A/N Little one shot that popped into my head while reading Anaross' fabulous story "Long day's journey" read it if you get a chance it's fab
As always we are gratefull for clever clever April who can mend even my tattered grammer. And so quickly. STAR!
Buffy POV, post Chosen.
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I have Spike in my head. Not the actual Spike, because Spike is dead. And it's not some mystical possession haunting-type thing, so he's not actually there himself. But he is there, in my head, all the damn time. And do you know what? It pisses me off.
Okay, I know what you're thinking: "Harsh, Buffy. The guy died for you." And you're right. I mean, he did the most amazing thing for me. He saved me and he gave me this wonderful new life, free from slaying and world savage and all. So, yeah, it's harsh, but you don't know what it's like having Spike talking constantly in your head. He is just so spectacularly annoying.
Oh, and let’s not forget sarcastic, mocking and snide. So when Angel said, "I'm so sorry, Buffy, about Anya and the girls. Do you want to stay here for a while?" Spike said, "Not bloody likely, you poof. And what about me, hey? Not sorry about that are you, you great hulking git?" And so I said, "Thanks, Angel, but no. We're checked into the motel off the interstate and the plan is to head to Europe a.s.a.p, start picking up the pieces."
And later in Rome when I was shopping and drinking frothy cappuccinos and thinking how great life was now I didn't have to be the slayer anymore, Spike said, "Yeah, Slayer, tell us another one. You’re bored out of your tiny bottle blonde brain. Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don't miss it." And that's how come I started patrolling again. He is so totally responsible for the shabby state of my fantastic new Italian wardrobe.
And don’t even get me started on the fun of dating. I'm in Italy, the men here are utterly droolsome and if you could bottle the romance in the air, you'd make a killing. So is Buffy in dating heaven, with a different Italian Stallion every night? Er, no. Wanna know why? Because it is absolutely impossible to take any guy seriously when you have a running commentary on his extreme lameness and probable homosexuality running through your head.
I tried. I mean, I really tried with The Immortal. Tried until my face ached from smiling and my brain hurt from listening so intently to his fabulously intelligent and witty conversation. Forced myself to dance and smile and—shudder—sleep with him, while all the time Spike whined and bitched and sulked and called him a hundred-and-one derogatory things. "Dump this loser, slayer. I've met more interesting corpses. Hell, I've been one," Spike said. And so I dumped him because I couldn't stand to listen to any more of his bellyaching.
So about a month ago I gave in. He was just gonna keep talking anyway, so what was the harm, really? You know, apart from the extreme unhealthiness of conducting actual conversations with your dead lover. "Spike." I said it out loud, too, and yes, I do know that that makes me a wacko. "Why are you here?"
And the son-of-a-bitch had to go and do it, didn't he? And I didn't get it, didn't understand how he could still surprise me; even when he was a figment of my own imagination, he could leave me gob smacked and watery eyed. "Where else would I go?" His voice was that low rumble I love so well, all sad passion and worship, and it felt like coming home just to hear it. And even as I stood there, biting my trembling lip to keep from crying, I knew it was wrong. I mean, seriously screwed up, and if anyone ever found out they’d be booking me into therapy quicker than you could say "schizophrenic delusion," but I didn't care because it felt like coming home, and I've been so very homesick this last year.
I gave in that day and now I can talk to him whenever I want. When I patrol, he laughs at my puns. When Dawn drives me insane, I get to take a deep breath and hear him say, "Girl’s all right, Slayer. Give her a break." When I strip off and slip into luxurious bubble bath, he makes lewd comments and I blush like a schoolgirl.
So that’s how it's been this last month, and, recently, I’ve started think maybe I'm not that crazy. Which made Spike say, "Come on, Slayer. You’re nutty as a bloody fruit cake. I like it." Maybe I just gave his voice to that subconscious part of me I don't really understand. Maybe I gave my instincts Spike's voice so that it'd be easier to listen to them.
So when Spike said, "Get that luscious bum outta bed, Slayer, and rally the troops. I reckon you’re needed back over the pond," I didn't hesitate, didn't for a moment doubt what I needed to do.
And when Giles said, "Buffy really how can you be certain? How can we justify mounting an operation of this scale on nothing more than a hunch?" Spike said "Don't be a tosser Rupert. Has the girl ever let you down?" so I said "I'm certain Giles. Call Faith and Willow, we need the big guns on this one"
So that's how I ended up in LA, in the rain, with a small army of slayers and the most powerful witch in the northern hemisphere, watching the ex-love-of-my-life slay a dragon and facing off with the legions of hell.
And in the silence after the battle, I'm not that surprised to see him. He's been here all along, you see. He's dirty and bleeding and beautiful, propped exhausted and wheezing against the filthy alley wall surrounded by the mutilated corpses of the demons he's killed tonight. And I'm not even surprised, not even relieved or overjoyed, because to me he's not back from the dead. He's been here all along.
He looks at me and I can see that he is surprised. He's wearing that expression of his, all shocked and bewildered gratitude, like he can't believe that I came, that when he needed saving I appeared. You’d think he'd be used to it by now; after all, where else would I be?
"Buffy," he croaks, and blood seeps from the corner of his swollen mouth. He's so pretty when he's beaten up
I turn and begin to walk away, just a couple of strides, before I look back over my shoulder and fix him with my best better-than-thou Queen C look. I say, "So, are you coming?"
And the Spike in my head says nothing.
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A/N kinda outta character for me this. April reckoned it ended kinda abruptly and she has a point but it just seemed to fit in the fluff that I have instead of a brain.
Hope you like. You can review, you know if it makes you feel good about yourself. Or not if you want to be haunted forever by the guilt of causing small woodland creatures such intense dissappointment
PS. Love and kisses to all who kindly reviewed The Lotty Bear. Good of you all to humour me in that particular flight of silliness
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