! I’m really, really, REALLY sorry about the inactivity. I hope I haven’t lost my readers. I would be sooooo sad. I just needed a little time to think things over for the story. Time frame issues and fun classroom ideas were really bugging me. School also started up in real life, and we all know a big negative eight hours in the win column five days a week hampers writing. Title inspired by the Meatloaf song, which was also rather lengthy.]




Chapter Thirteen: "I Would Do Anything For Lust (And I Will Do That)"



Spike didn’t think about last night as he walked to class. Well, he thought about not thinking about last night, which inadvertently made him think about last night. Last night... last night was last night. A part of him didn’t want to remember last night because he thought he wasn’t himself last night.

That wasn’t true, though. He was Spike last night. He was pure, unadulterated Spike; the twenty-four Karat Spike, not the eighteen Karat Spike he usually rolled around in. Spike knew that he took out his frustration on Buffy. He used her. But she didn’t seem to mind. And it was just one time.

Not like she’ll be handing out blowjobs... his brain trailed whimsically at the rather indulging thought.

Spike waltzed into class with a little less flair than normal. Spike usually carried himself with a certain grace and presence that made him tower in dominance over everyone else. But today, Spike just casually trotted in, looking a little unsure of himself. He was hunched over a little lower than normal, creeping on the level of unhealthy and uncool. He wasn’t the hunchback by any means, but an expert on the habits and mannerisms of Spike knew something was up.

Class had already started. Mr. Davis was talking about themes in The Crucible when Spike entered the room. Just as Sunday was church day for the Catholics, this was about the time Spike would jibe at Mr. Davis. He preyed on the overhead projection and saw his mark; some rather elementary themes scribbled with funny little bullets. Ammo ready, he almost started when something caught his eye.

It was Buffy. She had a bruise on her right eye. It was expertly covered with makeup, but Spike could see the strains of blue on her face. Spike was able to catch any irregularity in Buffy’s face, the faintest crease of a brow, the softest glimpse of a frown, the uneasiness of a lower lip. Something bad, other than the events at Spike’s house last night, had clearly happened to Buffy; she probably made up some excuse to her friends like she slipped in the shower or something. But Spike knew exactly what happened.

Buffy had been hit.

Spike jumped right over to her seat, accidentally tripping over a few chairs along the way, and took Buffy by the arm as he yanked her out of class. Mr. Davis continued his lecture even though the disruption was breezing briskly through the class, irking the students like a cold winter chill. What were Buffy and Spike doing? And together?

Outside, or in the hall, rather, Spike had a genuinely concerned look on his features as he faced Buffy.

“How did this happen?” Spike was examining the wound very closely, touching the stains of blue on her face with a certain kind of care that sharply contrasted his actions last night.

Buffy took a weary step back. His touch wasn’t exactly acid, but his overwhelming compassion, in comparison to the last “study session,” was hurtful. He could be concerned when he wanted to be. But he didn’t want to care, not in the slightest, and he worked his damnest to make that clear last night.

“Since when did you care?”

Spike looked down. “Buffy—”

“You don’t care,” Buffy interrupted with a shake of her head. “You made that perfectly clear last night. You didn’t even...” She trailed as the memories of the night took cheapshots at her kidney.

“Buffy...”

Buffy let out a deep breath. It couldn’t be classified as a sigh exactly, but annoyance was clearly distinguishable in the act of exhaling oxygen. “I came home a little late and gramps... he...”

Spike’s hunched posture went ramrod straight. A determination penetrated his face as he mumbled the next words. “I’m gonna kill that bloody wanker.”

“What? You’re gonna beat up my grandpa?” She tried to break the melodrama with a little humor.

It didn’t work. “Buffy... he...”

Buffy shrugged. “He’s done it before. Something I can take.”

“He’s done it before?” Spike’s eyes widened. “Buffy, you should—”

“Again,” she paused, “why do you care?” There was a tiny part of Buffy that wanted comfort. It was screaming for Spike, screaming for him to understand, give her solace, be her white knight and take her away from this evil place. She wanted him to feel something besides hate towards her, and she wanted it to last more than a moment.

But the feelings were already wearing off. “Buffy...”

“It’s a simple question, Spike,” Buffy went akimbo. “One minute you’re dragging me through the dirt and the next you’re trying to dust me off.”

“I...” Spike couldn’t get a coherent piece of word out. “I don’t know, Buffy,” he concluded sharply with a final mental lapse back to maliceland.

Buffy tried not to show disappointment. “Then can we please get back to class? Everyone’s probably thinking we’re out here killing each other or making out or something.”

Spike grinned slyly at the latter example. “Sure.”

They both walked back in the class and sat down at their respective seats. Suspicious glares were emitted throughout the room.

“An essay on The Crucible is due tomorrow, class,” Mr. Davis announced. “Just a simple two-page book report.”

Spike smirked. “Book report?” The attention of the class was back on him again. “Are we in the fifth grade or somethin’? Gonna have us remember the months of the bleedin’ year with our knuckles and recite the soddin’ alphabet?”

Spike took a long glance at Riley. “Of course, that may help some of the less bright of us...”

Mr. Davis’ eyes narrowed. Spike had a knack for getting under the new teacher’s skin. “Have a better idea? I haven’t seen you read or write a single page...”

“Oh?” Spike chuckled. “So it’s me you’re worried about?” Spike grabbed a pen from his front black jean pocket and tore two sheets of paper from the student’s binder next to him. He started writing rather viciously, with a certain fiery passion that made everyone in the class just want to get out a piece of paper and write for the fun of it. Mr. Davis tried to ignore Spike and continued the discussion on fundamental themes in the book.

Ten minutes later, Spike rose and handed the two pages to the teacher.

“What’s this?” Mr. Davis examined Spike’s work.

“Uh... what does it look like, D?” Spike rolled his eyes a little. “An essay, o’ course.”

“On what? Failure of the US government?”

Spike sighed. “Good idea, but no. The Crucible, ‘mate. I talked about how the book was allegorical to McCarthyism and the Red Scare, and then I went off on the atrocity of Abigail.”

Spike shrugged. “It’s a book report. And I’m sure the lack of focus is still a step up from some of the other magnum opuses you’re gonna get.”

Mr. Davis looked over the paper. “This looks... satisfactory. Good, even.”

Spike grinned as he stalked back to his desk. “Helps that I’ve read it already,” he recalled to Mr. Davis.

Mr. Davis was still wrapping his mind around the thesis of the paper, which was expertly teased out and analytically baked to a simmer. “Have you read Go Ask Alice, also? We’re reading that next.”

Spike whipped around at that, almost smacking Scott in the head with the whiplash of his duster. “Bloody hell, man! White Rabbit? This isn’t like in Groundhog Day, is it? I’m not reliving Freshman year all over again, am I?”

Spike looked downtrodden until a thought crossed his mind. “‘cause that would suck. Totally and utterly blow. Maybe both at the same time, if that’s even soddin’ possible...”

The class laughed, but no one got the same meaning of the joke as Buffy. He stole a glimpse at Buffy, who felt his heated gaze.

“And it’s not even a diary, it was actually written by some Beatrice person.” Spike was soapboxing now. “That book’s like every anti-drug cliché known to man...”

“Have something in mind, then?” Mr. Davis asked challengingly.

“As a matter of fact,” Spike proposed, “I vote a cautionary tale next”

Mr. Davis was about to interject that Go Ask Alice was, indeed, a cautionary tale of sorts before Spike silenced him. “A real one. 1984, Brave New World, The Handmaid’s Tale. Pick your poison. Dystopia’s are God’s gift to the world.”

“That’s awfully... cynical,” Mr. Davis observed out loud.

“I think there’s cynicism and then there’s realism,” Spike answered philosophically.

“There’s also optimism, hope, faith...” the teacher urged.

“Don’t get me started on Faith,” Spike retorted with a chuckle as he relaxed in his chair. “Faith’s been trying to... err... continue my path of devirgination,” a new word from Spike? “I used to let her but now, not so much.”

Spike wasn’t sure if anyone caught the double meaning of the word Faith, so they were all probably baffled by his words. He was sure Buffy didn’t understand, but that was only because he didn’t know that she saw Spike and Faith together at lunch the other day.

“Well,” Mr. Davis put his hands together. He knew the class would like what he was going to say next. “Time to watch The Crucible.”

The class rejoiced. Rarely rejoice was heard on these grounds. School grounds. It was like hearing Pig Latin at a basketball game after a small chat on the existential outlook in The Stranger. It just didn’t happen often. Or at all.

Spike was rather unimpressed. “And teacher’s wonder why they get paid less...” he snickered. “Work nine months out of the year, and show movies every day... a tortoise with Parkinson’s could do it...”

Mr. Davis gave Spike an angry glare.

“A dyslexic tortoise with Parkinson’s and an affinity for pedophilia...” Spike added just to annoy him even further.

The result was, obviously, more eye narrowing from Mr. Davis, who was quickly becoming an expert at the art. “If you feel in any way uncomfortable, feel free to—”

“Oh you know I’m leaving, ‘mate,” Spike interrupted in a playful tone. He accepted Mr. Davis’ option of leaving without even hearing it fully. “Last thing I need right now is some more Abigail...”

And with that, he picked up and left.

Around thirty-three, maybe thirty-four seconds later, Buffy raised her hand. It could have been thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight seconds. Who was counting, really?

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Sure,” Mr. Davis pointed to the piece of paper on his desk. “Just make a pass.”

Buffy quickly wrote a pass and scrambled out of the class.

Spike was leaning against the wall right next to the door, taking a puff of his cigarette.

“Become acquainted with the darkness now, have we?” Spike was echoing a bit of Robert Frost. A little on the loose side, though; he expected that Buffy wouldn’t have caught the reference.

“I think so...” she managed as she wrapped her brain around the next statement. “I have been one acquainted with the night.”

Spike couldn’t decide whether he was irked or amazed that she understood his allusion. But the words she spoke had more meaning than merely the regurgitation of a poem. They both knew it. It was perfectly clear. It was an acquiescence. She was saying “let’s do this” and “I don’t care anymore” and “use me” and “abuse me” all at the same time.

Spike put out his cigarette and started to mosey down the hall. Not a word was exchanged with Buffy as he trailed off.

“Hey!” Buffy called for him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Same place you are,” Spike replied mysteriously. Buffy briskly walked to Spike’s side.

“And where’s that?”

“Como se dice... ‘Closet?’” Spike put emphasis on the last word. He wasn’t very good at Spanish, either.

“Mmm...” Lust-addled thoughts of the closet filled Buffy’s mind. “Another round?”

Spike had to choose his words wisely and concisely. “Just the second round, actually.”

Buffy stared down the corridor. The hallway was small. Tiny. It shouldn’t have been small, but it was. It was now, anyway. The walls seemed closer, the lockers seemed more imposing than before. It was only a handful of meters to the closet door. Not exactly an endless horizon. No great abyss or neverending sunset. Just here, now.

With him.

Giving him what he wanted.

“Sure.”



And another go around. If it wasn’t blatantly obvious, this chapter ended in the same way as the last chapter. Yep, things not so good. I might opt to fast forward a little bit here, since these endings are just so horrible, even for me. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Appreciation, criticism, comments, philosophy, I don’t really mind. Discussion is fun! =D Oh, and possibly another update this weekend, if you're guy's continued support and my lack of homework work in tandem like they always do. The former is great and reliable... the latter, not so much.

[A/N: Again, I’m really sorry about the three weeks of no updating that occurred; it was never my intention to just leave this sitting, but it somehow turned out that way. It seems I have a lot of these “bridge” chapters that lead into much more interesting ventures the following chapter. It just happens that way, I dunno why. :( At least this chapter has a few small twists in it. :) Oh, and if you’ve never heard the amazingly awesome open/closing sound of a Zippo, you might be a little lost in the beginning. I suggest you ask for a light sometime. Title from the Metallica song, added an “s” because it’s more than one thing.]




Chapter Fourteen: "The Things That Should Not Be"



Swish. Flick. Click.

Pause.

Swish. Flick. Click.

Pause.

Swish. Flick. Click.

Pause.

“Day going well, Spike?” Angel asked curiously from across the lunch table in the cafeteria.

Spike flicked open his silver Zippo another time with a swish. (What did you think was happening, you dirty little kid, you?) He was perfectly content with staring at his lightning movement in opening and closing the lighter. It was starting to become incessant and annoying, really. The swishing and the clicking, the flicking, like some student tapping a pen in class. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You just seem a little... I dunno, lost.”

Spike knew Angel got that idea from his Zippo flicking, but he continued to do it anyway. To show that he was a little angry, Spike put a little more viciousness into flicking open and close the lighter now. Not only did a swish and flick occur, but now a louder, more cacophonic, swish and flick occurred.

“See, that’s what I mean,” Angel pointed at the Zippo. “You’re gonna break the hinge...”

“Hinge is already broken,” Spike replied with a bored glance at Angel. He wish he hadn’t.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like looking at Angel. I mean, seriously, Angel was a pretty good looking guy. He certainly wasn’t Brad Pitt or Jude Law or James Marsters or anything, but his spikey hair and black attire had a certain character to it. Spike surely wasn’t thinking about Angel’s look, though. He didn’t have a bisexual preference or anything like that. No, that would be weird. Super weird. It was the stuff in the periphery that he didn’t want to see.

It was Buffy.

It. Was. Always. Soddin’. Buffy.

She and Cordelia were walking over to his table.

“Three o’clock, Buffy and Cordy,” Spike spurt out in a subterfuge-esque whisper. Angel immediately turned around.

“No, no!” Angel swung his head back at Spike’s warning. “Don’t look. Just act... casual. Eat your potato salad.”

So Angel took a big bite of his potato salad and Spike continued the Zippo flickage, looking again perfectly content with the street chrome exterior and amazingly soothing swish sound. They were both trying to act as “casual” as possible.

Buffy cleared her throat to get Spike’s attention. He didn’t look up.

“How’s that potato salad going, Angel?” Spike asked, desperately not wanting to acknowledge Buffy.

“Pretty good,” Angel replied as he took another bite. “Kind of soft, though.”

Spike nodded, agreeing on the notion. “Yeah, the harder stuff is always better.”

Buffy and Cordelia giggled at the sexual connotation of the words. Spike shot a look at them.

Buffy held her ground. “Mind if we sit?”

“I don’t think you should...”

“Why not?” Cordelia sprung in with a carefree and preppy smile. How did you smile “preppy,” anyway?

Spike took a glance at Riley’s table in the cafeteria. “People might get the wrong idea.”

Cordelia chuckled. “Oh, it’s okay!” A little popularity decline was fine, right? Especially when you were a hot cheerleader that could get any guy and had money and threw parties and had a car and were the prom queen and...

“Maybe for you,” Spike glimpsed up at Cordelia, eyes looking right through her. He was implying, of course, that the presence of a certain B and C at his table would somehow, in some jaded and twisted way, lower his popularity. Well, maybe his infamy...

“I, um... I can’t sit over there anymore,” Buffy gestured to Riley’s table, “considering I, um, kind of broke up with him.”

Spike’s eyes went wide and his mouth went agape. He tried to blink but his mind wasn’t giving out any commands. She broke up with him? his mind raced. To what... to be with me? He laughed inwardly. How could she possibly think he wanted to be with her, in any formality at all? He made it clear in every soddin’ exchange with her that he didn’t want to have a “relationship.” No homecoming dance or school cruises. Walks on the beach, making out at the movies, Spring Break vacations to some Central American country in poverty. Giving her a corsage or a Claddagh ring or some other bullshit. He didn’t want that. Not with anyone, and especially not with Buffy.

She knows what I want.

He finally blinked and it seemed like when he opened his eyes the world had changed. Both Buffy and Cordelia were sitting down at the table. It was a round table, so Angel was across from Spike and Buffy was across from Cordelia. Kind of like a zigzag of sorts. Angel must have let’em sit down.

“...so you?” Spike mumbled, still trying to wrap his mind around the weight of Buffy’s words.

Buffy nodded slowly, her brilliant golden bangs wagging a little. She had her hair up today.

“Why?”

“Oh, um...” Buffy squinted her eyes, thinking of the right thing to say. “Someone else, I guess.”

She was being awfully cavalier about the whole thing. Buffy and Riley had been going out, albeit on and off, since Riley was eating crayon. Since they still had that “skin” colored crayon. Maybe even before that lawsuit. “And who exactly has someone else? You or him?”

“Me,” Buffy blurted awkwardly.

Spike cocked his head quizzically, but it was Angel who replied.

“But you’ve been going out with Riley since he ate paste.”

“I think he still does,” Spike quipped in a low, mocking voice.

Everyone openly laughed at that. Not only did Spike’s statement have some actual real world credence, but it also attested to the not-so-much brightness that is Riley.

Now that the ice was broken, Spike figured he’d just go in for the kill. “I assume Cordelia knows?”

“Yep.” Buffy knew he was referring to their “relationship.” Or lack of, really. She pointed at Angel. “Him?”

“Yeah, even you’re passssss...” but Spike held the consonant and trailed as he saw Buffy’s mad look. He finished anyway. “Past.”

“You told him!?” Buffy shouted angrily. It wasn’t loud enough to alert the entire room, but it definitely conveyed that she was pissed off. Spike hadn’t fully realized that her dirty little secret was probably also one of her biggest fears. Next to not winning as homecoming queen and icky little spiders he thought, trying to calm his mind a little by making Buffy seem superficial.

“Well, yeah,” Spike replied casually. She still looked mad, so he shrugged and continued. “Woulda probably mentioned it when I was drunk, anyway.”

Spike desperately wanted to get away from a subject that most obviously haunted Buffy. Another topic was still beating him with a bat in his mind, anyway. A nice diversion, too. “So I assume this someone that you were talking about before...”

“...is you,” Buffy finished for him.

“Definitely in an only-platonic, usability way, though, right?” Spike asked honestly and bluntly. He was glad that they got away from Buffy’s past, but he wasn’t so glad that Angel kicked him. Under the table, smack in the center of his shin, with a small crack. Pretty damn hard, too. Man must have steel toe boots on...

“Hey!” Spike glared angrily at Angel, but Angel only held his stare. “The truth, ‘mate.”

Angel snickered. “If you only knew the truth about—”

“Thing’s change,” Spike cut him off, still holding the glare. “People change.” When it looked like Angel wasn’t going to let up, Spike just figured he get a little threatening. “Drop it or I’ll recite the poetry that you made about—”

“Okay sorry sorry!” Angel blurted, scared for his life. Or life with Cordelia. Which was, sadly, probably most of his life. Goals, dreams, and ambitions, if that could generally be classified as “life.” She was sitting right next to him, after all, and probably wouldn’t respond well to his obsession. “Won’t say a word.”

Spike smiled happily back at his friend. Buffy and Cordelia watched the whole little scene with interest.

“Well I’m, like, having a party at my house tonight,” Cordelia started enthusiastically. “Mom’s in rehab and Dad’s out of town. You’re all, like, invited, I guess.”

Spike cocked his head to the side, a little bit annoyed. “Why would I soddin’ wanna—”

But a quick kick from Angel silenced him. Spike knew that Angel wanted this more than anything in the world. I mean, seriously, the man worshipped the ground in the hallway that Cordelia walked on. He was kind of similar to the old Spike, really. With inspecting the girl’s gum that was stuck to the bottom of a table and all. Going to her house would be... well, it would be like catching a ball at a baseball game. And then having it signed by all the players on the team. And then having all the players give the exorbitant amounts of money they made by wearing tight little restricting pants and hitting a little ball... giving all that money to you. It’d be pretty cool. Awesome, even.

“Err... sure,” Spike said finally. “I guess we could make an appearance... free beer is always good.” He didn’t want to give Buffy any ideas. He wasn’t doing this because of her or anything. No, it was just for the alcohol.

At that moment, Spike was hit by a really enticing idea. Maybe also a tad bit cruel - if you weren’t as dark and cynical as Spike, of course. “Mind if I bring any friends?”

“Not at all,” Cordelia replied automatically, not knowing what she was getting herself into.

Spike grinned wickedly. “Well, I’m gonna go...”

And he got up and left an apprehensive Angel alone with Buffy and Cordelia at the table.

Spike exited the cafeteria and immediately streamlined for Faith’s group.



Par-tay! To be crashed by Spike or not to be crashed by Spike, that is the question. Sadly, next update might not be for a half week, because I have a few examens and quizzitos on Monday and Tuesday. You’ll just have to cherish this little drabble of writing until then. :( As always, reviews are greatly appreciated and revered until the end of time. Which could be tomorrow or today or in five minutes or... *loud explosion* Hey, I called it!

[A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you guys are wonderful! :D I realize that this fic isn’t exactly “likable” in its current state, but sometimes what you want isn’t a good story. To me, this chapter is particularly “rough” and craggy in places, but that’s kind of the way I wanted it to be. Title from The Who song, the one that’s really called Baba O’Riley but people call it “Teenage Wasteland” and so I kind of figured I’d be a cool misinformed person (although I _do_ know the real title) and do the same thing. And the actual title has Riley in the name; what was the greatest live band in the world possibly thinking? ;]




Chapter Fifteen: "Teenage Wasteland"



The party maintained the status quo of populars in Spike’s mind. That, in itself, was quite amazing, considering Spike had a pretty damn demented mind. The bleached man wasn’t at all surprised to see half naked people rubbing up against each other to funky Hip Hop music when he first entered Cordelia’s beach house. All the populars were trying their hardest to act as cool as possible by, well... by not abiding to Missus Nancy Reagan’s slogan and “just saying yes.” Drinking, in other words. But Spike knew his alcohol, and he knew that they were only consuming the “light” stuff.

It could have been possible that the party mayhem was the result of some intense inebriation. But a swig of six or seven bottles of that diluted stuff they had the nerve to call beer would only have an aftershock of true drinking symptoms. The upside to everything, of course, was that the beer, however light and unsavory, was free as a swan in the sky. Did swans even fly?

The populars that actually had some reasonable attire on – and by reasonable Spike meant not in the undergarment – were dressed in brightly colored Abercrombie and Fitch and short denim skirts. Not an army of one, but a circus of one.

“‘Least the girls are hot,” Spike mumbled to Angel, who happened to be the only other person in the jam-packed room who was wearing black.

Angel probably didn’t hear Spike’s half sentence because the music was so damn loud. “I’m gonna go s-search for Cordy,” Angel muttered to Spike.

“Yeah,” Spike replied mockingly, “you go right ahead and have sex with Cordy.” It was possible that Spike hadn’t heard Angel correctly because of the music. That was possible. But c’mon, this was Spike. Working up Angel to a verbal frenzy was his specialty.

But Angel had already trotted off, dodging his way around the swarms of people, and left Spike alone in the crowd.

Spike stalked over to the stairs where a treasure chest of his favorite loot in the world – beer – awaited him. The house was an ideal summer house, overly open, spacious, and practically screaming “party!” The ocean front lot topped most celebrity houses, but that type of extravagance was to be expected from Cordelia Chase.

Spike found a nicely striped blue and white sofa and slouched on it. From his observations, the party looked almost amateurish. No drugs or hard liquor. Hell, he was probably the only person who’d ever had a hangover out of the lot of ‘em. He couldn’t wait until Faith arrived so they could make fun of the populars together and inevitably crash the party.

Buffy appeared from the stairwell. She was wearing an absolutely delectable white camisole top and a tanish skirt that, although modest in its length, left Spike yearning for some... well...

Buffy immediately noticed Spike sitting down. She smiled coyly at him and made her way through the crowd to him. Spike tried his best not to pay attention to her, but not paying attention to Buffy for Spike was totally like not possible. Like impossible. Like most definitely not possible. From the corner of Spike’s mind, he processed that Buffy was carrying a cup of a dark substance, probably some type of alcohol, in her left hand.

Spike noticed Buffy’s skin tone was a shade lighter today. See, when you were Spike and analyzed every nook and crevice of your obsession, you just noticed these things. Spike had produced an insightful analysis in his mind on the “shades of Buffy”; he could probably lecture on it if they had those classes in school. Sometimes Buffy was tan, sweet as brown sugar, and other times she bore a lighter tone. Today she was the latter. The light skin tone just screamed innocence and helplessness to Spike. He’d agree that it was quite the turn on – innocence – but the lighter skin tone was a double-edged sword that came with helplessness. Like Buffy was in need of rescuing or something. Like I’d rescue her.

“Hey, Spike.” Buffy electrified Spike with another one of her million watt smiles. Goddamn... how can she buggerin’ do that every single soddin’ time? “Glad you could make it.”

“Glad you didn’ run outta beer,” Spike replied with a grin, and together the two of them took sips of their respective liquor. Buffy circled for the seat next to Spike on the couch but stopped just short when she heard a familiar voice.

“Hey babe,” Riley appeared out of the shadows of the crowd and hugged Buffy. “How’s it going?”

Buffy accepted the embrace, but didn’t look all that pleased to see Riley. “Pretty good, I guess.” Spike noticed Buffy’s eyes were lighter, too, almost a hue of blue. Well that isn’t buggerin’ right... Buffy has green eyes.

“I was thinking we could, uh, talk things over,” Riley slurred a little too quickly, showing how hammered he was. Lightweight. “I think we made a mistake when we broke things off.”

“Sure,” Buffy replied lightly, in a tone that borderlined childish. She was obviously only acquiescing to get away from Riley. “But later, okay?”

Her eyes found their way to Spike again and Riley immediately caught on. He might be drunk, but he wasn’t... well, he was stupid, but he wasn’t that stupid. He did get a 600 total on the new SAT after all. Spelled his name right and everything. Took months of serious practice and intense meditation, but he got that second, and rather ridiculous “n.” Missed the “ey,” but got that tricky second “n.” R-I-L-I F-I-N-N

“Oh I get it,” Riley raged, throwing his hands in the air in disgust, “gonna fool around with badboy William, are we? Fitting... both of you in the dirt together...”

Spike had irritation plastered all over his face; how dare Riley call him by his real name and speak to him that way? Frighteningly more important to Spike, how dare he speak to Buffy like that?

“No; it’s not like that,” Buffy lied, but the notion sent Riley plummeting into her personal space again.

Buffy pushed Riley away, but he immediately invaded Buffy’s personal space for a third time. Buffy was starting to get frustrated by the obviously drunk and delirious Riley. “...could you please just get away from me? You’re drunk.”

“I jus’ wanna talk...” Riley sounded and looked equally pathetic. “C’mon, babe...” He took a swipe for Buffy’s arm.

Spike didn’t know what had motivated him to act. Before he knew it, he was up on his feet. “She doesn’t wanna talk, ‘mate.”

“Back off, man.” Riley seemed to have found an ounce of courage now that he was inebriated. “She’s gonna talk with me. Right now. So fuck off.”

Spike was disgusted by Riley’s possessiveness. “Don’t tell her what to do.”

“You got a problem, William?” Riley teetered right over to Spike. Man, he must have taken some anti-apprehension pills or something. Drunkenness really does make people do the stupid.

Riley poked Spike in the chest. “It’s everyone in this room against you.”

“Don’t touch me,” Spike seethed, eyes smoldering with hate. “And don’t think I won’t.”

Riley put his arms to the side, practically urging Spike to hit him. “Take your best shot, William.”

Spike held Riley’s intense gaze for a handful of heartbeats.

Finally, Spike did something a little odd, possibly even unnerving.

He grinned.

Riley begging for a punch and Spike just grinning in response. The lack of a punch was really much worse than executing a jab. It was like ending an endearing and dramatic story with one sentence on the scenery. A literary device-less scenery.

Spike turned around and started for the sofa. It looked like he was going to be a pacifist. Fighting never resolved the issue; Spike knew this better than anyone else. Images of Mahatma Gandhi were a slideshow in his mind. Riley was weak, anyway. Wouldn’t be a challenge. Beating up Riley was becoming cliché.

“That’s what I thought,” Riley barked. Did Riley have a deathwish or something?

Spike stopped. Was he really gonna just let Riley walk all over him? Own Buffy?

“Same old William,” Riley continued harshly. Riley just didn’t know when to stop. “C’mon, Buffy, let’s—”

Fuck clichés. Fuck passivity. Fuck Gandhi.

Spike whirled around and in one swift motion placed all the force he had into Riley’s gut.

[A/N: I’d like to thank Dana, smlcspike, BloodyLuv, SarahandJamesFanatic, gypsy jin, secret guest, rosie, Aurora, PhotographyNut, daydreamer, B, Jenna, J, and anon for the awesome reviews that fuel this fic. You all rock! Yep, I did the banner all by myself and everything. With my 1337 photoshop skills that I acquired five minutes ago. Poke fun if you want. I suggest looking closely at it, as I added a few things into it that were pretty low on the opacity. And yes: giving endless horizons no hope since ’07. Title and description pretty much say it all... POV changes from Spike to Buffy, just an FYI. Title from the Led Zeppelin song. And yeah, I was thinking Zep also with the “out on the tiles.”]




Chapter Sixteen: "Whole Lotta Love"



Spike whirled around and in one swift motion placed all the force he had into Riley’s gut. It was a haymaker of an uppercut. So much force behind it, so much anger. One hit was always enough when it came to Spike. Always.

Riley toppled to the floor, the wind effectively blown out of him. The hit finally knocked some sense into Riley; it had brought him right out of his drunken state. He weakly and rather pathetically scraped for the floor away from Spike. His other populars friends were suppose to back him up now, right? They were suppose to help Riley get up. They were suppose corner Spike, grab him and let Riley throw a furry of punches at his enemy. Right?

No one besides Buffy tried to help Riley. Everyone was too afraid of Spike. The man had only thrown two punches total in two fights and won both of them. Granted, they were against Riley, who finally bore his true colors as a complete coward and weakling, but he was the football captain. Used to be the football captain, anyway. No one was sure of his status now.

Buffy tried to help Riley breathe as best she could. “Why did you do that!?” she screamed to Spike.

“I thought that was...” I thought that was what you wanted. But that thought chilled Spike to the bone. What had gotten into him? Well, the punching Riley part was simple enough to understand – Riley was an asshole, after all. But what inspired him to protect and defend Buffy? Her skin and eye tone? Stupid, just stupid.

“Bloody soddin’ hell...” Buffy should be saying thank you, but she was sleeping with the enemy. “Just... just whatever... I’m outta here.”

Spike headed for the door but remembered Faith. As much as he wanted to leave right now, he wanted even more to crash this stupid lame party. He dove for the stairs. The eyes of the room were still on him, everyone had stopped dancing and drinking. The music was even off. They were all just staring. Just staring at him. Kind of like old times. Except now, now they were scared. Scared of Spike.

Spike quickly scaled the stairs to a hallway. He tried door number one, but was greeted with a rather surprising image.

“Oh h-hey s-s-sorry,” Spike stuttered uncharacteristically. “Didn’t know people were... practicing the finer arts of S and M in the guest bedroom. I’m just gonna...” He pointed to the hallway rather dumbfoundedly and finally shut the door.

The second door was another bedroom. And no, no raunchy sex in this room. At least not yet. It was unoccupied, actually. Spike sat down on the bed in the center of the room and immediately his hands dove into his bleached hair. He was shocked. Years of hatred mixed with lust and he comes up with... with soddin’ protecting her? What the fuck was that?

Everything was just so wrong. He wanted to help the person that he hated. H-A-T-E-D. As in malice. As in not helping in a time of need. Or any time. He wanted to help the person that never once helped him. Buffy watched him sleep in the fire for years. Hell, she started the fire that seared him sometimes. He wanted to help the person that had caused him so much anguish and grief and dark desire. He could oppress this urge to be a shining knight when he was in complete control of his actions, but Spike knew subconsciously that his basic instinct was always to help Buffy. And that was something he tried to purge, condemn, crucify, eliminate, eviscerate... but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t send it off to permanent purgatory.

Buffy is in permanent purgatory. Torn between two lives... two ways of living.

The SAT, her home life, helping with her homework, and now sticking up for her... what had motivated Spike to do these things? Was it love? Some type of demented hate?

Still perplexed, Spike took off his black duster and threw it on the desk opposite the bed. It was kind of hot in here, which was exceedingly weird because Spike was usually unaffected by the temperature. Put him in the harsh sun of Death Valley during the peak of the summer with his leather duster and he wouldn’t mind a bit. But now, now he felt everything. Everything he didn’t want to feel.

Her emotions. Her problems. Her deathly living.

He was just starting to sort his thoughts when...

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Yeah,” Spike blurted in a high tone, too lost in his thought to speak in that smooth and deep tone he’d grown accustomed to using.

Buffy entered the room. She looked rather calm for just having her current secret affair beat up her ex-boyfriend. She was mad at him downstairs, but she seemed to have lost that with the elevation. Twelve feet did wonders to the air and the mind.

“Oh, hey,” Spike scratched the back of his head and looked down. “Sorry... about that... thought it was, well... thought it was what you wanted.” He could hardly believe he just said that, but he didn’t show any signs of, well... anything.

A small smile formed on Buffy’s face. It was hardly distinguishable to the naked eye, but again, to an expert in Buffology, it was clearly evident. She slowly crept over to the bed and sat down beside Spike.

Together they let the silence in the room overtake everything else. The music was blaring downstairs, but the silence in the room – the room where they were, where their emotions and thoughts and feelings presided – was comforting.

The whole atmosphere of the room was comforting, really. The white sheets of the bed. The ticking of the grandfather clock. The painting on the wall of some windmills in the Netherlands. The presence of two very different people in the same room. Well, Spike wanted to think they were very different. He wasn’t quite sure of that anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

“You didn’t have to do that...” Buffy broke the long silence. “He was just drunk... he wouldn’t have done anything...”

“I know,” Spike replied with a heavy sigh. “But I wanted...” too embarrassed to admit his inherent need to help her, he trailed off.

Buffy gazed quizzically at him. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Was she calling him out?

“Help me...” Buffy’s gaze went off into nothingness. She was obviously also perplexed, with a kind of cute dumbfounded expression smeared all over her vivid face. “When you obviously don’t...”

Spike turned again to face Buffy. She looked just as confused as him. He desperately wanted to change the subject. “Is one-hit wonder okay?”

Buffy giggled. “He’ll be fine. Pride’s a little damaged, considering this is the second time and all.”

But it wasn’t really the second time. Spike could have used all his fingers and toes to count how many times he’d helped Buffy – or at least had the thought to do so – since school started. He dunked her head below water, yes, but he’d also helped her. Threw her a lifejacket while pushing her head six feet below.

The silence wasn’t comforting anymore. The silence was awkward.

In an act of sheer whimsicality, Spike jumped up and started fiddling with the window. He’d had enough of this awkwardness.

“What are you doing?” Buffy asked curiously, reveling in the mischievousness and spontaneity that is Spike. He was like the kid that always got in trouble at school, but also had a really interesting imagination and thought process. Okay, maybe that was Spike.

Spike popped off the screen to the window with a small ping.

“I dunno, Buffy.” And he really hadn’t a clue. “I’m just... lost. I need some air.”

And so Spike climbed through the window and out onto the roof. Luckily the roof wasn’t a very steep grade, so Spike was able to sit right down on the black tiles. He stared out into the deep blue ocean. The night was prowling; to some it might have been a bit chilly outside. Luckily the effectiveness of the temperature had worn off, probably from the minutes of silence in the room, and so he was unaffected.

A half minute later he heard a stifled grunt. Maybe it was a whimper; he wasn’t really in the mood to categorize unintelligible sounds. Someone was obviously trying to make their way through the window onto the roof. And that someone, most obviously, was Buffy. She carefully moved over to Spike, bending her knees so she didn’t slip, and sat down beside him.

They both sat, side by side, and watched the ocean together. Not a sound from either of them was emitted. The night was perfectly still, calm, and besides the muffled sounds of the party downstairs, the world seemed asleep. Buffy and Spike’s feet dangled off the roof.

The first thing to see, looking past the blue depths of the ocean, was a blunt, almost fuzzy horizon, that cut the sea and the sky in half. The distant vicissitudes of the world brought some kind of odd hope. An endless horizon, never nearing or veering, only searing the mind with hope. Hope. A dark new day approached, and yet a horizon always brought hope. Needless hope.

Scattered across the night sky were bright little ornaments people called stars. Scientists predicted that these stars were other suns, but no one had even explored the dimensions of our own sun, so who could really say what they were. But Buffy and Spike could surmise what they weren’t. And they weren’t suns.

Maybe they were ornaments? Ornaments were put on oddly shaped trees during Christmas to celebrate Christ and life and living. But these ornaments in the sky were always up, year round, illuminating the dark new day. Giving people hope. Needless ho—

The moon’s face smiled at Buffy and Spike. The face was clearly distinguishable, one just had to look hard enough at it. It was there, the undertow of the lips and the pupils of the large grey eyes were ever present. And if one looked even harder, one could see the moon’s eyes flicker. Wink. The moon winked at Buffy and Spike, giving them hope. Needless—

A shooting star scorched the bleak sky. The meteoroid already penetrated the upper atmosphere, combusting as it combed an ionization path. That was where the light came from. The burning. The blaze. The incineration. They were both sure of it.

It was the first falling star Buffy or Spike had ever seen – at least one that wasn’t Hollywood produced – but neither jumped up in amazement or squealed or got out their camera phone. The moment... the moment was their own, not to be disturbed by such calamities. Besides, the shooting star sieved surreal hope.

Hope.

Hope is the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best. Candide had believed in hope, the best of all possible worlds, on his journey. Did he need it? they both wondered.

The moment ended when the shooting star stopped flickering. Warped back into reality, Buffy started to speak.

“The ocean’s nice,” Buffy cooed, sharing the picturesque sight with Spike. They both unconsciously allowed the waves to soak them up and again take them to a different place. An alternate universe. A place where stars were ornaments, where moons were faces, where the sun was just another orange ball in a big playpen. A place away from here. A place away from the hate and the torment and the uncertainty of life.

Anywhere but here, the traveling sign usually read.

Spike grinned a little at Buffy’s spot-on comment. “Yeah, it kinda is...”

He hadn’t allowed the ocean to soak him up, though. And maybe he hadn’t entered the alternate dimension with Buffy. “But the ocean... has the ocean lost its way?”

Buffy peered directly at Spike, surprise and playfulness seeping through her face. Were Spike’s words possibly a metaphor for change? Buffy noticed Spike’s eyes weren’t as dark as they usually were. They had a lighter tint now. Kind of a baby blue. Usually dark with desire, and now light...

Light with love? Buffy’s heart fluttered. Had the waves drenched both of them?

Spike felt Buffy’s heated gaze and turned to face her. “What?” he asked in a rough British way.

Buffy looked down. “Oh, nothing.” She adored this moment. With him. With no past to ruin things. Was it possible that Spike could just forget everything? Could they live in this moment forever? In this place where the sun rose to a bright new day and broken glass didn’t cut and alcohol on the wound didn’t sting. Buffy wanted that more than anything in the world... someone who actually cared about her.

“Y’know...” Spike started. “I think I realized something just now... sitting out here with you... watching the ocean with you...”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you realize?” Buffy sounded cute, like a child asking where hamburgers came from. But she wasn’t thinking about hamburgers right now. No, now she was thinking about Notting Hill, and The Notebook, and Pride & Prejudice, and Serendipity, and Can’t Buy Me Love, and Casablanca. Half those romance movies had happy endings. At least half.

“I realized... I realized that I...” Spike took a deep breath. “...that I...”

That he loved her? Was this Spike’s final submission? A profession of true love? Was he unequivocally admitting his true feelings? Moon eyes for years... the suggestive poetry... catching long stares... Buffy had a clue, but she didn’t flatter herself enough to believe...

Images of life with Spike flashed through Buffy’s mind. Attending college, having a decent home, a life expiration date that leaped past graduation. A good job. A family. A person who cared for her. A person who loved her. Did he? Did Spike love her?

“That I don’t love you...” The air went stale. Absolute zero in Physics. The molecules were frozen in time. Everything was frozen. The whole ocean was frozen. Spike was not in the alternate universe with Buffy. At least not now.

“I don’t think I ever did... I thought I did, but I didn’t...” Spike let out a heavy breath as he rambled, “I just bollixed up hate with lo... err... lust. Fancy me, the stupid git who does that...”

Spike chuckled a little. How could he possibly laugh in such a dramatic moment? So close, yet so far away...

“...and the stuff I do for you... that stuff is just because my mind’s a little wonky... that’s all... so you don’t have to soddin’ worry...” Spike placed Buffy’s tender heart in a blender and watched it spin around to a beautiful oblivion.

“Worry about what?” Buffy was on the verge of tears. The white knight galloped away, giving a thousand beggars’ change to the rich. The waves were whisking away from the shore. Enlightenment thinkers weren’t enlightening anymore. Lewis and Clark did not explore. It wasn't suppose to be this abhor. But it was only gore, only peaceful war. Nevermore.

“Worry that this will ever... be anything. I didn’t even care when you helped Riley... the enemy... that’s how much I don’t care...” He threw a tile of roof into the endless abyss of the sea, only it wasn’t so endless to Buffy anymore.

Yeah, needless hope.

“I just wanna ride that wave,” he pointed to a wave flowing to the shore, “for the lust, nothing more than that... rendezvous then I’m through with you...”

Spike was too preoccupied with the view of the ocean to see the single tear escape Buffy’s eyelid. The lone tear slid down Buffy’s face, leaving a trail of burning canyon in its wake. The lingering tear was leaving a laceration on Buffy’s face. When the tear finally dropped from her face... when the wave finally crashed into the shore...

A loud bang from downstairs brought both of them back to the real world.




Wow... that’s just... wow. I didn’t think I could write Spike that bad. He just took a perfectly lovely moment and turned it into that... c’mon, you gotta have something to say, even if it’s just wondering how the hell I’m gonna turn things around. Or will I? *evil laugh* Faith next chapter, which should be in by Friday; Saturday if homework becomes a nuisance. Reviewo es muy muy muy appreciato. See? Definitely need to practice my Spanish!

[A/N: Yeah! You all reviewed! Thanks so much to all of you! *does a little dance* The giddiness factor is off the roof. Okay, maybe mentioning roofs wasn’t such a good idea. >_> The banner now has several song titles, artists, and lyrics in it. We should make like a Pokemon game out of it. Only instead of “Gotta Catch’em All!” it will be “Gotta Say’em All!” *hums Pokemon theme song like a four year old* Oh, the chapter? Just adding more fuel to the flame. Beginning “doubling” scene was borrowed from Ender’s Game; I couldn’t have thought of something that great on my own. Title from the Nirvana song, which is *not* overrated, so stop saying that on SongMeanings.net. The aggressive riff reminded me of the chapter. Really the whole story – rough and hard and difficult. And I realize I kinda just described Nirvana, too. Alternate titles included things that had the word “gun” in them, like “Janie’s Got A Gun” and “Guns n’ Roses.” Points to those who figure out why, although it should be painstakingly obvious by the end of the chapter.]




Chapter Seventeen: "Smells Like Teen Spirit"



Buffy wouldn’t cry, she couldn’t cry. Who was she kidding? She deserved this and so much more from Spike after the years of torture she put him through. But a sob formed in her throat. She tried to swallow the sob in a discreet manner, but she just couldn’t. The sound of the sob brought Spike out of his ocean watching stupor and his cold blue eyes shot over to her. She couldn’t let him see her like this. It was just a moment of weakness. She quickly turned her face away from him.

Her hands started to clench tightly. That wasn’t a good sign, not a good sign at all. Buffy started to do what she always did when she didn’t want to cry. She started counting in doubles. One, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four. She went as high as her mind could hold. Sometimes she only reached the tens of thousands, but in more dire situations she reached the millions. 128, 256, 512, 1024, 2048, 4096, 8192, 16384, 32768, 65536, 131072, 262144, 524288. What was next? Should it be 1048472 or 1048244? She tried to double again, this time getting a funky number. Twenty-one something? That couldn’t be right. She hadn’t doubled out of the first hundred thousands, had she? It should be twenty something, she was sure of it. She started over. One, two, four... as soon as she reached the hundred thousands again, she noticed the pain had finally dissipated. Not another tear would be wasted. She would not cry.

* * *

Spike picked himself up and stretched a little, eager to see what all the commotion was downstairs. He’d heard a lot of ruckus, some shouts, and a midsong switch in the music. He had glanced at Buffy, but she turned away so fast he wasn’t able to see her face. He could take a hint; she didn’t want to talk to him right now, or at least didn’t want him to see her. He was at a loss as to why. He just told her the cold, hard truth; he had his epiphany, his discovery, his revelation, and it bloody well solved everything. No love was here, only hate, torture, lust...

They both had to know it. She had to know it. But, more importantly, he had to believe it. He didn’t love her; painstaking years of misery lay credence to that very notion. If this was love, then love hollowed a hole in the heart and tore everything apart, shedding blood straight from the start.

The past never lied. The past would always be there to haunt them. The past would always be an amorphous specter that shrieked cacophonic cries to keep them both up at night. Nothing could change the past. Nothing. She must have known that already. She must have.

“You gonna come in?” Spike asked as he started over to the window.

“In a minute,” Buffy replied in a distorted, somewhat offbeat voice, still looking away from him.

Spike started to climb through the window. He stopped about halfway in, legs inside but torso outside. He was completely and utterly split. He turned and shyly glanced back at Buffy. All he could see was radiant golden hair; he couldn’t see her face because she was looking away from him still, out into the ocean. Spike sighed and entered the bedroom.

He put his black duster back on, taking care to adjust the cuffs and the collar, and trotted down the stairs. Spike was greeted by a very different party after making his descent. The first thing Spike noticed was that people weren’t dancing to music anymore. The music had changed to Soundgarden’s My Wave. It was a truly great song, but the lyrics were all too appropriate to Spike’s situation with Buffy. Not a dancing tune, either.

Hate, if you wanna hate
If it keeps you safe
If it makes you brave

A little distraught by the fitting lyrics, Spike tried to focus on something else. He knew Faith must have shown up, as none of the populars would have ever known Soundgarden’s music or really any good music if it hit them on the side of the head and screamed magnum opus. They probably didn’t know what magnum opus meant, either.

The room was eerily divided in half now. Segregation had finally found its wicked way back into society. Did anyone soddin’ remember the past anymore? The disgruntled populars were all huddled in the kitchen, trying to have a party in the small, crammed area, while the outcasts were sprawled on the couch. Ziploc bags of a white powdery substance, probably cocaine, were being passed around in the latter’s area. As much as Spike was a badboy, he really tried his hardest to stay away from drugs. He’d seen people drink and smoke their whole life and die at ninety, but he hadn’t seen a druggie make it past thirty without committing suicide or writing depressive grunge songs or marrying Courtney Love. None of the above. Speaking of which, Nirvana’s Come As You Are started playing.

And I swear that I don't have a gun
No, I don't have a gun, no, I don't have a gun

Spike’s eyes finally wandered to the front door where a casually dressed Faith stood, arms crossed, next to a few kegs of whiskey. This was all her doing, of course. The segregation and the music and the group of druggies and the changed atmosphere. Faith waved to Spike, signaling for him to come over.

“Nice party,” Faith said sarcastically as Spike slipped over to her.

“Glad to see at least one sane person’s here,” Spike replied humorously. Faith had been called a lot of things, really, a lot, but none of them were ever sane. Hell, she was the most insane person in the room sometimes. But now, in this room, with Spike and the populars and the outcast druggies, she was probably pretty low on the list of people who were brandishing a firearm or betting on chicken fights.

Okay, so maybe Faith was at the top of the list.

“But I thought I told you not to crash it unless I was there.” Spike put on his best sad face.

“Oh?” Faith cocked her head to the side. “You think this is crashing? We haven’t even gotten to the windows and kitchen appliances yet.”

“Windows...” Spike mumbled in reminiscence. It wasn’t just five minutes ago that he was climbing through one with Buffy and staring out into the deep blue abyss. “Do we have to break the windows? Angel might get mad.”

“Oh please.” Faith looked disgusted by the mere mention of Angel’s desire for Cordelia. “That lovesick puppy needs healthier obsessions.”

Spike shrugged. She was right, of course. It was indisputable, not even warranting a response. Angel almost had as bad of taste in women as... well...

As me.

Spike could admit that in his head. That was his problem. Bad taste. But you could acquire a better taste for the finer things in life, right? You weren’t always stuck with the same yearnings and hopes and desires? Spike thought he didn’t even have any hopes. Hopes? He didn’t need no stinkin’ hopes! But with Buffy... with Buffy he had hopes. And he didn’t want— nay, didn’t need hope. Hope could go “shimmy the pole” behind some shrubs for all he cared.

His thoughts warped time a bit, and when he returned to Earth he had a cup of Jack Daniels in his hand. How’d I get that? He was about to take a sip when he heard a shatter.

Broken glass.

Faith broke one of the front windows. Probably the old fashioned way, by throwing some kitchen appliance at it. Destructive Faith... Good times, good times...

But bad times quickly reared their ugly head. A rather tipsy Cordelia popped through the porch door and teetered into the center of the room. She froze when she saw the broken glass and Faith alongside it, looking guilty as ever. “What are you, like, doing!?”

“Crashing.” Faith was good at one word responses. “Go away.”

“I don’t think so.” Cordelia tried to be as authoritative as possible, but her drunkenness made her akimbo stance look hilarious. She probably didn’t even know the definition of akimbo when she wasn’t drunk. But now it looked like she was just having trouble standing, rather on knowing the definition of tenth grade vocabulary words. She was drunk as a dragonfly. Yeah, dragonflies drank. A lot. Tipsy little bastards.

“You’re gonna pay for that window,” Cordelia slurred while pointing accusingly at Faith. Her finger wasn’t straight, but actually slanted, in a curve, and she kept ticking her finger at Faith. Spike assumed she was so drunk she lost track of what she just did and thought she hadn’t accused Faith at all, which was why she stupidly looped the motion over and over with a drunken expression on her face. Yes, Cordelia was hammered. Drunk as a waddling duck. Ducks drank, too. Inebriated feathers ahoy.

“I’m not payin’ for anything,” Faith replied flatly. “And you’re an inspiration for birth control right about now...”

Cordelia mumbled the next words, making them hardly even audible. Faith heard them, though. Crystal clear. “...even if it takes you years of drug dealing...”

Cordelia hit a nerve just then. A bad reputation was what Faith wanted, yeah, but she didn’t want people to say it in front of her. Because if they did, that meant her reputation was obviously not bad enough, because you just didn’t speak openly in front of a person with a bad reputation. Unless you had a bad reputation yourself, like Spike.

But Cordelia wasn’t Spike. Cordelia was just some random drunk popular.

Faith’s eyes became devilish slits as she stomped over to Cordelia. She put her hand behind her right ear and squinted her eyes a little, implying that she didn’t hear what Cordelia said. “You wanna say that again? I couldn’t hear you.” Faith was urging Cordelia to sign her death warrant.

But, again, Cordelia was as drunk as Jack Sparrow on a boat bow to stern with rum. She just continued talking, acting like she wasn’t in life threatening danger or anything. “Hell, you’d probably be expelled from school... if it wasn’t for the principal being your father and bailing you out and all.”

Faith’s eyes widened and her pupils dilated. Spike knew what was going to happen next. He could see it in her eyes. Why, it’d be none other than a glorious smack down. A cat fight. And as... err... pleasurable as it would be to see the two hot brunettes fight, and not just in the symbolic, payback type of way, but also the... err... well... that way, Spike didn’t want to hurt Angel by having Cordelia go off and die by drunken ignorance. Spike knew that whatever pain Cordelia endured, Angel also endured. To the power of ten.

And that’s why Spike jumped in between Faith and Cordelia.

“Hey, hey,” Spike’s casual and soothing words put Faith at ease. It might have been Spike’s overwhelming attention, too. Because Faith wanted that. She desperately wanted that. “What’s... uh, what’s going on?”

“These populars are insulting me,” Faith declared pathetically. God, she could be just as bad as Riley sometimes. Spike shielded the view of Cordelia from Faith, so luckily she couldn’t see the funny faces that Cordelia was making. Hammered and loose... adjectives that perfectly described Cordelia right about now.

“Then why don’t we go?” Spike silently kicked himself for inviting fuel to the flame. It seemed like a great idea when he thought of it. But now, not so much. He tried his best to herd Faith to the door when...

“Yeah, take Faith back home so she can go make meth and throw herself at you...” Spike gulped at Cordelia’s mocking and harsh words. He knew that Faith wouldn’t take much more abuse from Cordelia before beating the living shit out of her. Cordelia was almost there... almost to that last straw, that last brick in the wall that made everything collapse. The point of no return. No man’s land.

“Whaddya call me?” Faith darted passed Spike and back into Cordelia’s face.

“I said...” Cordelia hiccupped. Some perks to having Cordelia wasted were that she didn’t talk sometimes. That was always good.

“Hey look!” Faith pointed to Buffy, who was descending the stairwell. “It’s Abercrombie! Come to help Fitch?”

“Hey!” The drunken Cordelia knew an insult when it was delivered right in front of her. Sometimes, anyway. Seventy percent, maybe sixty-five on bad days? Sadly the probabilities were against her now. “Dun... dun talk to my friend like that! Leave! Or else I’ll... I’ll throw—”

“Throw me out?” Faith laughed at the thought. “But aren’t you afraid you’ll break a nail or I’ll mess up your pretty little hair or something?”

And that’s when it happened. Over the edge.

Whack! Cordelia slapped Faith smack in the face.

And so both Cordelia and Faith tumbled down the hill like Jack and Jill. Spike couldn’t possibly stop what was going to happen next. It was just a little cat fight, a little hair pulling, anyway. Maybe some crying, maybe some bleeding, maybe some nice new wigs would become available at the hair salon. So what if the two of them fought a little? It was no big deal, right?

But that was when something bad happened. Something very bad. Faith pulled something out of her jeans pocket. It made everyone in the room scream and flee in terror. Even the insane druggy outcasts bailed. Everyone ran away from it. From that. From that thing they saw in movies all the time. That thing that terrified the living daylights out of them if they saw one in real life. No, not Freddie. Or Jason. Hannibal? No, not him, either.

It was none other than a shiny silver handgun.

Faith had a gun.




Whomg! Right from tragic doomed romance to life threatening situations! Someone might get... but I wouldn’t do that. That would be totally awful. So no, of course I wouldn’t kill off Buffy or Spike. That would be mean to my beautiful readers and reviewers. I'm much more of a suicide type of guy, anyway. Of course, this doesn’t mean no one else isn't fair game. Where’s Riley when you need him? Scott!? PARKER!!!

[A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! :D Motivation to write is derived from your thoughtful reviews, so keep’em comin’! =] I very much liked this chapter, I thought it progressed the story nicely, brought some of Spike’s flaws to light in a very hyperbolic fashion, and created more conflict. Because, really, this story didn’t have enough conflict already. >_> Spike must be against his friends, his teachers, the government, the world, the gods, and maybe even himself. I’m a big meanie, I know. :( Have faith, though; I have a barrelful of nice fun Spuffy moments that I’ll deliver after the angst. Title from the Ozzy Osbourne song.]




Chapter Eighteen: "Crazy Train"



Faith whipped out a silver handgun and pointed it slantedly at Cordelia. She extended her arm fully, toying with the thought of shooting the ringleader of the people she hated so much. Faith’s head was at a wicked tilt, and a devilish, almost crazy look penetrated her eyes. How she could just kill a person right about now...

“Hey, hey!” Cordelia’s hands flung to the air as she started to back away from the crazy brunette. Cordelia was drunk, yeah, but not incoherent. Not completely, anyway. Everyone knew the language of gun. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Oh look at the roll reversal now,” Faith thundered as she took an authoritative step closer to Cordelia. Faith stuck the gun out a little farther, pointing it at Cordelia’s head. “How much you hate this girl, Spike? She thinks she’s just so much better than everyone else... let’s put her in her place.”

“...you don’t want to do this,” Buffy exasperated from beside Spike.

“You think I won’t, little miss sunshine?” Faith jerked around and pointed the gun at Buffy.

Wow wow wow! Spike’s mind raced.

Spike reflexively jumped in front of Buffy to shield her from Faith. Basic instinct to protect her, to help her, to save her; screw that purgatory shit he was just thinking about a minute ago. Spike didn’t care about that stuff anymore. There was a decent, nay, pretty good chance Faith wouldn’t shoot Spike, but the chances of Faith ending Buffy were off the roof.

Faith was somewhere between shock and disgust until an observation quickly formed in her mind. “Oh I get it, save the cheerleader bitch and you’ll be greeted with legs wide open.” Faith laughed bitterly. “Nice try, Spike.”

“Stop it, Faith,” Spike said in a calm, somewhat irritated voice. Spike had his hands in the air, at ninety degree angles to his body, more to show Faith that she’d “won” than anything else. She had her proverbial high in power. “So you scared everyone. Put it down.”

“How can you try to stop this?” Faith’s grip on the gun tightened. “Compare their superficial lives to some floating body in New Orleans or some innocent guy being tortured in Abu Ghraib.”

“That’s a faulty juxtaposition, Faith, and you know it,” Spike tried.

“Then compare them to our lives!” Faith screamed.

Spike’s long sigh seemed to put Faith slightly at ease. “Listen, Faith, not everything is as it seems... these populars have just as screwed up lives as we do.” Spike shot a wayward glance at Buffy before quickly refocusing on Faith. Spike couldn’t believe he was doing this right now – defending the populars and actually relating to them. But he had to. “Trust me... school is their only escape from this fucked up world.”

Faith snorted in disbelief. “Oh yeah? Give me one example of a popular with a more fucked up life than me or you.”

“Well...” Even in a situation like this, Spike didn’t dare bring up Buffy’s past. She looked about ready to commit suicide after he told Angel, but Faith... that would absolutely kill her.

“Uh... Cordelia?” Spike scratched his head, the gesture a failed attempt to ease the tension of the room. “Your family’s pretty screwed up, right?”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Cordelia. It was her turn to play hero. Or tell the truth. “Well... my mom’s in rehab from alcohol withdrawal... she takes Valium... and father’s never around—”

“Aw, daddy’s never around,” Faith mocked softly. “Looks like he’ll just have to buy you another red beamer and give you his motherfuckin’ beach house. You don’t know pain and suffering... you haven’t been on the receiving end of a needle to numb it all away...”

So that was it? Faith was on drugs? Might explain the craziness.

Angel casually walked in the room, probably drawn by the massive exodus of people. He immediately froze at the door when he saw the gun in Faith’s hand.

“Faith...” Spike edged an inch closer to Faith. “Just put the gun down, okay?”

“I don’t think I want to, Spike.” Faith jerked the gun’s aim over to Spike, the air suddenly sucked out of the room. “I think I want to...”

Spike sighed and dropped his hands down completely. His attempts of getting Faith’s gun obviously weren’t working. Faith was way too driven, determined, and insane to give in to a passive surrender. If Spike was gonna stop this, he was gonna have to do something drastic. Get a little crazy, get down to her level, relate with her, and inevitably save the day.

“You know what...” Spike threw his hands in the air. “Go the bloody well ahead. I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

“What?” Faith’s voice was high and pitchy from the shock.

“Do it.” Spike looked completely relaxed now, all the tension out of his body. His shoulders were round and his head was sliding down, hanging lower and lower. It was like he was watching a television show, playing a video game, reading a novel. He was completely comfortable and relaxed. “Go ahead. Kill’em all.”

Faith was smart enough to see a basic psychological trick. “Don’t think this reverse psychology crap is gonna work on me, Spike. That’s insulting.”

But Spike completely ignored Faith, in his own little world. It was like she wasn’t even there, like she wasn’t threatening his life. His head was hanging even lower now, almost at a forty-five degree angle to his shoulders. Spike took a few steps to the kitchen, back facing Faith, looking unimpressed as ever.

“Hey!” Faith yelled to the back of Spike. “Nobody leaves!”

Spike turned his head, back still facing Faith, and started. “I wish I had that power... the power you have right now...”

“...the power?” Buffy questioned softly with intense curiosity.

Spike shot a look at Buffy before he turned around to face Faith directly again. The words he was about to say next would have to be expertly delivered, a magnificent oration and extraordinary acting job. He would have to utter them rather hastily, and with a vigorous impetuosity that would horrify the entire room, Faith included.

“...the power... the power to line up every wanna be silverback and alpha male and pretty trophy woman and mega bitch... line them all the fuck up and tear away everything they’ve ever had...” The vehemence, the unbridled rage, the furious fumes of anger that boiled in his intemperate voice... no one could honestly say in that moment that Spike was “acting.” This was straight from the heart.

“Tear away their good health, their good fortune, their good looks... tear away every last shred of superficial happiness and contentment and solace in them... just tear it all the fuck away...” Spike intertwined his hands and swiftly tore them apart, an acerbity awakening in the motion.

“People like them,” Spike pointed accusingly at Cordelia, “like Cordelia and Riley and Parker...” he trailed as the last name entered his mind, “and Buffy... they need to suffer, all of them... be made small and humble before death.”

Spike took a sporadic glance at a piece of furniture to the left. “All the torment and suffering and pain they’ve caused...”

Spike did something really unnerving then. At least for a situation as dramatic and provoking as this one.

The bleached man let out a choked, bitter laughed. “Maybe I’m just jealous of everything they have... but that doesn't change the fact that people like them are the easy and most deserving targets... live a good life, have a quick and painful death. ‘Tis the natural order of things; a maintaining of balance.”

Faith’s eyes widened. He wasn’t serious?

“So do it,” Spike finished caustically. “Maybe they’ll all be reincarnated into tape worms or some other shit.”

Spike took a few stumbling steps toward Faith. She didn’t back away. He looked harmless, with a slouched posture and a lowly hung head. Talking crazy but looking harmless. “Sometimes I wish I was the catcher in the rye, cutting all the stalks down to an equal size.”

Now Spike stood right in front of Faith. His dark blue eyes were just staring at her, urging her to do it. It was the biggest dare in the world. To end life. To rupture someone’s soft skin and puncture the still beating heart, stop the blood flow that surged through the arms and the legs and the fingers and the toes and the head, stop the organs from maintaining life, stop the creative genius and the adept observation that lived in every human being...

Stop a life.

Kill a living, breathing, beating person. Put a bullet in the head. Make death creep wondrously.

Faith floundered clumsily. She began to stammer something unintelligible, but Spike cut her off.

“Aren’t you gonna do it, Faith?” Spike asked with an air of challenge and mockery.

The gun was held in a now lowered arm, pointed directly at the floor, completely harmless. Faith stared at the ground, a pathetic degeneracy mopping her face.

“Come on!” Spike yelled. “Kill Cordelia! You know you want to... you wanna put a bullet right through that pretty little head of hers... end her superficial and underachieving life.”

Faith’s eyes finally met his. She looked completely and utterly lost.

“Exit light, enter night,” Spike muttered cohesively.

Faith gulped and slowly raised the handgun. It was pointing directly at Cordelia, a straight shot to the heart. Cordelia was at pointblank range; an amateur to firearms could hit her. The small gun would have no powerful kickback, it wouldn’t backfire or hurt its user in any way. A little kick, a little rumble in the hands, and it would all be over.

Faith’s eyes met Cordelia’s silhouette. Faith couldn’t look Cordelia in the eyes, she was staring at Cordelia’s shoes.

And then everything just stopped. The clocks weren’t ticking or moving or telling time anymore. The air went a new degree of stale. No rock music played in the background anymore, even though a contagious riff was being shred. Not a soul smelled the scent of the sultry room, even though the smell of alcohol was overwhelming.

Everyone just stood. Just frozen. Waiting for Faith to do it. To end life.

And then it happened.

Faith’s arms dropped to her sides as she started to cry.

Faith didn’t shoot.

The threat was almost gone, but the gun was still in Faith’s clutches.

“Aw fuck! Am I gonna have to do it for ya?” Spike snatched the gun from the grasps of Faith, without any fuss or hassle from her at all.

Mission accomplished.

With an air of discontent, Spike threw the gun on the ground next to Buffy and glared at the whimpering Faith. “Get the fuck outta here, Faith.”

Faith choked a sob. She knew this was her only chance, though, and she quickly slipped through the door.

“Call the police,” Spike authoritatively announced to the room once the door shut.

Cordelia hopped right over to the phone and dialed 911.

“‘Sorry about that...” Spike shyly glanced at Buffy. “Didn’ really wanna... I had to get down to Faith’s level, only way I could stop her...”

Angel was overwhelmingly outraged. He wouldn’t have any of Spike’s excuses, the man had almost killed Cordelia, for Chrissakes! “I can’t believe you, Spike! You almost... you almost killed Cordelia! You could have gotten the gun before that happened!”

“It was the only way...” Spike said softly. “I needed to get the gun from her willingly, or else something bad might have really happened...”

Spike couldn’t look Angel in the eyes. “I’m sorry...”

“No you’re not!” Angel bit harshly. “You really wanted to do that... you believe what you said... you’re an insane hypocrite...”

Angel ripped open the porch door at the exact same time Spike grabbed him by the arm. Spike wanted desperately to further explain everything to Angel. Angel would have to understand, he needed to understand. Spike couldn’t live without Angel.

Angel jerked his arm out of Spike’s weak grasp and pushed the bleached man, with some type of hateful force, back into the center of the room.

“Just get the hell away from me, Spike!” And with that, Angel made his melodramatic exit. Spike was completely crushed.

Spike glanced back at Buffy and Cordelia. Surely both of them would understand that he never wanted to cause any harm, that he only had good intentions. When you fought with a ferocious, crazy lion, you had to become ferocious and crazy yourself to prevail. It was like going to prison or becoming a politician. You just became a little corrupt while in the position, but that didn’t mean you had cruel intentions.

But both Buffy and Cordelia quickly glanced down, not wanting to look Spike in the eye.

Spike stood in some disgusted awe horror. “You can’t be serious... I was just acting, that’s all...”

“You sure you weren’t inspired from real life?” Buffy asked insightfully.

“No, of co...” Spike trailed as some sense finally hit him.

“You know what,” Spike fumed, “I don’t need this. I rescue all of you stupid little ungrateful gits and you treat me like this.”

Spike shook his head, unconvinced by the two girls in the room. “I’m outta here. You ‘might as well tell the police I was the one with the soddin’ gun...”

And in complete disarray, Spike left the beach house and entered the black night with his black duster and black malice and defunct black craziness for his black car and black life.




So nobody died. :( I’m sorry about that. Maybe later. In fact, you can count on another life threatening situation. Maybe two, if you’re really lucky. Angel stuff might seem too melodramatic and over the top, but you have to look at the situation through Angel’s eyes; Cordelia means the world to him. And B & C were almost killed, you have to see, so they should feel a little indifferent about Spike right about now. Contradict me if you see fit. I had a really, really, really fun time writing crazy Spike’s dialogue, which is, I feel, a testament to one of the story’s major motifs. Again reviews on current events are very much appreciated. I’m thinking I might fast forward time a little here, as I don’t want the story to flounder in between plot points. I can’t guarantee another update until at least the second of February, unless I get really motivated, as I’ve been doing some first rate procrastination on projects and assignments and I probably won’t have much time. Sorry for the inconvenience. :( And thanks for reading and (hopefully) reviewing! Because I do love my reviews... :D

[A/N: A small bridge chapter to tie everyone down until the next big event. I don’t expect this chapter to be a runaway hit as things are getting even worse on the Spuffy front. Yeah, anything’s possible, I guess. I wrote this in some sort of flat, bland, quasi-sarcastic fashion, like The Catcher In The Rye or something. Don’t tell me how that happened; maybe I’m just not the greatest at recap chapters. Title from the Alice In Chains song, which reminded me of the chapter not only because of the line “My gift of self is raped” but also because this chapter is pretty much a nutshell.]




Chapter Nineteen: "Nutshell"



A whole wanton week whisked by since the wicked whirlwind at the party. Spike still felt completely justified with his actions; he had to seize the gun from Faith somehow, and nobody else looked up to the challenge. Who cares if he went a little crazy in his speech about the chopping down of certain unchaste populars. He didn’t have any cruel intentions, at least at the time of delivering the hyper-exaggerated spiel.

And in some ray of sheer brilliance, Buffy got that. She talked with Spike the following day about the whole ordeal and conclusions were met. Oh yes, Buffy and Spike reached a conclusion on something. The same person that ruthlessly picked on him throughout grade school was believing adamantly in his justifications, maybe even creating a few rationales on her own. It was quite amazing; Spike thought he should have held a parade or something of that effect. But that would have been a little weird.

And the next day even Cordelia – the person he almost got shot – ate lunch at his table. Little angry glares were exchanged at first, yes, but Spike’s rampant quips about the state of devolution among the putrid minds of teenagers quickly broke the thin ice between the two of them. In no time, they were all joking about the party, sometimes even reenacting the dramatic scene in some type of mock parody that one would see on Saturday Night Live. Everyone either wanted to act as the cracked out Faith or the insane wacko Spike, so the odd person out had to act frightened as hell and kinda drunk like Cordelia was that night.

Sadly, though, Angel was nowhere to be seen the entire week. Spike was deeply hurt by Angel’s absence and, as a result, some intangible feeling of despondency overwhelmed him that week. He tried to call Angel – he tried to call Angel a lot. And Spike filled up Angel’s answering machine with mindless drabbles about how he was sorry and how he wanted a return to normalcy (mocking Warren G. Harding is fun) and that they should continue to be the bestest of friends and that he didn’t really want to kill Cordelia, although later in his long revealing monologue with the answering machine he withdrew that little statement because Angel knew better than anyone else that a blabbering preppy Cordelia was quite bullet worthy. At least to Spike.

Spike even apologized on the phone. Mind you, this is Spike; the man watched the remake of The Wicker Man, starring Nicolas Cage, and absolutely laughed his ass off when Cage would repeatedly punch different eighteenth century women in the face. Spike couldn’t decide whether he was really sorry or not about what he did. He thought that all those melodramatic soaps had ruined Angel. Too much Days of Our Lives, All My Children, and Passions.

Spike primarily felt a nameless dread about the situation with Angel. Well, there was probably a long German name for the dread, like Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz, or something, with the umlaut and everything, but Spike didn’t know German. Anyway, he felt a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little table-like white plastic devices that they put in the middle of the pizza so the box doesn’t cave in and ruin the yummy goodness that is pizza. Or those multi-colored plastic gizmos that close potato chip bags. Spike didn’t know the name of those things either.

Spike feared that he’d somehow lost Angel. I mean, seriously, the man hadn’t spoken a word to him in a week, and they usually talked every day. They hadn’t even spotted each other in third block Weight Training. Hell, Spike hadn’t even seen Angel in third block. That was either a testament to the elusive that is Angel or the ponderosity of the situation.

The lack of Angel was really starting to get to him. Spike needed a friend – a person he could trust and a person he could confide in – and he just didn’t have that now. Sure, he had Buffy, with the twice daily blowjobs and the hidden feelings and the profane desecration, but he needed someone he could really talk to and not this whole symbolic retribution thing he had going on with Buffy.

Yeah, symbolic retribution was probably the right name for it. Or some other stupid literary device they made students memorize the definition of in school when merely showing an example of such device, like The Inferno for symbolic retribution, would suffice.

So anyway, Spike treated Buffy kinda sorta badly that week. If a person defined “badly” as twice daily forced blowjobs and Spike’s incessant mantra of “no affection at all in this relationship.” The asymmetrical relationship took its toll on Buffy and created some type of disparaging obsession within her, turning her into a craving nympho of sorts. She always looked addicted, obsessed, and exhausted when she was around Spike, specifically when she was giving him head. She tried to make it seem like she was living vicariously through the activity, with the little giddy giggles and that extra satisfying swirl thing she did with her tongue, but she was most definitely not having the time of her life. Not in the slightest. Maybe unlife, but even that’s pushing it.

Every day it was the same thing. Spike passed a note to Buffy in class. They both inconspicuously excused themselves at different times. In the closet they went at it like sexually deprived bunnies. A few minutes of intense, intemperate kisses would ensue first, and that was the part Buffy liked the most. She was a hopelessly destitute nympho, after all, and found some solace in that at least Spike could kiss her. Of course, things would always end with Buffy being forced down to unbuckle his belt, but the kissing... the kissing was good. Buffy found some affection in his kisses – even with Spike denying such affection time after time after time – and that gave her some good ol’ fashioned needless hope.

At least they got some good studying done Friday night for the SAT. Everything was going great; they were reading lame passages about people eating too much fish, answering the on-the-surface idiot-proof questions that followed, remembering slews of SAT words that were overused by eight-year-olds, and adding backwards while multiplying by one without a calculator. Yeah, studying for the stupid test was good and fun.

That was until Spike wanted some more. He didn’t even kiss her that time. Good enough to suck his cock but not good enough to kiss... how demented is that?

Indeed, Spike was very lucky that the essay for the SAT on Saturday was on pestilence. He knew his diseases quite well, and he probably would have wrote about Buffy in some impromptu way even if the prompt stated otherwise. At least this way he could mention diseases like smallpox and the Black Death and how they destroyed lives and created obsessions and started abusive sexual relationships.

Okay, maybe just the first... Spike thought he did a bang-up job on the essay, though.

And yes, at the five minute break between tests, Spike and Buffy met in the closest for another quickie. They came back halfway into the next test looking disheveled as hell. Buffy wasn’t able to finish that test because of their little lewd get-together. Not a real big deal, though; Spike was caring about Buffy’s future less and less, probably due to the fact that Buffy was becoming more and more obsessed with him and so he didn’t really need to show any affection whatsoever to get what he wanted.

He got hammered after the SATs at Willy’s bar. He didn’t remember much that night, just that he drowned his sorrows in a good ten pints of whiskey. Maybe it was even more than that; he couldn’t really remember. He thought he did something wrong that night because everyone was looking funny at him. But then he also saw Faith that night, and that couldn’t be right. No, Faith was in jail, alright. He could remember that.

Spike didn’t know things were going to completely fall apart that day in class. Fall apart even more than they already were. He didn’t know that, and he honestly couldn’t know that. Wasn’t his fault, though. He didn’t have those premonition things like that minx, Alyssa Milano, on Charmed. And even if he did, he’d probably use them to get in bed with Milano or win the lottery or something, and probably not use them to steer the wind in the right direction in his abusive relationship with Buffy.

Because that was the thing that was going to fall apart that day in class. Their relationship.




Gosh, that was so drabble-esque... “That day” is next chapter, so stay tuned to your keyboards and monitors. And yes, the German word really has a definition. It means “cattle marking and beef labeling supervision duties delegation law.” I swear it does. Look it up on Wikipedia if you don’t believe me. ;)

Um... uh... me gusto reviewos? =]

[A/N: Things are finally starting to fall apart. Definitely not a bad thing, though; sometimes falling apart is the best solution to the situation. I think we all can agree that the Spuffy abuse must cease; I’ve always intended for it to stop around here, and your responses have assured me that I got the point across. I hope I haven’t lost too many readers through the abuse; it was never my intention to alienate Spike’s character to the point of not being able to make amends. I’m sorry if I made this story seem like just a downward spiral; that’s a part of it, yes, but I also want happiness after the angst. I really liked this chapter, especially the change in Davis. I felt what he lectured paralleled with the story, at least in some far-fetched way. Also I’m starting to loosen the deathgrip on populars, if the Parker dialogue is overanalyzed to hell. Most importantly, the chapter makes big strides in the Spuffy story.]




Chapter Twenty: "Surprise"



Spike burst into the classroom, late as usual. Like many other times, Spike’s iPod broke world records in levels of sound for such a small device; even the nosebleeders could clearly hear the lyrics of the song blasting away. Spike often played songs that correlated to what he was feeling, and today was no different. Today Spike was listening to Sex Type Things by Stone Temple Pilots. Clearly, the lyrics were an attempt to convey some type of message to Buffy.

I know you want what’s on my mind
I know you like what’s on my mind
I know it eats you up inside
I know, you know, you know, you know

Mr. Davis, who was deep in the middle of his lecture, stopped teaching and glared angrily at the distraction. “Turn that music off, Spike.”

Spike had the whole situation planned out in his head. He would ignore Mr. Davis’ routine plea and continue listening to his music, acting like he hadn’t heard the poor powerless teacher. But Mr. Davis looked different today.

“Ah, Spike, but I’ve found a way around the principal,” Mr. Davis threatened in a scary combination of playfulness and discipline, knowing Spike could hear him. “It seems forced community service work does not have to go through the principal... so unless you want to retake drawing and painting with the third graders every afternoon...”

The contagious riff of the song immediately ceased tainting the room. “Bollocks! Since when did you grow a backbone, D?”

“It’s Mr. Davis,” the teacher corrected, feeling even more brave now. “And probably since we started reading 1984.”

Spike blinked. News to me. “We started reading 1984?”

Mr. Davis tossed a copy of the book over to Spike. He caught it, and if reprimanded about that, he’d just say it was good reflexes.

“Shit happens when you miss first block all the time,” the teacher commented.

What the buggerin’ bloody hell? Did a teacher just say “shit happens?”

“You okay, boss?” Spike asked. “You seem a bit... different today. Got a fever? You dehydrated or something? Want some water?”

Spike took out a silver flask from the inside pocket of his black duster, more to shock all the students than anything. Was Spike asking for it or something? Who really put anything besides alcohol in those things? Spike handed the flask to Mr. Davis.

Completely out of character, Mr. Davis calmly unscrewed the cap and smelled its aroma. “Hmm... just water,” he assessed.

“And it’s Mr. Davis,” the teacher corrected again. He handed Spike the flask back. “Take a seat, Spike.”

What the hell? What was wrong with Mr. Davis today? Usually a little illegal activity – or small suggestions of such – ruffled his feathers beyond belief and made him squirm. Did he take his teacher pills today or something? Gosh, the reborn man might go all Charles Bronson on the class any second!

Normally, Spike would continue the quipping, but he was kinda starting to respect Mr. Davis. And that was extremely weird for Spike, respecting a teacher and all that. But Mr. Davis had a truly different air about him today. He clearly had that easygoing “don’t fuck with me” vibe to him. In the five months of being Spike, the bleached boy only met a handful of people that could put him in his place. And those types of people, those relaxed “shut the fuck up” type of people, commanded attention and usually had something to say. Today, Spike knew he would learn something.

Spike slouched behind his small desk and let out a sigh, getting comfortable as Mr. Davis continued his lecture. Spike tried his damnest not to look at Buffy, but his eyes always seemed to find their way to her golden aura. The D the I the S the E the A the S the E. The soddin’ di-zeez.

Rather ironically, Mr. Davis wrote “Conflict” in big letters on the chalkboard. We got plenty o’ that here, boss. The teacher continued by writing three lines under it.

Man versus Man
Man versus Nature
Man versus Self

“Okay, class,” Mr. Davis addressed, chalk in hand. “These are the three basic struggles in a story. I’d like an example for each, from stuff you’ve encountered before this class.”

The whiplash must have hurt the students’ necks, because they all hastily jerked glances to the back of the room at Spike. Yeah, he was pretty much all those, right? All that and a bag of chips.

Spike, loving the attention, figured he would capitalize on the already open vein with some good ol’ fashioned criticism. He opened his mouth, about to speak, but Mr. Davis quickly cut him off.

“And yes, Spike, I know that there are more struggles than this, and that most books have multiple struggles. But we need to understand the basics first.”

Holy! He was countering Spike’s moves before he even made them! Spike would check his King at E-5 with a Bishop and Mr. Davis would slaughter his Bishop with a deceptively placed Rook. The man must’ve prepared for this... Spike decided it best not to speak.

“Ummm...”

Ah... Cordelia Chase, profoundly deep in thought. Sight for soar eyes, seeing her stroke her chin like in some seventeenth century play. “Isn’t that movie, The Day After Tomorrow, like, versus nature?”

Mr. Davis smiled at Cordelia’s innocent answer. “Not exactly what I was expecting, but it does adequately convey man versus nature.” And with that, he put the movie title next to the conflict.

“Ooo!” Parker must have thought of something really great, because his arm was waving raggedly in the air. “I’m always reading Ender’s Game. Isn’t that man versus man?”

What the fuck is this? Opposite day or something? Did my bloody memo get lost in the soddin’ mail or something? Spike was shocked Parker had read a book, rather on Card’s magnificent magnum opus. Mr. Davis wrote Parker’s contribution next to man versus man.

No one volunteered for the last one.

“Does anyone have an example of man versus self?” Mr. Davis asked the class. Man versus self wasn’t exactly a conspicuous conflict, at least in most elementary books.

“Voltaire’s Candide,” Buffy mumbled under her breath while doodling something in her notebook.

Since when did Buffy read college level books? From France, no less? And a satire... shouldn’t she be reading The Boxcar Children or something? Everyone’s eyes turned to Buffy.

Feeling the heated gaze of the class, Buffy figured she would explain herself. “Uh... Candide, the protagonist of the novel, believes in this ‘best of all possible worlds,’ that everything will always turn out for the best...” Buffy stopped doodling with her pen and looked up at Mr. Davis.

“But, really, things never turn out for the best...” she paused, and if eyes had some type of rearview mirror, she’d be glaring directly at Spike right now. “...especially in the book, and Candide displays little judgment because of his narrow mindset. So I guess he’s against himself, in a way.”

What the fuck was that? Some type of mock analysis on me or our “relationship?” At first, Spike was miffed that Buffy would use great literature to indirectly attack him.

But then Spike remembered the songs he blasted specifically for Buffy to hear everyday. Spike decided he could live with the Candide reference, so long as he could continue on the rampage of truthfully brutal song lyrics. He didn’t aspire to be a hypocrite, after all.

Spike felt compelled to continue Buffy’s argument, mostly because she forgot something important. “Candide demonstrates no coherent understanding or thought because of his philosophy of optimism, and his only goal in life is to get the girl.” Spike’s eyes fell on Buffy for a split second. “Our hero Candide thinks – like Buffy said – that everything will magically fall into the best place it can possibly be... he doesn’t have to worry about anything besides getting the girl because the best will inevitably happen... because it’s the only thing that can happen... because, well, redundancy aside, this is the best of all possible worlds because it is the only known world.”

He allowed that to sink in a little before he finished. “I dunno, that’s more like man versus his mindset, or man versus philosophy... close enough, I guess.”

Mr. Davis nodded his head and wrote Voltaire’s satire next to man versus self. “That’s good enough.”

Mr. Davis walked around his desk so he could address the class fully, without the desk in the way. Soapboxin’ time. “Almost all stories have conflict, struggles, enemies... these are the things that make plot...”

Spike wanted to pay attention to the spiel that followed. He really did. Mr. Davis threw Spike a repertoire of perplexing curveballs that day, and he wanted to know if the teacher put anything special behind it. But Spike was also a student, and when a note was passed to a student in class, all attention automatically fell to the little scraggly piece of paper in question, and words of even supreme enlightenment fell on deaf ears.

The almost unintelligible note had “meet me in five minutes - you know where” scribbled on it. That could only mean one person.

Buffy.

No, it wasn’t the bad penmanship that gave it away. Buffy’s penmanship normally ran from excellent to exquisite, and if Spike could digress, he’d say the impeccable handwriting was something of a turn on. But that was really weird, getting off on someone’s handwriting...

Spike guessed she was just a little sloppy with her penmanship today. But, yeah, it was the obvious dirty vibe the sentence resonated that made Spike know it was Buffy. And a “you know where” could only mean one place...

Spike opened his ears again to catch the tail end of the lecture. “Without conflict, a story usually isn’t all that interesting... the next time you read a book or watch a movie, take note of the type of conflict. You’ll understand and respect things a lot more if you do.”

An interesting and fundamental lecture, if Spike would allow himself to conclude. He wouldn’t dare voice his thoughts, though. Nah, he didn’t want Mr. Davis big in the head or anything. That’s the last thing that man needs right now. Vindication might make this little strict spell last longer, and Spike didn’t particularly crave teaching third graders the colors of the alphabet.

Mr. Davis started on a new subject. He was probably going to assign something reflective. Maybe an essay for college admissions? A poetry assignment? Or possibly a speech on something malignant in society?

He started. “I’ve been thinking...”

“Life’s just a bunch of ‘fuck you’ signs?” Spike finished crudely for Mr. Davis. The hell with it. “And if you had a million years to do it, you couldn’t rub even half the ‘fuck you’ signs outta the world?”

The class stifled giggles. Profanity was fun! Someone needed to bake Spike a cookie ASAP.

Mr. Davis was seething. “Spike...”

Spike continued flippantly. “I think, even, if I ever die, and they dig me a hole in the cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say ‘Spike’ in big letters on it,” Spike gestured widely with his hands, “and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say ‘Fuck you.’”

The class erupted in laughter.

“I’m positive, in fact,” Spike finished, proud that he made the difficult audience laugh.

“Funny,” Mr. Davis commented dryly, recognizing the line from a novel. “But the new and improved Mr. Davis with a backbone would probably not allow stuff like that, right?”

After several seconds, Spike finally nodded his head.

“Well, that’s good.” Mr. Davis let out a melodramatic sigh of relief. “I thought I might have gotten a little out of character if I asked you to take a walk.”

Thank you, kind sir. Spike rose from his chair. “Sure thing, boss. Just don’t talk in the third person anymore, okay? It’s kinda annoying.” A few minutes had passed, anyway, and it was time for blowjobs in certain closets.

Spike stalked around school for a few minutes, having himself a nice stogie or two, while analyzing the newly reborn Mr. Davis in his head. After some meditation on that, he scurried right over to the closet. Spike thought he might have been a little early still, but he was eager to get started.

He quickly opened the closet door and shoved himself inside. All Spike could see was black; he couldn’t tell a Buffy from a mop. He was just about to turn on the lights when someone unzipped his pants.

Could Buffy’ve gotten here already? That woman sure was quick when she wanted to be.

So there, in the pitch black darkness of the closet, Buffy got out his erection and started going at it. She was a little more aggressive this time around, especially in her bobs, if Spike had a say in anything. Not the complete pure surreal bliss he usually encountered in this type of situation with her... hell, he usually couldn’t think at all when she was in the process of doing it. Mind you, he wasn’t complaining; he was merely comparing this lackluster job to the ones she’d given him in the past.

Buffy’s teeth softly grazed his member. Spike twitched.

Buffy never used teeth... she never went that deep...

The door swung open. The light penetrated the spacious confines of the closet, blinding Spike for a split second. He wish he’d just stayed blind forever after he saw who was at the door.

Buffy.

It was fucking Buffy.

Buffy was at the door and not— What!!! Then who the bloody hell...

Horrified, Spike whipped back around to see who had ventured twenty thousand leagues under the sea.





Whomg!!!!ele1!!ven! Who could it be? It’s not suppose to be some big mystery, and I’m not even demented enough to introduce a new character via blowjob. With that in mind, it could positively only be one single solitary person.

Yes, you are right. It’s Riley... >_>

I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Things most obviously fall apart next chapter. And the unidentified flying blowjob (UFBs they call them) is just the tip of the iceberg, trust me. But don’t overhype it, because nothing ever lives up to its hype. :(

I desperately need everyone’s advice on something. I don’t know whether I will continue to have Spike as a Byronic character or not; it just doesn’t seem to mesh well with the romance that I want in this novel. I’m thinking I might have him curb his Byronic nature, at least so he isn’t as egotistical and close-minded as he is now. Possibly Spike as a Byronic character that respects social norms, school, government, and authority, but still strongly dislikes them? And, of course, he’d still retain the badboy qualities, conflicting emotions, cynicism, arrogance, self-destructiveness, and loner traits that make him Spike. Since the very beginning I’ve wanted Spike to see the world around him in a much more positive, ‘from all angles’ type of way, instead the clear black and white he sees now. With all that in mind, what’s your opinion on possibly tweaking Spike a little, maybe even having him go through a catharsis? Do you like Spike right now, not from the abuse standpoint but from the character trait standpoint? I feel I might have lost the Spike sympathy and support because he’s being really destructive and an anti-hero without the heroic goal, and I haven’t fleshed out the tyrant Buffy past enough for people to think his abuse is justifiable in the slightest.

Comments on the above are much appreciated, as are reviews on the chapter! :D

[A/N: I’m back, folks! Sorry about the absence; I wanted to capture this scene and I just wasn’t at all happy with what I wrote at first. I’m perfectly content with this, though, after taking a week off and deeply meditating about the story. The little plot twist at the end is something I’ve been planning for a long time, so don’t think I’m changing the story to your liking or unliking or anything. =P I didn’t really spend a lot of time revising this, so if you see any mistakes or anything, please shout’em out to me. I promise I won’t go all Rambo on you. Maybe Zidane (head butts ftw!) but not Rambo. No; Sylvester Stallone scares me. I realize I did a terrible thing by copying the same titles as the landmark episodes of Buffy; I dunno, the title just spoke to me. There’s some innocence with Spike, yes, but for the most part he’s completely the opposite, which makes the title sorta ironic.]




Chapter Twenty-One: "Innocence"



Spike’s heart pounded in rapid double beats as he beheld the blinding silhouette at the door. Buffy was over there and not...

He stared blankly at her just as she stared blankly back at him.

She had that normal blank expression cemented on her face. Normal Buffy. The eyes did not show any conviction or passion; the pale red lips were not arched in an upside-down smile; and there was no tension in the delicate curvatures of her soft face. She seemed obliviously innocent to the illegal activity she just caught red-handed in the closet.

A thunderbolt had struck Buffy. Too provoked by the electricity and shock, she was unable to show any real emotion. Or maybe, rather deceptively, the blank expression was the unbridled emotion? Maybe the lack of emotion – the underwhelming anger sans anger – displayed all the emotion necessary for a situation as grim and climatic as this.

At first, Spike saw only one Buffy – just the overly calm one – but diplopia overtook his senses and she separated into two Buffys, nestled side by side in the doorframe.

A double vision. Two of one and the same.

A few seconds later fantasy continued to flirt with reality as two more of Buffy floated in the upper periphery of the scene, making a total of four.

Eight of her suddenly sprouted about, like bright yellow daisies in a fruitful field, at the far left and right of his vision.

Then there was sixteen of her. And after that thirty-two of her. And then sixty-four of her. It just went on and on as Buffy spawned in doubles around the room, plentiful as those clone troopers in Star Wars or those porn sites on the internet. Spike couldn’t stand it... his mind thrashed with that stupefied image of Buffy.

She was everywhere in that moment; she was everything in that moment.

She was his enemy. His oasis of dirty pleasure. His secret affinity. His embodiment of all the evil and bad and banality in the universe. The person he loved to hate. Was it possible to fear losing the hated people as well as the loved people? Bank too much in anything, even the bad?

Spike’s horrified eyes swooned to the mystery person who had almost given him a blowjob, to the shadows of the person he couldn’t quite make out a minute ago in the darkness of the closet.

He couldn’t recognize her then. But he could most certainly recognize her now.

Faith.

It was Faith. Faith was the one that was—

Faith Faith Faith Faith Faith! Motherfucking Faith!

Spike spun around to the door for an inevitable confrontation with Buffy. She wasn’t confrontational in that exact moment because she was still stunned, but that would inescapably change as the seconds decayed away. She would climb her way out of this numbness and start the cliché. Confront him and confront Faith and, most importantly, confront them.

Spike silently cursed himself in his head. He should have known it was someone else; he should have known it wasn’t Buffy... he should have been able to tell. His mind raced in an endless circle of the same damn thing. His thoughts were like a dog trying to catch its blasted tail.

He should have noticed the tawdry perfume that tainted the stale air. He should have heard something, anything – a stifled giggle, an ungraceful footstep, a suspicious fumble in the unfastening of his belt. He should have noticed the disparity of ability in the activity. He should have observed the dearth of vibrant golden rays that illuminated any room she presided in, even as dark and dreary and black a closet as this one.

He should have known. But he didn’t.

“Sticky” could not even begin to describe Spike’s current situation.

Buffy finally started to show something – some emotion. A creased eyebrow, increased tension in the skin contours surrounding her eyes and mouth, clenched teeth... these were good signs. The situation was not in that beyond amendable realm; things were dire but not incorrigible. It was not completely hopeless... even the faintest touch of passion – good or bad – suggested hope.

But Spike didn’t see much hope in her now. Buffy glared at the twosome in the closet as if they were rattlesnakes. This was the part where she justifiably went all melodramatic and screamed off-key at Spike and raged crazily about this mad mean world and stomped around like some angry gorilla bear and screeched like an enraged bat and...

Buffy didn’t do any of these things. She just stood there, head slumped, looking at the two caught and caged rattlesnakes.

Shit.

“Buffy...” Spike took his first breath since he saw Buffy – a big, jagged breath – and stepped toward the door to her. “I thought—I thought that was you... you gotta believe me...”

Buffy returned her head to an upright position and tried to find something in Spike’s eyes. Was she looking for sincerity, honesty, truthfulness in the blue yolks of his eyes? Or perhaps she wanted to walk on eggshells; perhaps she searched for deceit, nefariousness, feigned guilelessness? The inquiring green ovals prodded the ashamed blue eggs for only a split second, any evidence of anything lost as Spike shifted his gaze to the floor.

He tried to avoid eye contact. Good signs not ahoy. Guilty on all charges.

“I should’ve come to expect shit like this from you,” Buffy finally said.

Spike shook his head at her words. “Buffy, I thought that was—”

“You thought that was me,” she finished disgustedly. “What? You didn’t see anything because it was dark?”

“Listen, Buffy, I’m—”

Spike stopped short of an apology as he processed Buffy’s satirical words and inherent flaw in her argument. If she wanted a fight, he would give her a...

“What the fuck did you think my and your little fling was, Buffy? I Only Have Eyes For You?” Retaliation was good; at least it partially put the focus on her and not him. “Well fuck that... I’ve never been the bloody white knight of this little farce and I don’t intend to soddin’ well be now.”

Feeling brave, Spike met her eyes again.

He winced at what he saw.

He could hardly even stand looking at her now without feeling the urge to gouge his own eyes out; she looked like a little beaten golden retriever out in the cold. A puppy he beat. A person he raped and pillaged and exploited. He immediately wanted to shed ten years – become a child again – and use the notorious take-back, to take back what he said and what he did.

“But I didn’t...” he pointed at the ground and repeated his mantra with all the conviction he could muster, “but I didn’t do this...”

Faith pressed her hands against the front of her small denim skirt and darted erect from her knees. Everyone forgot about Faith in that moment. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea.

“‘Upside to this,” Faith chimed in with a mock cheerful look, “is that she’ll have even more sympathy among the masses. Another saga in the long list of travesties for little miss charity case.”

What? Huh? What the hell? What the fuck was that suppose to mean? Was Faith just mocking Buffy or did Faith... did Faith know about her? About Buffy’s past? What!? That would certainly squeeze the last bit of life out of Buffy... no one knew about Buffy’s past, Buffy’s greatest secret, Buffy’s greatest fear. Well, besides Buffy and a few of her closest friends and...

Buffy’s frightened eyes alternated looks between Faith and Spike. “What did you just say?”

Faith laughed evilly. The laugh was reminiscient of something that evil wily doctor in the Mega Man series would have made. Pure, true, unadulterated evil resonated in that laugh. “Oh, this is precious...”

Quaking but curious, Buffy went akimbo and cocked her head. What was Faith implying...?

“You really don’t know, do you?” Faith said.

Buffy stared intensely at Faith. “Know what?”

“We know what you’re all about, Buffy,” Faith answered somewhat cryptically, perhaps only for the paradoxically dramatic effect.

Because what Faith said next was painfully clear. Because what Faith said next... what Faith said next killed.

“Your sad little past... the fire at five and the druggy grandpa... the harsh living conditions...”

The eyes of the room went as wide as the Milky Way galaxy.

“Spike told all of us.”





Ground control to Major Tom: we have officially hit rock bottom! I believe I’ve foreshadowed Buffy’s greatest fear as everyone knowing her real life; I think I’ve even gone out and blatantly stated it a few times in the story. Please do not lose faith (har har) in Spike or the story. It’s only after he’s lost everything – after things have utterly fallen apart – that he’s free to do anything or, in this case, put things back together. Hopefully you actually want him to put things back together; I know I’m skating on very thin ice, especially after twentysome chapters of abuse and no true Spuffiness. The next handful of chapters should hopefully prove fruitful in making Spike a more likable character. I’m not abandoning the anti-hero in him by any means, but he can at least be gentle when it comes to Buffy and possibly more open-minded about the world. Feedback is imperative to the success of this story... seriously, I want, nay, need to hear your thoughts on current events (and no, not the primaries or Obama or Hilary). ^_^ So, like, oh my gosh, review away! :D

[A/N: So very sorry about the slow updates; school’s been a burden and this thing is pretty difficult to write, especially the heavy parts. I do think often about this story, though, and that’s helped in refining my ideas. Chapter hasn’t been revised to hell, so some diction and grammar might be a bit wonky. Title from the Nine Inch Nail’s LP.]




Chapter Twenty-Two: "The Downward Spiral"



“We know what you’re all about, Buffy,” Faith answered somewhat cryptically, perhaps only for the paradoxically dramatic effect.

Because what Faith said next was painfully clear. Because what Faith said next... what Faith said next killed.

“Your sad little past... the fire at five and the druggy grandpa... the harsh living conditions...”

The eyes of the room went as wide as the Milky Way galaxy.

“Spike told all of us.”

It was a wonder how such small words could kindle such betrayal and anger and sorrow. This was it; this was the end of Buffy’s life. She could toss melodrama in a sandstorm and throw tragedy in a hurricane and she’d still reach that same conclusion. Things could never possibly be like they were before, like they were before his change. He’d made sure of that.

And then there was silence. Loud silence.

Buffy finally started to crumble in the middle of the silence, her inquisitive posture drooping into a half sag, shoulders rounding and head lingering downward. The first shock wave crashed into her, soaking her with a cagey type of bereaved vexation and deteriorating her normally vibrant outward appearance to a beaten puppy look.

No, the beaten puppy look could not even begin to describe what she looked like in that instant. It looked like the sun had collapsed on her, like the entire world blew up inside her head, like everything great and magnificent and holy in this enormous universe was a complete and utter lie and actually very bad and malicious and immoral. Her entire world was turned upside down and inside out, spun around in little circles like clothes in a washing machine, and left to hang dead on a clothes line.

And that was just the first shock wave. Buffy hadn’t even begun to account for the full depth this newfound intelligence would have on her life, especially since Faith and the rumor mill were fast friends. So when the second wave made its inevitable wicked way and crashed hard into Buffy, she just about collapsed onto the pale vinyl floor, if it wasn’t for the deathgrip cling she had on the doorjamb already.

It would be the understatement of the world to say that Buffy was in obvious pain in that moment. She graduated from pain as the situation escalated beyond control; pain was just a prerequisite class for what she was feeling now, just a minor phase before the big stuff. The dirty depths of her shrouded past were finally unearthed. The elusive phantom had finally been captured. The nefarious villain had finally been caught. The dark secret was finally illuminated.

The life she worked so hard to hide was finally exposed.

Fuck Fuck Fuck—

“What—how?” Spike managed. He didn’t know whether he should be deeply disturbed by Faith’s words or somehow vindicated, the last nail finally slammed in the coffin of revenge.

Faith grinned sardonically. “You don’t remember? Saturday night? Willy’s?”

Spike shook his head furiously. He didn’t remember that... didn’t want to remember that; he was too drunk that night following the SATs to remember anything. He wanted even ground with Buffy and not a vengeful burrow, not a retribution hole... or maybe he did.

“Oh, well, I guess you were pretty hammered,” Faith remarked.

“Then it’s not—it’s not my fault for r-r-ruining...” Spike couldn’t even look in the cardinal direction of Buffy, his head curled sideways like an owl.

“For ruining her life,” he finished painfully.

Fuck.

Buffy.

Fuck.

He didn’t know how long he was there, in that moment in time. It felt like forever: the time between murmuring the words and drinking the molten lava that was thinking about what happened. No, not “what happened.” That was just another piece of improper propaganda, just another listless euphemism. What he did? No, not that either. What was done? What transpired? What developed? What—

He ruined her life. He pissed all over the original copy of the Mona Lisa after writing “FUCK YOU DA VINCI” in big letters with a black sharpie on her winking eyes.

He did this. Him.

Spike, William, whatever. Him.

I did this.

And then he heard loud, hard footsteps. Barrages of furious clamors, each foot bashing down into the vinyl floor with such force and rage and fury. Someone wanted to get away. Spike looked up to the door and saw no one.

He thought he heard Faith to the side and possibly himself cursing Faith, telling her not to tell anyone about this, but no interaction with Faith really registered now. All he could think about now was getting to Buffy... he had to get to Buffy. He had to somehow make this better. He had to pick her up and dust her off. He had to—

Spike was not sure if he had to or if he wanted to, but he nevertheless took off right after her, following the loud cacophonous sounds of her feet and the trail of tears.

He caught her by the arm just down the hall. She quickly jerked his grip away from her arm, sobbing wildly. She was having a hard time breathing, oxygen stuttering every half second with another convulsive whimper. Her eyes looked grayish, the tears dulling the normally emerald spheres to a soft pencil grey. Her makeup was starting to smear all over the place. Her cheeks were bright red, too red; it looked like someone had slapped her senselessly.

Maybe someone had.

And I’m not devastated by this... I’m sick.

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” Spike said softly.

Buffy’s eyes were tears sieging anger. “What the fuck does that mean!? You’ve been out to get me since the beginning!”

“Buffy, I...” But he couldn’t say anything; she was absolutely correct.

“What, Spike?” Anger reached its boiling point. “No witty comeback? No emo outlook on high school or government or life? On the uselessness of the human condition? On my condition!?”

Spike just looked down, eyelids squeezed tightly together, the contours around his eyes strained.

“You disappoint me,” Buffy seethed. The anger that inspired her audacity slowly dissipated, and she reverted back to a fountain of tears, drowning in her own self-pity.

“Spike... you’re the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

And with that, she left.

Shocked and dazed, Spike collapsed onto the pale white walls of the hallway and stagnantly dropped down to the ground. There, sprawled on the ground with his arms to his sides and his back to the wall, like some soldier just shot in the crossfire, he tortured himself again and again with thoughts on what just transcribed. What just happened. What just—

I did this and I don’t even think it’s wrong.

That was the worst part; he felt no remorse for the terrible things he did. No sympathy, no despondency, no emotion. If anything, he felt vindicated, like with all the cruelty he’d endured from her in his life he somehow earned the right to do what he did to her. He felt like he earned the ability to hurt Buffy. And that was the most twisted and cruel thing he’d ever fucking felt in his life.

Spike heard footsteps and took a hopeful glance wayward to a very familiar face.





Feedback appreciated.

[A/N: Like oh em gee, he’s actually updating! Sorry about the long wait, folks; been extremely busy, with the term ending and college decisions (yay!) and recent addictions to abhorrent video games (I’m attending the meetings again, don’t worry). This chapter has some references to other stuff (y’know, books and movies and things), but I think I make everything clear enough in the story to decipher the meaning behind their, err, addage. A few times in this chapter I purposely use overly long sentences to parallel the difficulty and confusion of the situation, so please don’t think I’m just an idiot or something and don’t know how to write properly (even though...). Title from The Rolling Stones song, which is somewhat of an inspiration for the story.]




Chapter Twenty-Three: "Paint It Black"



It was winter’s piercing chill without summer’s soothing warmth. It was the day without the night. The dark without the light. It was the hope without the fear. The laugh without the tear. It was the ship without the storm, the eyes without the face, the river without the sea. It was the bad without the good.

It was the dark side of the moon.

But, most important of all, it was the hair. Most definitely the hair. The hair was instantly recognizable to Spike, a copyrightable trademark, only copyrighting spikey hair would be a ludicrous endeavor and inevitably miscarriage because most, if not every, preteen listening to N’Sync dipped their little fingers in the gel jar. They had spikey hair, that is.

But anyway, the trademark cohort of spikes shot straight up, like a dandelion in full blossom, with that slightly forward slant and completely over-gelled to hell allure. The spikiness committed the brown bristle hair to an appeal that was more douchebag than anything. Spike very much adored all the different emotions that the hair stirred within him, though, because it allowed him to actually feel some emotion, which was great, and it also made him not think about Buffy and the elusive glaze of suicidal tendencies that washed over him when he thought about such a subject, which was good, too. Instead, he thought about Angel’s hair.

Angel’s expression was as blank and stoic as the dead president on the ten dollar bill. The creases and wrinkles on his forehead were still noticeable – they were always noticeable – but they were not as fervently furrowed as they were at the party last week where Angel had adroitly played the part of an angry bull that only saw red.

Seeing red... every path leads me to nowhere.

Angel sat down right beside Spike on the ground, both of them with their backs supported by the wall and openly sprawled out legs. They both looked as slouched and oppressed as scribbled question marks. Spike just sat there in the silence for a few minutes, seemingly ignoring Angel, only he wasn’t. He was really basking in the soothing presence of Angel; already the rambling self-deprecating monologue in his head about how sick and awful and not well he was had ceased rambling. Instead, he thought about Angel’s hair.

Angel shattered the shards of silence. “So what’s the problem?”

Spike didn’t turn his head to Angel, didn’t blink out of tune, didn’t even breathe. He didn’t want to have the habitual pep talk with Angel that always happened between best friends after such a catastrophic event, especially when Angel chose psychoanalyzing Freudian words like “problem.” Talking about the issue would be like drenching both hands in water and touching the metal part of a plug as it was halfway into a wall outlet. “I dun’ wanna talk about it.”

“Well that’s the answer,” Angel replied sarcastically, “the problem will probably just fix itself.”

Another long awkward pause occurred. Spike thought about telling Angel everything but knew that Angel probably already knew everything or else he wouldn’t even be here right now and even thinking about Angel in the loose context of Buffy made him nevertheless think about Buffy which therefore made him seriously consider starting appointments for that inane shock therapy thing that they did in the 1960s when some people took the presidential campaign heartbeat commercials seriously and were therefore inherently stupid and dumb.

He could be stupid and dumb; that would be perfectly fine with him. So long as he didn’t have to get all introspective and psychological and think about Buffy. He didn’t want to do that, especially the last one, because he was afraid he might do something he wouldn’t even be able to regret later because he would be dead, drowning in his own vomit.

Spike cocked his head sideways a few inches, still looking forward into the white wall abyss. “Remember that book? The Stranger?”

“Yeah.” Angel paused for a bit, waiting for Spike to continue and inevitably ramble on about how the book frighteningly related to his life, especially the lack of emotion and remorse and humanity in the protagonist in the novel and the pessimistic existential revelation that the protagonist undertook at the end of the book and how Spike was sure to undertake that exact same revelation in the next few days, maybe even few hours if he was really serendipitous and hit the lucky 7s.

Spike didn’t say anything, though, just left the title of the book up in the air, like those balloons the environmentally challenged release copiously after beach cleanups. “Did that have a point, or did you just wanna know if I’d read it?”

“There you go again,” Spike said with a sigh. He was still looking ahead, almost eerily, borderline crazily now, as people didn’t normally talk to walls while speaking to their best friend, probably only friend, and certainly the only person that wanted to talk to Spike right now. “You’re always looking for a point, always seeking that elusive happiness... well, lemme tell you something, Angel, it’s all in the pursuit... Constitution deceptively states it and everything; you can have life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but not ever the happiness itself.”

Angel turned to face Spike directly. The bleached man didn’t flinch in reaction, his jaw didn’t tick into a clench, his nostrils didn’t flare or hand out any suggestions of such; he looked insanely normal. Pale, even.

“I dunno, Angel,” Spike muttered somewhat awkwardly, probably because he was trying his damnest to be all introspective and it just wasn’t working out at all. “I just... I just feel like my life’s been one massive loop of Jeremy without the good ending.”

“Good ending? What good ending? The Pearl Jam song? I thought—”

“The student kills himself in the end of the song after being tormented in school all his life, yeah,” Spike dutifully finished. “That’s good, though... that’s peaceful, that’s rest... and I’m tired.”

“You want to sleep?” Angel asked lamely, trying to pry open Spike’s tightly closed lid with the little dumb kid appeal.

“Y’know, sometimes... sometimes I really do. Just hibernate ‘til I’m twenty-one and sleep passed all this shit, this fucking hell, this stupid crap... I wanted The Inferno but she was just buying a stairway to heaven... I shoulda soddin’ curbed the pride and the prejudice and the malice but the sun never rises... we’re too ignorant and naive when we’re young and too stupid and senile when we’re old...”

Angel gazed intently at the crumbling Spike.

“I just wanna paint—just wanna paint everything black... the doors, the windows, the furniture, the house, the fucking Mona Lisa and everything in the Louvre... paint it all black...”

Spike repeated his favorite word again. “...black...”

“You’re making no sense—”

“...black...”

“...at all,” Angel finished.

“Yeah... ‘guess I’m not...” Spike trailed off as he thought about the destructive meaning of his previous words. “I just wanna be like that girl in the Fantastic Four. The one that can turn invisible. If I can’t do that... I dunno, bang, bullet in the head, problem solved.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Angel said.

“Who says I’m joking?”

Spike’s rhetorical question stung the putrid air for a handful of heartbeats before Angel began speaking again.

“You wanna know what your problem is, Spike?”

Spike openly gestured with his hands. “Enlighten me, John Locke.”

“Keep in mind I’m only saying this because I’m your best fr—”

“Have at it already.”

“I think, well... I think that your problem is yourself. I’ve seen the ways you act, in school and around Buffy and around me... you’re what the people around here would call emo...” he trailed off as he questioned himself with a scratch of the head, “or maybe it’s goth?”

Spike gave Angel a cold dead stare.

“Minus the fashion, of course,” Angel added hastily so as not to get beaten. “Hmm... or maybe you’re Byronic?”

Another cold dead stare from Spike.

“Minus the homosexuality, of course,” Angel interjected hastily again because it looked like Spike was going to bite a left pinky dead off.

Spike thought about what Angel said for a second as he resumed his regularly scheduled wall watching. He guessed he was fine with that. Maybe he was that. Byronic or emo or goth or stupid or whatever. He didn’t care that much anymore. So long as he didn’t have to think about Bu—

Spike started tapping his head against the wall now, making hollow clicking sounds with each thud.

“Y’know what I mean...” Angel tried to clarify, “you think you’re misunderstood and better than everyone else... you’re egotistical, you’re belligerent, you’re self-centered, you’re destructive to everyone around you and yourself, you only know the world in black and you think you’ve suffered life’s greatest tragedy by being picked on for a handful of school years...”

Angel took a much needed chug of air. “That, uh, that’s what I meant. When I said emo.”

“Is this suppose to make me feel better?” Spike asked. “Because it’s not working. At all.”

Angel let out a deep breath as he prepped himself for the main course. “Spike... you’ve really just gotta ask yourself one thing... has anything you’ve done since becoming Spike made your life better?”

Spike felt very empty and very still, the way the navel of a maelstrom must feel, stolidly slurping in the center of the encompassing pandemonium. He could not answer the question.

“I mean, some people hate other people, yeah... but you take hate to the next level...”

Spike tilted his head to the side again, still looking dead ahead into nothingness. “Ever watched that movie? Donnie Darko?”

Angel understood perfectly now. Spike was trying to think about anything besides himself or Buffy, anything to get his mind roaming to digression. He was running away from his responsibilities, he was being escapist in every sense of the word, like that character Yossarian in his favorite book, Catch-22. “Yeah, I have. Good movie.”

“Real good movie,” Spike confirmed. “Donnie saves the girl in the end. He goes back in time and sacrifices himself for her... do you think I can do that? Become a self-sacrificing martyr?”

Angel stroked his chin. “Have you seen the six foot bunny through the looking glass?”

“No.”

“Then probably not.”

“Worth a shot though, right?”

“Yeah I guess.”

Angel slowly started to piece together everything in his mind. Despite holding similar reservations about last week’s crazy party, Angel had originally engaged in hesitant conversation with Spike because he had witnessed firsthand a devastated and hysterical Buffy race into Riley’s arms, hugging the oversized football player tightly while whimpering incoherent half-sentences into the man’s brightly colored jersey. Riley, of course, immediately pushed Buffy away and retorted that they weren’t going out anymore so it wasn’t his responsibility to hold her or to coddle her or to listen to her or anything like that, to which she quickly replied that she was more than willing to press the reset button on their relationship and try again. It all happened right in front of Angel in the cafeteria, in broad daylight.

And that’s when Angel smelled Spike, even over the aroma of the Axe body spray that the football players were heavily bathed in and the girly perfume that the cheerleaders tantalized all the boys with and the French Fries that made everybody corpulent... Angel smelled Spike over all that hubbub that stained the air of the cafeteria.

Angel didn’t literally smell Spike, of course, but rather very figuratively. He knew something had happened, that Spike must have been the person who seemingly smashed the already crumbling Buffy, and in turn Angel followed the scent – the figurative scent, that is – to the hallway where Spike sat. It was like he had transiently acquired some odd vampiric sixth sense. It was totally weird.

“Buffy’s going with Riley again,” Angel announced to Spike. Angel didn’t know how long he had been flowcharting current events in his head, but Spike was still incessantly tapping his noggin against the tall wall, oblivious as ever. “She looked pretty bad... she was crying when I saw her...”

Suddenly, something snapped in Spike, something visibly changed in him. His entire body twitched in one swift convulsive hemorrhage, like an upsurge of electricity had just galvanized the sensibility out of him. His ponderous breaths started to swallow in his lungs, crushing the vital organ like a soda can under a garage door. He caught his breathe and blinked a few times in rapid succession, looking to his right and then to his left and finally noticing Angel.

Spike fastidiously patted the temple of his forehead with his hand, trying to grasp at something that just wasn’t there. He rambled blindly, “Contacts contacts when did I get contacts where are my glasses?”

Angel sighed, clearly annoyed by Spike’s unintelligible rambling that was surely the result of actually addressing the problem. “C’mon, man, you’ve had contacts for four months... I don’t think switching back to frames is gonna solve anything, Spike.”

“Spike Spike who’s this Spike?” Spike shot his head leftward and rightward, upward and downward, and didn’t see anyone else in the halls. “I’m-I’m W-wi— not Spike who’s this Spike you speak of Angel?”

Angel’s eyes widened. “Who did you say you were again, Spike?”

“I’m William of course who’s this Spike?”





No, this isn’t the big fix or really a fix at all. I just wanted Spike to revert back to William for a chapter or two, more to force change and introspectiveness out of the stubborn protagonist than anything. I know this is like uber unrelenting angst with seemingly no light at the end of the tunnel, but the following story arcs should hopefully produce that nice glowy light. Feedback is worshipped and, like, oh my gosh, helps in the production of *gasps* future chapters.

[A/N: I’m still alive. Yay for me. Now’s probably the time I ramble on about how sorry I am that I haven’t updated in such a long time and how I hope people are still gonna read this and how sorry I am, but I think you all already know that. And hey, maybe I just told you? ;) Anyway, new chapter with mostly William insanity. I alluded to several works here, so again some stuff might just not make sense or click. :( For the William stuff, he rambles in a low, fast tone so it’s meant to be read rather quickly. That’s why I left out the commas and such. Now without further ado...]




Chapter Twenty-Four: "The Noose"



Angel’s eyes widened. “Who did you say you were again, Spike?”

“I’m William of course who’s this Spike?”

The very fact that Spike was stringing incoherent half-sentences together should have been enough of a sign for Angel. Spike was, indeed, imbued with those contrasting and conflicting and polar-opposite qualities of William, and however that managed to happen is a complete mystery. Maybe it was the shock, maybe it was the torment. But for now, it’s William.

“It was my fault...” Spike put his hands over his face, shielding out the fluorescent lights of the long hallway and massaging his temples roughly.

“I’m a bad person I’m very sick I’m not well...” Spike stood still for a second and searched for hope in his mind. Or something, anything to make him feel like a human being.

He couldn’t find anything. “...no not very well at all I’m very bad.”

Clips and phrases ahoy, Angel knew Spike meant what he said; the depressed man was wholly perturbed and believed his conviction, the candid aroma of the ramble reigning supreme. “No you’re not. If this is a short story, then maybe you got a little hamartia—”

“No I’m a terrible person I deserve to d—”

“Sp—I mean William...”

Spike backed away from Angel in a reverse crawl, still on the ground. “Don’t make me talk about it Angel I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“What?” Angel snuck a few paces closer to Spike, or whoever was possessing the platinum man.

Spike shook his head quickly. “Don’t make me no I don’t want to don’t make me...”

“I’m not making you do anything.”

“It wasn’t my fault I was drunk I was inebriated I was tipsy goddamnit it wasn’t my fault I wasn’t there I dunno what happened...”

“...what?” Angel tried to understand.

“I ruined her life, man.” Spike said the last word deeply. “I told Faith and her friends about Buffy’s big secret, man.”

“Everything?” Angel gulped as memories of Buffy falling over the edge blinked before his eyes.

“Everything... and I can’t even cry about it... can’t even wallow in my own self-pity... in my pity for her... I’m a sick horrible twisted person... can’t you see? I don’t deserve her I don’t deserve your friendship I don’t deserve anything... nothing. I see my heart and wanna decorate it like a grave...”

Angel didn’t like what he was hearing. Did Spike honestly...? “I think—”

But Spike was already back at it again. “I am the leper Messiah I am the great Flood I parted the Red Sea watched the peasants run in and drowned all of them.”

Spike flinched. “Six days it was six days I’m sure it was six days.”

“I really think you shouldn’t—”

“Maybe it was seven I didn’t go to church when I was little didn’t follow the war.” Spike shook his head. “You like Hamlet—Shakespeare wrote a lot of tragedies while he was nailing Marlowe’s leftovers Doctor Faustus is about this guy Doctor Faustus who sells his soul for knowledge and power.”

“I’ve seen—”

“Or was that Hemingway and Picasso with the leftovers? Fucking sun always rising the sun always falls the world isn’t worth fighting for... stupid stupid Hemingway.”

“I—”

“Crime and Punishment definitely Crime and Punishment.”

“Wi—”

“I need my Soma now please help me get my Soma in this brave new world.”

“I don’t know who Soma is,” Angel breathed, glad he finally got a sentence out.

“It’s just a little tablet this big.” Spike pinched his fingers together to show the size of the pill. He tried to look through the small slit the two fingers made with his darting blue eyes but couldn’t. “An apple—a swallow a day keeps the doctor away... wait—”

Spike’s eyes widened. “Blowjob Buffy blowjob Buffy Faith Blowjob... I’m a pagan I’m bad I deserve to die.”

Spike sprung up to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Angel asked wearily. He didn’t want to leave Spi—err... William unattended.

“Too deep used teeth not good used teeth... should have known used teeth but didn’t know bad person.” Spike started pulling his hair. “Told secrets bad person.”

He pulled harder at his hair. “BAD PERSON!”

This needed to stop. Now. “Am I gonna have to punch you? Like in Fight Club?”

Spike still clenched his blonde hair. “Fight Club Tyler Durden the first rule of fight club is to not talk about fight club the second rule of fight club is to not talk about fight club the third rule of fight club is to—”

Smack.

“Bloody hell!” Spike clutched his ear, his normal non-William voice clearly showing he was normal again. “Whaddya hafta go and do that for? In the ear, of all soddin’ places?”

Angel sighed, clearly depressed for his friend, and sat back on the ground with his back to the wall. “You were delusional,” he replied, as if that answered everything. Angel didn’t want to say anything further unless Spike probed.

Spike tried to remember what just transpired. He couldn’t. “Oh, fuck, what happened?”

“I guess something snapped and you became William.” Angel shrugged, trying to be aloof and forgetful and totally misplace the craziness of the scene in his head. “You kept saying what a bad person you were and talked about Buffy and used way too many allusions for my taste. I couldn’t even keep track when you got to the religious stuff.”

Spike scratched his head. “Well, I dun remember any of that...”

“Good,” Angel said, hoping that the singular word ended the discussion and Spike wouldn’t have to go on thinking insane thoughts.

“I’m gonna go, Angel,” Spike tilted his head downward, back to what he originally wanted to get at before the mishap. “‘might not be back for a while...”

“...okay,” Angel replied with the only choice Spike gave him. “I’ll see you, Spike.”

“Yeah,” Spike nodded glumly, his words tainted spills of downtrodden. “See you.”

Spike walked a few paces before stopping and turning his head back to Angel. “I’m just...” he choked a little, “I’m just sorry.”

And with that, he strode right down the hallway to the parking lot.

Spike needed some relief, some reprieve, a vacation... he needed relief fast. He took out a cigarette as he was creeping down the hall and dove for his silver Zippo in his jeans pocket. With one swish, it was open. Another quick flick and...

A small spark. Some flimsy smoke. No flame.

Spike stopped and tried the Zippo a few more times.

Nothing. No flame, no smoke, not even a spark.

He looked curiously at the small shiny object in his fingers for a handful of heartbeats, just observing the simplistic significance of it all. He silently stashed the Zippo back in his pocket and discarded the cigarette to the ground before continuing his walk to the parking lot.

Spike had lost his spark.






Thanks for reading. Again, I’m unsure of when I’ll be updating, just depends how motivated I get in the coming days. I know where I’m heading with this behemoth but I just can’t seem to ever get there. Ah well, I’ll find some way out of this rut. Thanks for reading nonetheless. =]

[A/N: It’s been such a long time since I last updated and I am very sorry for leaving all of you hanging. I just hope I have some people still reading; between going on hiatus and the nature of this story, I wouldn’t be surprised if this doesn’t get read at all. As for the usual excuses: this story was becoming very hard for me to write and so I stopped. In addition, real life issues got in the way. But now I’m back, hopefully to finish this piece depending on how motivated I get. This chapter is very dark, probably one of my darkest, but it is only dark in the sense that it explores all the intricacies of Spike’s suffering, which he completely deserves. I also introduce Wesley this chapter as a psychiatrist. He kinda goes in that leitmotif of adult ineptitude that I have going, although he, like Mr. Davis, will change in due time. I have fast forwarded a few weeks passed Spike’s misery; this chapter is meant to clue everyone in on what he has been going through. Originally I had planned to make his suffering a few chapters, but I thought that would only alienate the story even further from its readers, and would be even more painful to write. The title is from the Pearl Jam song, the word stands as a key part of the chapter, and it is also a reference to me still being aware and able to write this story. As for reading this chapter, I suggest a slow and steady pace.]

“She loved the sea only for its storms, and the green grass
only when it grew in patches among ruins.” – Flaubert, Madame Bovary




Chapter Twenty-Five: “Alive”



His body was the prison of his dark soul. His skin and blood, the cold steel bars of his confinement. He lived – if one could even call it living – rather bleakly at his home for a few weeks in complete seclusion, away from the sound and the fury of it all. He thought that was what he needed: time to be away, time to think, time to be alone.

He was wrong.

Spike had done a multitude of sordid things in those weeks he was alone. He had done bad things, vicious things, torturous things, to himself. The misery was hollow and the suffering was sad, but Spike would never take pity on himself, he would never show himself mercy. After all, he was the bad guy, he was the thing: there was nothing good or clean in him. He was completely dead inside and he couldn’t feel anything real.

He couldn’t even feel the catastrophic pain that he caused her. He had trouble even forming her name in his mind.

And so he went insane. In this cold, dark, black house, he went insane. He did things to himself that, if he were in his right mind, he would scoff at as “emo” or “nancy boy” or just plain lunatic.

He cut himself repeatedly, his physical pain for her emotional pain, he would rationalize. He yelled at himself in the mirror after talking to his reflection. He didn’t eat and he didn’t work out his body at all. He must have looked horrible: completely scrawny, face hollow and lacking emotion, hair a combination of curly browns and blondes, just completely gone and dead and six feet under.

It was deprivation that he supposedly loved, it was vengeance on himself, he was sieging his own castle. He was the sadistic bastard in this little play, wasn’t he?

So why didn’t his own suffering make him happy? Why didn’t he feel anything?

Spike only felt one thing and it couldn’t even really be described. He felt numb, lifeless, lost, like he just entered some far off place that he didn’t know and couldn’t described. He should be in complete disarray, in complete dismay for himself, in rightful response to the horrendous disaster that he disseminated.

He needed help. If there was one thing Spike knew, it was that he needed help.

Spike called the psychiatrist and set an appointment.



*~*~*~*~*


A doorbell ring. A knock. A car honk. It was all the same thing to Spike.

He opened the door for Doctor Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, one of his father’s bought doctors.

“Hello, Spike,” the doctor said, shuffling his briefcase to his left hand so he could shake with his right.

Spike wearily shook the man’s hand; he was afraid his own grip might be too weak and too telling. “Hello, Doc. Come in.”

Spike gestured to the living room. He sat on the couch while Wesley sat on the chair directly across from Spike, a low, overpriced cherry wood coffee table between them.

Wesley struggled to read some papers he got out. “Could you turn on some lights?” he asked. “It’s very dark in here.”

Spike put on some lights. He would have commented that the darkness was the way he liked it, but he didn’t bother.

“Normally I don’t make house visits, but I can make an exception with you,” Wesley said as Spike sat back down.

“Yeah, pop’s has got the whole soddin’ town bought out, including you.”

Wesley stared at Spike, taking in the blonde man’s bluntness. “So what’s the problem?”

“Problem?” Spike feigned innocence. “There is no problem. It’s not that simple.”

Wesley readjusted his seating in the chair. “There has to be a problem of some sort or else you wouldn’t have contacted me and set this appointment.”

Spike looked down, sad eyes overwhelming his face.

“What is it?” Wesley inquired, etching forward in his chair. “Is it about a girl?”

That got some fire back into Spike. He shot up his head and commented, viciousness in his voice, “Yeah, it’s about a girl.” He was trying to mock the naivety of the injection, even though it was in all probability the truth.

Wesley jumped back a little at Spike’s anger. “What happened?”

Spike looked sharply to his left, pain in the wrinkles of his forehead, pain in his frown and pain in his posture. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“But you have to talk about it. That’s the only way we solve our problems.” There was a sincerity, a truthfulness in Wesley’s face and voice that immediately made Spike think of him as not a phony like other people, but even worse than that: innocent and inept.

Spike sighed. He didn’t know why he set this damn appointment. Shrinks were a waste of time to him, all they ever wanted to do was talk about feelings, emotions, all that stupid crap.

Couldn’t the doctor figure out by now that he was more far gone than that? That Spike had no emotions to share and pawn?

Emotion was life, and Spike lacked it. Therefore, Spike lacked life.

He had to get Wesley’s attention, had to make him understand. He had to show him the worst.

“This is why I called you over.” Spike rigidly pulled up the sleeve of his black shirt, showing Wesley the absolute worst.

There were showers of scars on his forearm. Cuts everywhere, some jagged, some sewn up, all tattered about his arm. A few were bleeding, but they weren’t profuse enough to warrant worry.

At least not immediate worry.

Wesley tried to look unafraid and steadfast. “What happened?”

“What’s it look like, doc?” Rage was brimming in his voice, but quickly dissipated as he said what he had done to his own body. “Self-mutilation... I cut myself.”

He looked like he was about to cry as he echoed the words again, very softly this time. “I cut myself.”

Wesley took off his glasses and started polishing them. He was certainly not prepared for derangement of this degree. “When?” was all he could say.

“I don’t know. A little while ago. With broken glass.”

He rolled his sleeve back down and stared at the doctor, who looked beyond perplexed by the last declaration.

“I would have liked it if I was my normal self, you know,” Spike said flippantly. “It was all very Spike Lee.”

Spike looked to the side again, focusing on the color of the couch, pained by his words. “I talked to myself in the mirror that day.”

“That might be considered norm—”

“I told everyone to fuck themselves,” he eviscerated any fake solace Wesley might have given him with the interruption. “All the cliques, the preps, the jocks, the cheerleaders, the greasers. I told authority to fuck themselves too. The teachers, the principles, the police, even the fucking government.”

“It is quite normal for a teenager to be rebellious,” Wesley said blankly.

“This isn’t Rebel Without A Cause, doc,” Spike bit back. “After I was done with that... I told... I told myself to fuck myself. Isn’t that the most fucking stupid you’ve ever heard? I told myself I was a dumb fuck and that I had it all and I threw it all away...”

He stared back at the doctor. Spike’s eyes were ablaze.

“I realized that it was the reflection in the mirror talking, not me. Maybe it was Spike and I was William then, I don’t know. All I knew was that I didn’t like what it was saying, so I punched the mirror. The glass shattered into pieces and there were shards of glass on the ground. They looked alive to me so I took one of the shards and cut myself with it.”

He slowly made the motion, his fingers faux-slicing his right forearm. It was just the way he did it, he didn’t look out of it at all, he looked sane, steadfast, conscious, like he shouldn’t have looked. The whole scene was positively eerie.

“But I made the cuts horizontal, not vertical,” Spike said matter-of-factly.

“You didn’t want to—”

“I didn’t wanna kill myself,” Spike interrupted Wesley’s observation again.

“Then why?” he asked, his voice intense.

Spike looked down again. “I just wanted to feel pain, to feel something... only I didn’t. I sat on the floor in the bathroom for the entire day, staring at my arm bleeding profusely, trying to focus on the pain, to harness the point of feeling, trying to see if I even felt it... I didn’t...”

Wesley let out a much needed breath. “What else have you done these past few weeks?”

Spike shot a look at the bookcases around the room. “I’ve been reading a lot.”

“What have you been reading?” Wesley asked dumbly, more of a primer question than anything.

“Really morbid stuff, like Sylvia Plath morbid.” Spike’s category of morbid was interesting to say the least. “I had to read 1984 for school, bloody heartbreaking book. I also wrote some poetry for class.”

“What else?” Wesley asked, sitting back in his chair and trying his damnest to relax.

“I’ve been watching gritty movies, like Taxi Driver or Deer Hunter or some other Scorsese knockoff... I’ve been listening to music... depressing crap like Alice in Chains or Nirvana or some other shit.”

Spike’s eyes were impenetrable. “Trying to be... to just be. But I don’t wanna anymore. To try to be, anyway. I’m alive but I’m not here.”

They sat in silence for what like a lifetime before Spike spoke again.

“So what’s up, Doc?” His words were cartoon, but his voice was deep and gruff. “You gonna prescribe me some medicine?”

Wesley looked hard at him. “No... you’ve probably... self-medicated yourself already anyway.”

Spike nodded slowly. “Yeah, I have.”

“What have you taken?” he asked, seriousness in his voice.

“Dirt,” Spike responded after a while. “It was very fitting, considering dirt was what I made her feel like.”

Wesley was at a loss. “What’s dirt?”

“Heroin.” Spike’s response was quick this time.

“Did it work?” Wesley asked, some desperation in his voice.

“Not really... the first time was almost good... after that it didn't work at all.”

“Where did you get it?”

All these questions were starting to annoy Spike, but he answered them diligently anyway. “My mum Jenny was a junkie so I know where to get it and how to inject it and all that crap so you don’t have to worry, doc, ‘cause only idiots get infected.”

Wesley looked relieved that Spike seemed to know, at least partially, how to properly administer the drug so it didn’t kill him. Still, he was taking heroin, and that was one of the worst things someone could do to themselves, besides maybe self-mutilation. “You should stop taking it. It’s no good for you.”

“I did.” Spike’s words seemed truthful and free of deceit. “First I tried to take it off and on, to experience the withdrawal symptoms, but nothing happened, no rage, no craving, nothing at all...” He sounded like he wanted the addiction to have an affect on him, so he could feel. “And so I stopped completely a week ago. I’ll never resort to drugs again.”

Spike had taken the most addicting, dangerous narcotic of them all and it hadn’t fazed him one bit. He didn’t acquire the feeling of being pulled down into the ground, to become like the drug’s namesake, because he was already there. His dirt, his addiction, his hell, was a neverending constant, like the need for air or love. Even the infamous withdrawal symptoms of heroin hadn’t given him any emotion whatsoever.

He was completely lost and dead. They might as well have planned the funeral while he was still breathing.

“What brought on...” The doctor was at a loss of words. “...all of this?”

Spike shot him a glare. “Like you said... a girl.”

A pause. “Is there any chance you can reconcile with—”

“No,” Spike said firmly.

Now it was Wesley’s turn to give him a glare. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss the key to your recovery, Spike.”

Spike shook his head. “No. I ruined her life. It would never happen.”

“Then at least...” Wesley’s voice went from high tone to calm, passive tone. “At least go back to what you were before whatever happened happened. Go back to school. See your friends. Look at potential colleges. Enjoy the new superhero movie out in theaters. Try to live again.”

Spike stared incredulously at Wesley. “That’s my big cure? Try to be normal again?”

Wesley nodded. “Yes.”

Spike scoffed. “If it was that simple, I’d of done it myself...”

Did Spike not approve of the doctor’s remedy? Wesley probably had enough certifications and degrees to make wallpaper for a mansion...

“To live is to die... but I’ll try,” Spike said finally.

And with those words, he escorted Wesley to the door and got ready for school the next day. Spike, being dead inside, knew only one thing: that it was better to be alive.





A lot of stuff to comment on in this chapter, like the self-mutilation, the drugs, the talking to self. Spike will get better, though, trust me, and Spuffy will prevail, which you’ll probably have to put even more faith into me to believe. The story was always written to be this way, I just didn’t think I’d sulk on the bad for so long.

Reviews are greatly appreciated. I’m not trying to be a review whore or anything, but every syllable of feedback goes a long way; I seriously need to know if anyone is still reading, it’s imperative for me to get back on track and update this story frequently again.

And lastly, more and more I feel I need a beta, or at least someone to read over my chapters of this story before I post them. I’m not talking about checking for grammar or anything, I just need someone to read and OK it. If you would like to be one of those people, please tell me in the review box.

[A/N: Thank you for reviewing! :D It’s mean a lot to me. The beginning part is inspired from an early screenplay of a film called Taxi Driver, one of my favorites. As far as the quote below, Jake LaMotta is one of my biggest inspirations for the character of Spike and the line seemed to just fit the chapter. If you haven’t seen Raging Bull, it’s a superb film that probably would resonate deeply with Season Six BtVS fans. I will never, for the life of me, realize why some people think the show jumped the shark in the sixth season, which was arguably its greatest and most poignant season. The class discusses 1984 by George Orwell, but I don’t think one has to read the book to understand the drift of the Buffy/Spike interaction. Although I highly recommend reading the novel if you haven’t as it is one of the most prized books nowadays. The poem that Spike reads is from a song by the band Metallica. Don’t worry, they wrote it when they were hopped up on Hemmingway, Vonnegut, and H.P. Lovecraft, and it was before they sold out, so it’s pretty good. And besides the obligatory oblique literary references, that’s basically it.]

“So give me a stage
Where this bull here can rage
And though I could fight
I'd much rather recite
...that's entertainment.” – Jake LaMotta, Raging Bull




Chapter Twenty-Six: “Back In Black”



He looked sick, venal, diseased, and wherever he walked he infected all that was around him. Students who were laughing or enjoying life would immediately cease in his presence, and everyone had enough curiosity to stare. Here was a man who stood up against all of them, against the populars and the preps and the teachers and the nerds, here was a man who stood up.

He wasn’t standing so high anymore. He looked so empty, lost, so out of place. He appeared to have stumbled into the school from a place where it is always cold and bleak, a foggy city where the dwellers rarely interact. The head rotates, the appearance adjusts, but the eyes stay still, transfixed, piercing empty space.

He glanced back at his shadow and he knew, as sure as the earth moved toward the sun, that it was taller than his soul. That was the worst type of loneliness, when he wasn’t even comfortable with himself. And he was God’s lonely man.

All the king’s men cannot put me back together again.



*~*~*~*~*


Spike, donned in completely black attire, arrived a few minutes early for class that day. It was the first time all year he had been early, barring the times he hadn’t shown up at all. It was also the first time he hadn’t made some dramatic entrance, and if things continued to work this way, it was sure to be a slew of firsts for Spike.

To say that Mr. Davis was amazed to see Spike not only at class early, but also looking so vulnerable and out of it, would be the understatement of the century.

“I got your fax and did all the assignments,” Spike said dully, placing a packet of work on Mr. Davis’ desk.

Mr. Davis cycled through all the pages to see that it was all there. “Good,” he said, pausing melodramatically before prompting his next question. “How have you been, Spike?”

Spike sighed slightly, trying to act normal. “Oh, you know how it is. I bowl. I download porn. The occasional acid flashback.”

His attempt to lighten the mood seemed to work, as Mr. Davis chuckled. Spike still had a rather arduous time asking his next question, afraid of the answer. “How’s Buffy been doing?”

Mr. Davis colored himself perplexed. “She’s fine... why would you ask?”

Was this man serious? Did he not know? By this point in time, the whole school probably soddin’ knew about her horrible life and were probably judging her as a charity case, which was the one thing that she truly didn’t want, and it was all because of him. “She’s not treated—”

“What? You think she would be treated differently because you’re not here to bust her chops every day?” Mr. Davis almost laughed before sobering up. “Spike, what’s wrong?”

The air stood still as the day turned tender. A handful of heartbeats passed before Spike responded. “Everyone has their faults... mine’s the size of California’s...”

Mr. Davis blinked. “We really felt your absence here. It’s like something’s been missing since you left—”

“Being the bad guy and the bully will do that,” Spike interrupted. He rubbed his eyes slightly, skin feeling like orange peel.

Mr. Davis could admire Spike’s bluntness. “Yes, well, your absence has seemed to inspire the students... everyone is doing all their assignments now, I think just to spite you. I don’t know the last time I read anything less than C material from this class.”

Was this some stupid half-cocked ploy to make Spike feel like he was wanted? From here to eternity, Spike knew how everyone in class felt about him. They hated him.

His curiosity was satisfactorily piqued, though. “Even Riley and Cordelia?”

Mr. Davis nodded. “Now I’ve consulted with previous English teachers, and they’ve all said that you guys were a lost cause up until now.”

Could this be true? Spike only knew the world in black and white, or rather only black, and he knew that the stereotypes were all true and that everyone should be judged by them and that, well, if he was wrong about that, he was wrong about a lot of stuff.

The bell rang. For whom did the bell toll, anyway?

Spike roamed to the back of the class. His eyes quickly fell when he saw his desk in the exact same place, still with his name etched in dark capital letters, the metal legs of the chair still slightly welded in. The tomfoolery and shenanigans from the first day of school seemed so distant now, like it happened a millennium ago. Things were so much easier back then, everything was so black and white and clear cut.

He sat and decided it best to put his head down, not really wanting to see the shocked expressions of the students as they dispersed themselves into the classroom.

Or the expression of one female student in particular, whom her emotions he couldn’t even begin to describe.

But when she entered... he felt it.

He felt her presence. Even after all this time and all this heartache, just like always before he felt her when she entered the room. He did not know what had caused him to raise his head to take a glance at her, maybe it was the curiosity that had killed the cat or the misery that he must have desired, but he did.

Spike looked up and caught her staring at him.

Her expression he couldn’t really describe. It looked, or really it felt, somewhere between hurtful and angry. She quickly turned her gaze away from him and sat down, not giving him another look.

Next to Riley, of course, who possessively put an arm around her. The act didn’t look like it made her feel safe at all, like it was suppose to make her feel. On the contrary, from the way Buffy noticeably stiffened ramrod straight, it probably made her feel like an object and not a human being.

Nevertheless, Spike was glad to see that Buffy seemed unaffected by his grand betrayal via Faith. It was possible that his threat to the psycho brunette was enough to hopefully keep Buffy’s reputation intact. Everything could, with a little luck, go back to its right place. Him an outcast and she dating football players, like it was always meant to be.

Spike still couldn’t shake his self-loathing, though. His actions, all of them, were still morally reprehensible, even if the outcome had not been what either of them expected. And Spike knew that the deepest rung of hell was reserved for people like him. Dante would have placed him as the eternally-tortured ice block right next to the devil at the end of that dumb divine book, The Inferno.

Thinking about the book only made him think about its most prevalent theme, that of symbolic retribution, and with the correlation to his abominable acts in mind, he decided that he would never think about the book ever again.

Purgatory, not paradise, is officially lost.

Still, seeing Buffy with Riley cut him like a knife, and even though he completely deserved it, he just felt like everything was so wrong in its right place. Maybe out of place was the right place sometimes, he didn’t know.

Riley took a menacing look back at Spike, to try to taunt him or show him that he’d “won,” but when Spike seemed unaffected, he gave up and went back to inappropriately touching Buffy against her will.

Even Riley, his mortal enemy, knew that Spike was beyond gone.

Do not disturb the deranged.

And then Spike noticed that no one was looking at him. For a second he felt like he wasn’t the center of attention, like he didn’t have to live up to some requirement or expectation or syllabus, but then he realized the obvious: everyone was trying their hardest to not look at him. It’s like Spike was The Elephant Man. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, “I am not an animal! I am a human being!” but he knew that was far from the truth. He had no deformities, at least no physical deformities. But he was sure he was full of imperfections and flaws when turned inside out.

The second bell rang, signaling it was time for class to start.

Mr. Davis was perched on his desk, in a position much akin to Spike’s when he taught the class all those days ago. “I see we all know Spike is back.” The small gesture to the back of the class, and everyone got their stare in at Spike. “Please get out your essays on 1984 and pass them up to the front while I take roll.”

Everyone, including Spike, shuffled with papers as the teacher took attendance. Mr. Davis was becoming an even better teacher to the students; it looked like he knew everyone’s name by heart now. No more were they being treated like little kids.

After putting the attendance sheet near the door, Mr. Davis skimmed through the essays. “Looks like most of you wrote on the dangers of totalitarianism, which was one of Orwell’s main messages.”

“Two plus two equals five,” Cordelia chirped, referencing the end of the book.

Mr. Davis nodded approvingly. “That’s very good, Cordelia.”

Did Spike just see this with his own two eyes? Normally Cordelia would mask any intelligence she had, to keep up with the status quo, but she seemed to be fine with actually acting competent and coherent. And normally one of the jocks would poke fun at her right now, ramble on about college and ambition and life goals and how fucking lame all that was, but they seemed mute. This was all very different to Spike.

Mr. Davis continued talking. “So, does anyone here think that Winston and Julia loved each other?”

It was such a loaded question that no one really wanted to tackle it. Obviously, Mr. Davis was referring to the two main protagonists of the novel, both of whom engaged in a secret relationship together.

“I don’t think so,” Buffy said lightly, breaking the silence of the room.

Mr. Davis cocked his head. “And why is that?”

Buffy let out a long breath before her tirade. “I think they were just using each other to get away from the bad society they lived in. To them, their relationship was defying all law, and they wanted more than anything to be rebellious. They were like teenagers that way. They were extremely secretive about their relationship and it was always sexual; they never had one meaningful conversation with one another.”

Wow. That had to be the most worked up he’d ever seen Buffy in class. He knew that she was making a little game out of this class discussion. She was relating the book, and rather skillfully at that, to her former relationship with him. If she wanted to make him feel guilty or hurt, she didn’t really know Spike’s feelings, or even lack of feeling, right now.

Buffy stepped off her soapbox. “So no. I don’t think they loved each other.”

Apparently she had become a pessimist and a cynic, too. She was really sticking it to him here...

“Anyone to debate Miss Summers?” Mr. Davis asked the class.

As silence swept the air, Spike felt like he was required to respond to what she said. He wasn’t trying to make her angry or justify his actions or anything like that, he just wanted to get across his opinions on the book. To him, her attack was justifiable, to say the least.

Spike rose his hand eagerly. Mr. Davis nodded to him, signaling that he was free to speak.

“I think that they loved each other,” Spike asserted in an odd optimistic tone, probably to the astonishment of the class. “It’s the first thing she bleedin’ writes to him, after all, in that letter. And it’s awfully bleak to think they didn’t love each other.”

“Ergo, my point.” Buffy’s response was immediate and steadfast. “It’s a bleak book. Orwell wouldn’t put something non-bleak in there.”

Spike shifted in his seat, shaken slightly. He still wasn’t making eye contact with her, even though she must have been looking dead at him, with those eyes and that face. “I just don’t agree. They shared something together, something intimate, even if it was only sexual, secretive... even if it was shunned by society... they shared something together.”

They were speaking in code now, in a language only they knew. All the class could do was try to keep up.

Spike could feel Buffy’s seething eyes on him as she spoke vehemently. “They used each other and that’s that. He was obsessed with her. He fantasized about her. And all she wanted was to get away from her horrible oppressed life. It was nothing more than that. They were just missing the perennial ‘I don’t love you’ scene to put the last nail in the coffin.”

Was she talking about the book still? At all?

“Buffy...” Spike closed his eyes, having trouble even saying her name. If he had trouble with that, he would sure as hell have trouble making her understand his viewpoints on the book. He decided questions were his best ally. “What’s the one thing that breaks Winston’s spirit? In the end of the book, when he’s being tortured and he doesn’t give in?”

Buffy thought hard about that for a few seconds before epiphany set in her eyes. She breathed the words out softly. “Her... Julia.”

Spike nodded. “Julia.”

A pause. “But he gives her up. Tells them that he’d rather have her tortured than him.”

Spike shrugged. “Still, she was his... he wanted her the most out of anything. It is only after Big Brother breaks him down to the point where he gives her up that he finally goes off the deep end. And it is only after he gives her up that Big Brother knows for certain they can brainwash him, that all his hope is lost. She was the last thing he held onto in his mind, the last thing he lost, and the thing he cherished the most.”

A long pause ensued as the class tried to interpret Spike’s words. That is, the meaning behind Spike’s words, because it was the meaning that mattered. Of course, Spike would probably say now, in true Spike fashion, that the words had no meaning, they were just words, if only to philosophically spite everyone.

“I think it’s time to move on...”

The class redirected their gaze to the long since forgotten teacher. Mr. Davis loved that his classroom was filled with debate, because to him that was the only way students could learn: through discussion, through experience, through talking about stuff with peers. A long book or a boring lecture just did not compare.

Mr. Davis stroked his chin, lost in thought, forgetting what he wanted to accomplish today in class. “Oh, I know where I wanted to go now: poetry. Spike has a poem to read for us, just like the rest of you did a week ago...”

After the obligatory class moan at the memory of the oral report, everyone looked back at Spike again. He didn’t feel shy, his cheeks didn’t redden, he didn’t nervously gulp. To be quite honest, he didn’t give much of a damn about anyone staring at him besides Buffy.

He went through some papers and got his poem out. He quickly went over the lines, wondering if it was too personal to share with the class.

Screw it he thought.

He got up and moved to the front of the class, all eyes following his languid motions. He must have looked deathly sick to all of them, skinny as a skeleton. At the helm of the class, he started reading:

“Life it seems, will fade away
Drifting further every day
Getting lost within myself
Nothing matters no one else
I have lost the will to live
Simply nothing more to give
There is nothing more for me
Need the end to set me free

Things not what they used to be
Missing one inside of me
Deathly lost, this can't be real
Cannot stand this hell I feel
Emptiness is filling me
To the point of agony
Growing darkness taking dawn
I was me, but now He's gone

No one but me can save myself, but it's too late
Now I can't think, think why I should even try
Yesterday seems as though it never existed
Death greets me warm, now I will just say goodbye”

By the end of the poem, Spike wasn’t even looking at the page anymore, but looking up, staring intensely not at anyone in particular, just staring intensely. He wasn’t reciting some hollow poem on a page, he was telling everyone the way he felt. He didn’t need no stinkin’ paper or cue card or music stand for that.

The class was very silent when the poem ended, like nighttime must have been on the dark side of the moon. It was like wherever Spike went a great silence followed him.

Spike etched back to his chair, head hung low.

Mr. Davis got up from his desk, Spike’s poem in hand. He addressed the class directly. “So, what makes Spike’s poem so effective?”

A pause occurred before an unsuspecting person answered.

“It’s like... it’s like a suicide note,” Cordelia exclaimed the obvious.

Mr. Davis nodded. “There is great emotion in his writing. We feel what the narrator feels so intensely and strongly... the loss of will to be, the emptiness, the agony...”

“And when he said that he didn’t even want to try...” Cordelia trailed before she clarified herself. “That just hit home. When you’re a kid you’re parents tell you to try your hardest always... and he just can’t anymore. It’s so sad.”

Clearly, Spike had underestimated Cordelia completely. Sometimes simplicity was the best and most poignant way to say something.

Putrid air once again tainted the class. “Anything else?” Mr. Davis asked.

“The structure,” Buffy said softly, trying to focus on the plain things and not the profound things, like the overwhelming sorrow and guilt that the poem displayed or the way that it seemed like the narrator would commit suicide over whatever problems had arisen in his life.

“What about the structure?” Mr. Davis proposed, trying to liven the discussion.

“It’s... it’s perfect,” Buffy glanced up at Mr. Davis blankly. “Seven syllables each line, very rhythmic. It’s like you could chant it. But the last verse completely screws it all up.”

Mr. Davis glanced to the back of the class at Spike. “You have anything to say about that?”

Spike stood straight in his chair. “It was done purposely, the last verse being like that... if it was the same as the other verses, I think the entire meaning of the poem would be lost... everything would be the same, it would just be a soddin’ speaking exercise. Shakespeare did something similar in his sonnets; he ended with couplets.”

Buffy hadn’t glanced back at him when he said these words, probably hadn’t thought he was worthy of a glance and for that harrowing conceit, he had to agree. But he knew she heard him.

Cordelia jumped in her chair. “Ooo! He also uses personification, right? I mean, death can’t literally greet people, right?”

Everyone in the class chuckled at that.

“Yes,” Mr. Davis said, clutching the poem in his hands. “He does use personification. And Spike also capitalizes ‘he’ in the line ‘I was me, but now He’s gone.’ What is the double meaning?”

Scott spoke up. Who knew he could catch the religious reference? “It’s biblical,” he said.

“Like the narrator thinks God is gone, like God has forsaken him...” Buffy trailed before she repaired her thoughts. “So far gone, he thinks that God left him. The poem also hints that the narrator had a superiority complex.”

That last little bit? Totally directed at Spike.

And she was completely right, he knew.

Mr. Davis shifted gears. “Okay class, next we’ll be reading the Shakespeare tragedy Hamlet. Get out your notes so I can lecture some preliminary information on the story.”

Spike got out a piece of paper and a pen, but he didn’t really need it. No one better than him knew that revenge led to destruction.





I promise next chapter ends with concrete B/S plot. It should come as a relief that Spike didn’t totally destroy Buffy’s life with his betrayal to Faith; she seems to be treated exactly the same way as before all of this started. The discussion about 1984 could be misconstrued in several ways; I’m not trying to make Spike look like an ass here.

If you would like to receive an email when I update, please tell me via review box or email (TestaALT@aol.com). I’m definitely not above sending them out, since I know I tend to update rather infrequently. I’m hoping, though, that I’ll start to pick it up here soon.

Reviews are greatly appreciated.

[A/N: Thank you for your reviews, they made me giddy. Sorry about the wait on this one; I’ve been pretty down and blue recently. On the upside, I got all the classes I wanted in open registration (including my writing class, yay!) so I’m very happy about that. Sad, though, that I just discovered today that Buffy has been rescheduled to only Saturday and Sunday mornings in FX syndication in favor of some comedy. And, well, I’ve been pretty messed up recently, getting very painful headaches every day, so this chapter may seem a bit detached. Like The Stranger-esque again. I’m sorry about that; I’ve lost my head and need to find it. The chapter title comes from the Radiohead song. I’ve had this chapter named since like December, glad to finally have it written.]




Chapter Twenty-Seven: “Everything In Its Right Place”



There was Jimi Hendrix, who did it with sleeping pills. And Kurt Cobain, good old misunderstood Kurt, who did it with a shotgun. Keith Moon did it, ironically, with a prescribed drug that was designed to curb his craving for alcohol. There was Jim Morrison, who always seemed to sing about the end, and he was just one of several to do it with heroin. Brad Nowell, heroin. Sid Vicious, heroin. Janis Joplin, heroin. At least Layne Staley put heroin and cocaine together to make a speedball when he did it.

And then there was Spike, who did it in the most creative fashion, by drowning himself in his own sea of misery. He wished it was a sea of sorrow. At least that suggested regret, guilt, remorse, something... misery only suggested unhappiness.

He allowed himself a melodramatic pause for effect.

As he stood atop a yellow hill which overlooked Sunnydale High’s shoddy football field, he stared off into emptiness. The Homecoming festivities had begun.

It was like the more he saw, the less he knew.

The song on his iPod changed from Radiohead’s rendition of Creep to Stone Temple Pilot’s much more dirtier and different version of Creep, which he enjoyed thoroughly more because it was less popular. Either way, he was listening to something about a creep, and it was nice and compelling to him like that.

The little stage was set up, decorations and podiums and speakers and all that jazz, and they were announcing Homecoming King and Queen. Well, they weren’t really; they were more of reannouncing it for kicks, because they had already announced it yesterday at the Homecoming Dance, only Spike didn’t know. He only knew that they held the Homecoming Dance the day before the Homecoming football game because the team sucked so much everyone was sad after they lost and so they couldn’t possibly hold the dance that same night because everyone would be sad and miserable.

But he didn’t know who it was.

When he saw Riley and Buffy announced as King and Queen, he didn’t know what to feel. They both rode around the periphery of the football field, otherwise known as the track lane, with the seventy-six bloody trombones blaring in the background and all that jazz.

At least she was okay, he thought.

At least she was okay on-the-surface, he clarified himself.

It was foggy, which was quite remarkable for Sunnydale in the summer, and if he was an English major he would peg it as foreshadowing for some looming tragedy. Only he wasn’t, so he only felt this intangible feeling that something bad might happen soon, like that same leitmotif in the Star Wars films.

One thing he liked to do especially was drive backwards in the fog because it didn’t remind him of anything at all. Not like music or movies or novels could remind him. Memories reminded him, of course. Memories that could never fade away.

The sea was red, the sky was grey, and he wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.

After the little long jaunt around the football field, Riley and Buffy dispersed back to their normal places, him as the football quarterback and her as the cheerleader. Spike didn’t know how Riley had become quarterback; he thought that position was reserved for someone with a brain bigger than a bird’s, and he knew Riley hadn’t one quite that size.

Riley bashing aside, Buffy looked positively glowing with elated ecstasy at the status of Homecoming Queen. That made Spike feel happy for her, only after observing her a bit further, he saw the lucid.

She was radiating, yes, but she was really faking true happiness only to appease the crowd and all her friends. Spike could tell these things, he didn’t know how but he could see that she wasn’t genuinely happy. Every once in a while she gave that sad stare when she thought no one was looking, that thousand-yard stare off into the distance. It was like... it was like she really saw beyond all this.

Something like that could kill a person.

Spike heard some scuffle of footsteps behind him and turned.

It was Angel, of course. Who else could it be? Who else was Spike’s friend?

Friend... Spike thought. A word so wrongfully abused.

Spike took off his earphones more out of respect than anything because the music was off and stuffed them in his pocket. “Hey, Angel,” he said with some listlessness in his voice.

Angel nodded and walked up next to Spike, both of them looking out at the football field. The game was starting and they were getting ready to kick off.

“How you been?” Angel asked.

Spike looked off into nothingness. “I’ve seen better days.” A pause. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Angel chuckled. “Because you look terrible, man. Like Layne Staley unplugged terrible.”

If nothing else, Angel was honest, maybe brutally so, and Spike knew he could take it because, well... because he really must have really looked that bad. Like Layne Staley hopped up on heroin after his girlfriend died bad, as Angel so aptly for instanced.

Still, Spike wanted to show Angel that he could still bark. “How’s things going with Cordelia?”

When Angel hesitated, Spike took a glance at the silently torturing man, who immediately averted his gaze.

This time Spike was the one who laughed. “That bad?”

Angel sighed dejectedly. “She won’t even talk to me now... it’s like I’m not good or cool enough for her...”

“Ouch,” Spike said. It was a ruthless cycle, too, Spike knew, because lack of confidence meant lack of attraction.

They both watched as Sunnydale’s kickoff was returned for a touchdown and just like that, the infamous reputation preceded Riley’s lousy crew.

“I’m gonna ask you a question,” Spike said. “And it’s an important one, so think about it before you answer, okay?”

“Okay,” Angel said.

A long pause ensued before Spike asked the loaded, totally melodramatic question, probably fueled from too much Passions divine intervention.

Spike let out a long breath. “When you really love someone, and they really love you, but neither of you can get it together, when do you get to the point where it’s over?”

The question stung the putrid air as Angel carefully deliberated.

Angel approached the question from all angles. “Is this about you and Buffy?”

“No.” Spike’s gaze fell. “I know I blew it... I had perfection and I fucked it up.”

Angel snorted. “Perfection? Don’t you think you’re getting a little too carried aw—”

“No,” Spike interrupted, shaking his head. “I had that feeling... that real good feeling you get when...” A sigh as his eyes fell to the ground. “...only I suppressed it. The feeling. And then I changed it. Made it something terrible.”

“But you’ve known Buffy for years and never had the feeling,” Angel said. “Miserable years, too,” he added.

“But...” Spike gave himself some time to fully think his thoughts. “I really met her this time around, and I just liked to be around her, y’know? I would never admit it to myself, though, and never to her of all soddin’ people. I could never admit that we were actually compatible. But she was the one who always caught my stupid book and poetry references, she was smart, smarter than me but she didn’t know it...”

“And tried her hardest not to show it,” Angel offered.

“Beautiful, obviously...” Spike continued. “And she put up with me till the very end...”

Angel eyed the blonde man. “What are you saying?”

Another long drawn out breath from Spike. “She was just a great person, y’know what I mean? And I can justify her doing all those horrible things to me for all those years because she’s been drowning since she was five and she was young... but I can’t possibly do the same thing for what I’ve done and I think I’m just starting to realize that...”

“I just fucked it all up,” Spike said again.

“Indeed,” was all Angel could say.

Spike rose his eyes to Angel again. “So I’m just talking generally, or maybe about you and Cordelia, I dunno. When do you get to that point where enough is enough?”

“That’s, well... uh, okay...” Angel was having noticeable trouble, fumbling with words. “With me and Cord—well, I’m a product of my emotions, not a product of my environment, like her...”

He continued his nonsensical ramble. “Which is just exactly what she is, wanting to be what other people want her to be, materialistic and trite, when she’s really so much more...”

Angel shook his head, finally deciding on a point. “I’m my own person, I be what I want to be... while she might be those things, there’s just something... just something there.”

Angel nodded his head like he had answered the question.

Spike raised his eyebrows. “That’s your answer?”

Angel shrugged. “Yeah I guess.”

Spike looked back out at the football field. The away team scored another touchdown off of a fumble. “That’s not right. I don’t think there’s a right answer to anything, but that’s definitely not near the right answer.”

Spike started to articulate with his hands. “Look, when two people really love each other, completely, truthfully, love each other all the way, the answer to that question is simple...”

The word came out softly. “...never.”

The wind seemed somehow cooler after he said that rather optimistic and out of character bit of insight.

Angel tried to interpret Spike’s veil of meanings. He decided on talking about something related. “When are you gonna get it back?”

Spike cocked his head curiously, but he was still looking at the game, trying to focus on the game and Angel’s words and not Buffy the delicious cheerleader in a short skirt. “Get what back?”

“You know what I mean,” Angel said, and they both did know what he meant, it was clear as black. “You just gotta go to class and own the place, like you did before... no one wants to see a whimpy Spike, it’s not interesting. You need the fire back, the rage, that drive in you...” Angel playfully pumped his arms.

Satirical, humorous, or offensive, Spike cracked a smile at Angel’s words.

“Y’know, I been thinking...” Angel said. “You should make a list of stuff to do each day. I’d put defying a teacher and punching a popular at the top of the list. Because no one wants to see you like this... all taciturn and vulnerable and introspective. It’s no good for ratings.”

Spike laughed. He truly laughed.

“Thanks for that,” Spike said.

Angel grinned. “Don’t mention it.”

Whispering wind wisped across the low ground. The away team scored another touchdown, grunts from the crowd filling the air.

“Could I ask you a favor?” Angel asked.

“Yeah?”

“Can I borrow your car for the weekend?” Angel felt he needed to tag along a reason. “Cordelia needs a ride to Tijuana because her car is in repair and the football team is out of room. This could be my big chance.”

“Sure,” Spike replied automatically. Normally Spike wouldn’t trust anyone with his black DeSoto, but he needed to finish smoothing things out with Angel. Spike had, let it still be known to the jury, almost got Cordelia, his love or infatuation or whatever, shot cold and dead, and if that would do anything, it would certainly make friends not friends. Really, the least he could do was lend his car for the weekend, not like he even needed the car anymore what with staying home all the time and listening to depressing music and all.

“Thanks,” Angel said.

It was the brotherly exchange of stuff between friends. It was progress.

“Hey, you know what?” Spike said suddenly. “Could I come along? I’d like that, to go out and do something...”

“Sure,” Angel said. “It’s your car. We have room, it’ll just be me and Cordy.”

Spike nodded. “Alright. Where do you wanna meet?”

“Out front at school after the game.”

Angel’s mention of the game brought them back to the slaughter. The scoreboard showed 35-0 now, they must have missed a few touchdowns from the away team while they talking.

“I’m gonna...” Spike pointed to the parking lot.

“Yeah,” Angel nodded. “Just be here after the game, should be pretty quick. Might take a little while to get all of Cordelia’s luggage in the car.”

Spike grinned at that and left.



*~*~*~*~*


Spike had completely cleaned his car, interior and exterior, carpet and windows, it was squeaky clean. If anything, he wanted Angel to make a good impression with Cordelia, so Spike could therefore make a good impression with Angel. It was really weird like that.

He’d packed accordingly – some black shirts, some black jeans, and a bevy of booze, just the way he used to like it. It was gonna be great, he was gonna go down to some place hundreds of miles away from Buffy and just get lost, probably drown himself in his own sorrow if he was lucky.

But things changed when Spike drove into the parking lot and saw it.

Oh, they changed...

It could have been the crucifixion for the way his mind was jumping.

Angel was there, exactly where he said he would be, with a nice black button down shirt and hair particularly spiked straight. Cordelia was next to him, oversized sunglasses and armada of luggage ahoy, acting stuck-up and snippety as usual.

But someone else was there. Someone who must have decided to come along for the voyage on the whim and without proper knowledge. Someone who was obviously in the dark about whose car they were taking. Someone with blonde hair and green eyes.

Buffy...

With a suitcase.





So when two people can’t stand to be around each other, what does the cruel author do? Why, he throws them together, that’s what he does! Next chapter is the grueling car ride to Tijuana, which should be littered with fun stuff like Angel and Cordelia banter and redemption themes. And, of course, Buffy and Spike, close quarters? Should be kinda fun, no? :D

I’d just like to say that I still stand behind my comment that “not everything is as it seems” and that Spuffy isn’t completely dead.

Feel free to review. In fact, I encourage it. For the sake of the muse if nothing else.