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.