Chapter 12 Questions
“You look tired today, William,” Dr. Travers commented, noting the dark rings under Spike’s eyes and the way he sagged into his usual couch.
“Didn’t sleep well, is all,” Spike yawned and stretched his arms out. The older man nodded and started writing something into his notepad. “What’s that you’re scribbling, doc?”
“Notes,” he simply replied, not offering to explain or go deeper and Spike didn’t bother to ask. He just shrugged and looked out the window. The sun was finally out and the clouds seemed to have disappeared. The yellow rays of light warmed the city up and suddenly, Los Angeles lost its gloom.
Travers studied his patient’s ragged facial features. The pale skin looked curiously gray today and his normally alert features seemed slacking. He eyed the tattered and wrinkled black clothing suspiciously, having the feeling that they hadn’t been changed since their last meeting. Spike’s body gave away all the signs of someone physically and emotionally worn out.
Suddenly, Spike turned his head to look at Travers curiously.
“What do you make of dreams, doc?” he asked, unexpectedly. Dr. Travers was taken aback for a moment, but gained his senses in no time.
“Well, dreams are generally known as the trash in your mind,” he said, “they’re generated form information stored in your brain and processed when you least expect it.”
“So it would be rubbish to think that a dream might be trying to tell you something, yeah?”
“No, not rubbish” he answered, raising both eyebrows. “I think dreams can be a form of subconscience, maybe like an inner voice. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering, is all,” Spike tapped his armrests with his thumbs.
“Did you have a dream, Spike?” the doctor pressed on, putting his hands together, “would you like to talk about it?”
“Nothing to worry about, mate,” he brushed off the issue and changed the subject. “Did you know that onions were an aphrodisiac?”
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“If it were up to me, you’d be begging on the streets,” Willow nearly growled while she grabbed another dirty plate to scrub. God knows I don’t need this. College… work… and two hungry mouths to feed.
“I know,” Spike hung his head, taking the bowl she had handed him and placing it on a rack in the dishwasher.
“If it were up to me, you’d be chained up to a wall and beaten to a pulp every day, fixed up at night, then beaten again the following morning.”
“I know,” he repeated himself, wondering when Oz’s fiancé had gotten so scary.
“If it were up to me, you’d have your throat ripped out so you could never sing another word again.”
“I know,” he said again, then muttered to himself “…good thing it’s not up to you, then.” Willow either didn’t hear him or ignored him.
“If it were up to me, you’d be the one with your heart shredded to pieces,” she continued, annoyed at his compliance and wanting to strike up an argument.
He paused for a fraction of a second.
“It already is.”
At that, Willow threw down the ceramic mug she had been washing into the sink and it cracked into three pieces.
“Don’t you dare tell me that,” she hissed, flinging her rag into his chest. “You broke my best friend’s heart and you dare tell me that you’re in pain? You are lucky I promised Oz I wouldn’t kill you, so help me Goddess, you’d be – “
“I’m sorry,” he backed away, placing the wet rag onto the kitchen counter.
“You’re sorry? Oh, well that makes it all better!” Willow threw her hands up in the air, grabbed the rag and resumed washing dishes.
Spike muttered to himself again, “It was two bloody years ago…”, but this time, Willow caught him and slapped him hard across the face.
“That makes it all right? That it was two years ago? You think I’ll just sit back and forget all the nights I held her in my arms? All those tears?” She hadn’t been this angry since the night of the one fateful concert two years ago in the same city they were in right now.
“No, I don’t think time makes it all right,” he fisted his hands in frustration, “I just think that the only person who has a right to be mad at me is the person I hurt. I didn’t expect it from you.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she fumed at him, face turning red to match her hair. “You broke her and I picked up the pieces. Have you ever really loved somebody, Spike? I don’t think you ever had.”
Spike opened his mouth to protest, angrily, but Willow cut him off before he could make a sound.
“If you ever felt half the love that I have for my best friend for anybody who was ever in your life, you would know that when they hurt, you hurt. Tell me, who have you ever loved, Spike? And I don’t mean as a lover. I’m saying love. Pure, true, no if and or buts about it love. Simple as that. Tell me.”
An unintelligible word fluttered from his mouth as he looked down at the floor. Willow bent her head and asked him, “What was that?”
“My mum,” he breathed out, closing his eyes. She nodded her head.
“What would you do to anybody who would hurt your mom? Just sit back and not be mad at them? Or would you try and kill them, Spike? Kill whoever hurt the ones you love.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer and left the kitchen, leaving Spike standing in the middle of the tiled floor alone with his hands clenched in his pockets. He remembered his mother’s face: so kind, so loving. Trusting. Then he remembered her last spiteful words and he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.
“I’d kill them…”
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“Why do you do it, William?”
The sun was out again and it followed Spike and Dr. Travers as they ambled along the sidewalk of a moderately busy street. Neither of them had felt like talking in the cold, air-conditioned building and had decided to take their discussion outdoors where it was warm, sunny, and inviting.
“Do what, doc?”
“The drugs.”
Travers sighed at Spike’s shocked expression.
“Of course I know about it. I have your medical records and you forget that I am quite good friends with Daniel Osbourne. Now, explain to me. Why the small doses of this and that every so often? I don’t see a trend here, William, and I’m not condemning you. From what I gather, you get – what is it called, yes, high - once a few weeks and it’s different every time. Heroin, ecstasy, marijuana, all very different, Mr. Giles. I just want to know why?”
“Bit of fun. A good tumble here and there,” Spike kept his eyes forward and kept walking.
“I don’t buy it.”
“Well you better because that’s all I’m giving you,” he snapped and reached into his pocket to pull out a cigarette with shaking hands. Travers turned to look at him with an unreadable expression on his face.
“See there,” he motioned at Spike’s hand, lighting the cigarette. “That’s an addiction. But it isn’t only an addiction. You crave it when you’re nervous. When you’re uneasy. There’s always a reason behind actions.”
“I do it because I like the taste, so sod off.”
“You know better, William.”
“What of it, doc? Believe me when I say you’re not the first one to try stopping me.”
“I’m not trying to get you to stop,” Dr. Travers shook his head, sadly, “I’m trying to get you to understand why you’re doing it.”
“Well, you’re the doctor aren’t you? With all the schooling, medals, and all that rot. Why don’t you explain it to me. Please, I’d really like to hear what you have to say,” Spike scoffed, sarcastically.
“What’s the difference between doing something for fun once in a while and being addicted to something?”
“Again… you’re the one with all the degrees. Put it to good use, now.” Travers resisted rolling his eyes to Spike’s stubbornness and refusal to cooperate.
“I’m no expert at this, but this is what I think. I think that right now, you’re walking on a path – we can call it the path of life or perhaps the path of reality for our own sake. You’re snorting whatever rubbish is around at that time and it takes you off that path, leads you into some state of euphoria so you can forget about reality. Once or twice might not seem to be any harm, you always wake up on the same path and walk by the same path day by day.”
Spike remained silent and Travers continued.
“Then one day, you come to a fork in the road. One is marked reality, one is marked dream. You have a choice, William. You always have a choice. You choose reality and set the heroine or whatever you’re doing aside. You choose a blissful dream and you become an addict.”
Travers stopped as they crossed an intersection. People pushed passed them, hurriedly, in a rush to meet some appointment in another part of the city. There were a few venders out in the street, holding out signs and merchandise to entice them into buying something. The new shoes of businessmen clipped by them and the stiletto heels of classy woman clicked away quickly as the world went along on it’s daily business. They rounded a corner and turned into a park.
“So you’re saying I don’t face reality,” Spike took a puff from his cigarette and blew through his nose. An old lady walking her dog gave him a disgusted look and went the other direction.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Travers asked him. “What is it about your life that you’re trying to get away from?”
“The people. All the people wandering about their little lives with not a worry in the world. I hate them. I hate all of them.” Spike waved the cigarette into the air, gesturing wildly at the handful of people around them, some walking their dogs through the park, some jogging with headphones on, some just strolling around like they were.
“I can assure you, you’ll never get away from the people. Unless you strand yourself on an isolated island. Even then, the world tends to find a way to rescue you and bring you back.” Travers chuckled and Spike hiccupped. They wandered off the path and cut through the green grass towards a bench by the fountain, a short walk away.
“Nobody recognizes me,” Spike observed, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the filthy ashtray by the benches.
“Should they?”
“Dunno. Probably not,” he snorted a short laugh, “thing is that Dru promised they would. They seem to know me when I’m on the stage but here – I’m just another person.”
“Do you want them to recognize you?”
“’Suppose that’d be nice.”
“Do you want fame, William?”
“Thought I did. Not so sure anymore, though.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t rightly know,” Spike rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Can you stop with the bloody questions now? They’re giving me a sodding headache.”
They continued to walk quietly as the sun kept shining down on them.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I love Willow. Spike does deserve a good yelling, doesn't he?