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.