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Author's Chapter Notes:
Didn't say it before, but a big thank you to everyone who took the time to review! This is an old fanfic I started years ago, so all your wonderful comments are very encouraging!
When I accepted Oz's offer to go out tonight, I did so under the impression that it would be just us blokes with the exception of Willow, whom I look on so platonically, she becomes nearly male in my eyes anyway. I can see now it’s all one big trick.

As soon as I arrive at the Bronze, I feel a cold chill spread within me as I approach Oz's table. I’ve entered the nauseating kingdom of Coupledom.

They're all there with their honeys. Oz is there with Willow, Xander with Anya, and Gunn with Fred. They look so damned smug, I could kill them.

"Hey, Spike!" Willow greets me a little too cheerfully, as if she thinks she can compensate for my obvious lack of cheer. "How goes the wonderful world of music retail?"

I shrug. "It . . . goes." I turn to look darkly around the club while I start chugging my beer. They all exchange worried glances.

"Happy you came out, man," Gunn says, slapping me on the back like a school counselor. "Feels like we haven't hung out for awhile."

I give him a look. Our record store is a ghost town, thereby qualifying our jobs as “occupational hang-out-time”. And that’s not the only reason the statement seems less than comforting. Before, I was too busy with Buffy to have a Guy's Night Out. He’s just drawing attention to the fact that I've been relieved of my more enjoyable burdens. Taking a long swig of beer, I squint at him a little and grunt, "Yeah."

"I'm glad you could make it too," Fred adds in her alert, nervous way. "The band that's playing tonight is supposed to be great."

"That's what Oz said." I'm cold, menacing and gloomy, but I don't care.

Fred looks like she just insulted my dead granny. "Oh. R-right."

"Right."

Two minutes with the gang and I've already brought the atmosphere plummeting down, good n’ proper. They're struggling, I can tell. Oz must have told them what happened. Xander seems especially fidgety. I guess he feels guilty after our little skirmish at work.

"So Spike . . ." he starts in the same annoyingly placating tone Gunn uses, "How are you doing?" He tries to give me an over-exaggerated nod of sympathetic worry and it makes me feel like a friggin’ orphan.

I explode, unable to keep up this charade any longer. "Oh, for FUCK'S sake!"

It has unnerved them and they reach for me, "Oh, Spike!" I'm suddenly attacked by Fred and Xander, who both scoop me into a bone-crushing hug. "It'll be all right! We promise! It’s okay!”

I push them off of me, revolted. "I implore you, in the name of everything holy, don't ever do that again."

Fred rubs my back soothingly, and Xander looks close to tears. "Just let it out buddy, let it all out."

Extracting myself from them, I grumble, "There's nothing to let out. Please, the lot of you, no need to get your knickers in a twist over me."

"We're just concerned about you, Spike, that's all," Willow pipes up. "We know how . . . well . . . how upset you get over things like this."

“Things like this.” I know exactly what she means by "things like this." She is referring to Dru, who set me on the path of ruin I walk down today. She is referring to the long stretches of dejection and self-loathing that always follow each break-up.

"That's very considerate of you. But I don't bloody need your concern. I'm fine.”

"Spike, it's not good to wallow in denial," Xander coos. "We're your friends. We're here for you to lean on."

"Seems to me if Spike doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to talk about it," Anya notes indifferently, studying her nails. I smile gratefully at her. She's probably the only one amongst the bunch who can rival me in dryness. Her blatant disregard for subtlety and tact runs so extreme that sometimes I wonder if she's from another planet or dimension. Maybe Canada. Whatever it is, I appreciate her right now.

But she continues. "He’s obviously so miserable in the wake of Buffy’s departure that he needs to repress." I rescind all appreciative comments.

"Nice girl you got there, Harris," I growl. Xander, red with embarrassment, puts his arm around Anya.

"Remember the thing we talked about, hun?" he says through a tight smile.

"That thing where you told me I'm not supposed to point out how pathetic Spike's situation is?"

Xander chuckles uncomfortably and jabs Anya in the ribs. "Right. Do that."

I sigh. "This was a huge mistake. I shouldn't have come." Uproar follows as they plead with me to stay, but I shake my head. "Sod it all. I'm going home.” I start to mutter something about reorganizing my records, but then I stop and groan. Buffy's coming over to gather her things. I can't be there. Fuck. First, I'm suddenly single, now I'm homeless. "Damn it. I can't go home."

"You bet your bottom dollar you can't go home!" Fred exclaims in her bright Texan drawl. "You'd be missing out some fun high jinks, Mister!"

I look blankly around. Fred, Gunn, Oz, Willow, Anya and Xander stare back at me with piss-warm bottles of beer in their hands. This is not exactly Fun Central.

"Look at it this way, English," Gunn reasons. "There are worse places to be. Look around, smell the hotties. You have a whole club-load of them at your disposal."

Willow frowns at Gunn. "Gunn, don't encourage him to get back in the game so early --"

But my mind's already turning at the suggestion. "No, Willow, wait. Gunn's right." I gaze around me at all the scantily-clad specimens giving me come-hither looks. "Maybe a distraction is the way to go."

She furrows her eyebrows, dismayed. "Spike, you and Buffy haven't been broken up forty-eight hours and already you're looking for other girls --"

"Hey! She left me, all right? I'm just trying to play the cards she dealt me." I give her a hard, sharp look that silences her immediately. I turn away and contemplate this new idea.

Yeah. Maybe another girl would be the cure. After all, I'm not obligated to anyone any more. Not only will I get a shag, but it'll probably make Buffy's blood boil, and I definitely like that idea. Satisfied, I straighten the lapels of my black duster, try out the old smirk and look around at all the other fishes in the sea. That's right, ladies. Big Bad Spike is back in town.




Nearly two hours later, I'm on my seventeenth cigarette, sulking in the corner. Plan New Girl has failed miserably. It's like I'm transported back to junior high school, before Cecily or anyone else ever touched me. Deep down, under the layers of leather and black, I'm still uncool, sheepishly shy William. And I'm totally inept at the flirting thing. I've attempted it with many girls who give me an inviting smile, but as soon as I open my mouth, I get hopelessly choked up and gasp for air. Disgusted and puzzled, the girls will walk away while I'm left wheezing for my life. And as I suffocate on my own social clumsiness, I come to one conclusion.

Buffy’s ruined me for anyone else.

I go over to Oz, who's laughing with Willow. "I'm heading out," I mumble, throwing a thumb in the door's direction.

"What? You can't. The band hasn't started yet."

"Yeah, well they're two hours late. I could need a hip replacement by the time they start."

"Hey, come on, stay. It's a good show. The drummer's my friend, he told me --"

The lights darken, and a colored spotlight hits the stage. The crowd goes quiet as the band goes over their sound check.

"See? You can't leave now. You're still in the prime of life, and they're starting. It's win-win."

I sigh and begin counting the minutes 'til I leave. Moment I get up to fifteen, I'm out the door. Nursing my fifth Heineken this evening, I don't even notice the band’s started ‘til a smooth, velvety voice soars across a pair of jangling guitars that strum a moody intro. I look up and see a girl holding the microphone like she’s holding . . . well something else. She’s cloaked by the dark stage, but I can still make out her curvaceous figure undulating like a snake to the music. Unconsciously intrigued, I raise an eyebrow. The spotlight illuminates the girl suddenly, so that I get a full view of her.

And she’s bloody hot.

She’s wearing knee-high stiletto boots and a skin-tight leopard dress that barely covers her appealingly tanned and muscular thighs. Her arms are covered with tats and I find myself staring at a bosomy pin-up girl decorating her upper bicep. Her eyes are heavily kohl-lidded and her full lips are painted a particularly enticing plum color.

“I love you . . . less,” she sings, breathy and husky in a way that makes me nervous. “Yesterday was a better day . . .”

"Who's that?" I murmur with my eyes still fixed on the stage.

"That's Veruca," Oz nods. "She’s pretty cool.”

Willow scrunches up her faces and studies her closely. "I dunno. She's kinda giving off this Courtney Love vibe and that’s not a good thing."

Xander arrives with drinks and snacks. "What’re we talking about?"

"We're discussing the band's singer and her poseur factor. What do you think of her?"

Xander squints and smiles dreamily. "I don't know about poseur, but from what I see, the girl's got quite a set of --" Anya slaps him upside the head just in time. ". . . Vocal chords.”

"What do you think of her, Spike?" Fred asks, turning to me while I'm still in a glazed state.

"Uh -- wha…? Oh. Umm. She's not so bad." By not so bad, I mean highly shaggable. This Veruca chick looks right up my alley. She's cute and talented and . . . I mentioned highly shaggable? Anyway, she looks like she'd fit me. Buffy always looked too clean for me somehow. It’d always be strange to see her grab one of my Sex Pistols shirts in the morning as she’d pad into the bathroom clad in J. Crew slippers. I can imagine this Veruca in my "God Save the Queen" shirt, though. We'd make a regular Sid and Nancy.

But when I start seriously thinking about Veruca, with her hair all tousled and her legs peeking out of my shirt, I get nervous with how much I want her. For some reason, I can't leave it off there. It's twisted. The only woman I've wanted for a long time has been Buffy, so lust for any other woman makes me think of her. It's almost habitual. It's like I want Veruca so much that it stops being about Veruca and becomes more about the simple feeling of physical yearning, which in turn makes me remember the feeling of wanting Buffy. And suddenly, I'm filled with an intense, aching longing for her. My mind is a warped and perverse instrument.

I'm caught in this wistful daze that Anya shakes me roughly out of. "Spike. Spike." She turns to Xander. "I think that's it. He's finally gone nuts."

"’Aven’t," I mutter without looking at her. "I'm just enjoying the show."

"Enjoying the show or enjoying Veruca?" Fred teases coyly. I've been found out.

"Aww, homeboy's blushing!" Gunn adds with a smile. I look over at Willow, and she looks less than pleased. I suppose she thinks she's being loyal to her best friend. If only she knew that’d my twisted brain is on her side, despite myself. I take Willow's consternation as an excuse to duck out.

"Well, kiddies, I'm all tuckered out," I say, faking a yawn. "I'm going home."

Xander waggles his eyebrows at me. "Oh come on, Spike, don't you want to ogle your new crush for the rest of the set?"

If I ogle Veruca any more, I'll miss Buffy so much, I'll die. “Man vs. Wild marathon’s on the telly. Can't miss it."

Willow puts a hand on my arm before I leave. "Hey. You think we could meet up tomorrow at the Espresso Pump? I wanted to talk, just the two of us. Wanted to talk more about . . . you know."

I really don't know, but I'm assuming it's something Buffy-related. Maybe she thinks she can intervene somehow. I see that look in her eyes. She thinks we should get back together. Maybe her hope is enough to make it happen. I nod. "Sure, Red. Whatever you want."

"We know what you want, Spikey." Xander gives me a grin, cocking his head at the stage. Everyone titters knowingly, but before anyone else can make a crack about Veruca, I'm gone.




I enter the apartment with a sigh and throw the keys on the side table in the foyer. But then I glance to see Buffy's camel-colored suede coat splayed across a chair, and I stiffen. Gingerly, I creep to the bedroom where I find her sitting on the bed, staring at an old picture of us, taken a summer day at the Sunnydale Marina. She's hunched over, and I rejoice when I think she's crying, but she hears me and turns, dropping the picture on the bed. Her eyes are bloodshot, but she's not fully weeping the way I’d like.

"Spike."

I shift uncomfortably, but loiter near the door. " Sorry, I thought you'd be done by now, I didn't think --"

"No, it's okay. I think I have the last of it anyway." She motions to the pile of bags lying in the corner, and it surprises me how little space it takes up. It seems like she occupied so much more of my life than six duffel bags and a couple small boxes.

There's a silence that follows, mostly caused by both of our reluctance to move. Gazing away from her, I close my eyes and bang my head against the doorframe. I can hear her get up to put a light hand on my shoulder, and a surge of electricity racks my whole body. Opening my eyes, I shake my head. "It doesn't make any sense, Buffy," I whisper softly. Her whole body seems to go limp in dismay, but I continue in haste. "I know I've been a cad. A horrible bounder. But I've always been a horrible bounder. This is old news. Why is it suddenly an issue?"

"Because you haven't changed, and I have. I might have been okay with you being a bounder before, but I need to move on. I need to grow up."

"Oh, fucking please. Forty-eight hours ago, you didn't feel the need to grow up. We were happy. Are you telling me you've aged ten years in one day?"

"This isn't sudden. You had to know it was coming. We haven't been happy for a long time. Face it, you haven't been happy for a long time.”

"Okay. So again, this is about me. You say it's not my fault, then you say it is."

She grits her teeth and throws her hands up in frustration. I take that as a good sign. It's more feeling I've seen her emit since the start of this thing. "Spike! You can't be this oblivious!"

"Oblivious to what?"

"You know why I left?" she rages. "Because you wanted me to."

"Don't fucking start this psychological mumbo-jumbo --"

"I'm serious. You're always so miserable because you're so afraid that I'll leave you. You use that as an excuse not to get on with your life. So I thought I'd do you a favor and just give in to what you always knew I'd do."

"So this is for my good?!" Honestly. Women make absolutely no sense. "And I'll tell you why I'm miserable! I'm miserable because my girlfriend has it in her stupid, silly head that she suddenly can't stand me and my so-called depressed ways."

She tries to move past me, trying to juggle some bags and boxes. "I told you we'd only get into a fight --"

"Well, get this into your head, pet." I grab her arm and whirl her back against the wall. Her bags and boxes clatter to the floor. I smash my lips against hers, plundering her mouth with my tongue. She wants to pretend that it's not real anymore, so I show her just how real it is, how real it's always been.

It's almost scary how deep and consuming the kisses are still. It's bitter and painful, but blinding and overwhelming at the same time. My heart is throbbing in my throat, I feel dizzy, and my knuckles are white against her slender arms. She's moving against me, wriggling her head back and forth to give me different angles of access. Not only that, but she’s clutching me as well, letting her nails dig into my shoulders, and I hear her moaning small little whimpers into my mouth. Just when I think we’re lost back into that glorious place where nothing matters except our lips and sex, she slips out from under me, brushing past. I'm left with my forehead against the wall as her footsteps clatter frantically against the floor. She scurries out the door and slams it with quaking strength. I shut my eyes tightly and restrain the impulse to thrust my fist through the wall.

Everything's fucking topsy-turvy. The distractions only make me concentrate on Buffy more. The "good" life she's letting me have by leaving is much worse than our "miserable" existence together. I'll never understand it.





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