thedeadlyhook

I'm writing essays again! After a long hiatus with the whole laptop failure disaster, I'm back on track with my essay-writing, and if all goes well, may even get a major site update done before the Angel hiatus is over, even with all the fic-writing the hubby and I are doing. Not so sure about the redesign, although that's part of the plan too. Time flies. We'll see what I can get done.

But on the fic-writing note... I found this old story kicking around on my hard drive and just for the hell of it, I thought I'd post it here (the fact that the next couple of installments of "Bad Trip" are going to be heavy on stuff I wrote as opposed to the hubby have nothing to do with it... well, sort of). I'd read a couple of stories based on Kantayra's "Practically Perfect" challenge - don't rememeber where, but it was in my notes for the fic - and I'd done a little Buffy/Spike vignette in that vein. It's nothing to do with the original challenge, but the base idea is still there, vaguely - what Buffy would have changed about Spike, if she could (this is set roughly around the time of "Storyteller"). In retrospect, it's funny how comfortable I'd felt in Buffy's head back when I thought they might be going somewhere with her, or the 'ship... I didn't exactly like her, but I somehow felt like I could write where her head was at. I dunno.

..........

"What is this?"

The riotous laughter that had been echoing through the house came to an abrupt stop.

Buffy glared around the sunny living room. The teenage girls who had only a moment ago been giggling like teens at a slumber party had frozen, locked in a guilty tableau. A furiously blushing Vi quickly closed the magazine she held clutched in her hands. The rest redirected their gazes to the floor, the walls... anywhere but at the irritated Slayer, who was giving off every sign of gearing up for a long lecture.

Dawn, draped over an armchair near the edge of the group, rolled her eyes.

"I said," Buffy began evenly, ignoring her sister. "What is this? Daytime pajama party? The end of the world's on the way and you figure there's time for..."

"We were just reading, is all," Vi spoke up. Her face was still bright red, and her eyes were trained on the pages in front her her, but her voice was steady.

"Reading what?"

"Just a magazine, that's all. It had this quiz. Y'know, about guys and, a-and we were... y'know, just... uh, I mean..."

Buffy sighed. "Girls, don't you think you could find something a little more constructive to do in the countdown to the apocalypse than read the Cosmo quiz? I mean, we're..."

"It's not a quiz. It's a chart," Molly spoke up. "A personality match chart. Me mum used to make them, from astrologies. Girls wanting to know if their boyfriends were a good match. She'd tell them if they fit together based on the stars." She shifted uncomfortably for a moment under Buffy's intense glare, looked away.

The hall clock announced the hour, letting out a booming chime. No one flinched.

Buffy let the silence spin for a moment. Honestly. She took a deep breath, listened to the ticking clock, and counted to ten. "Look, girls. I know things are hard right now. I know it's hard to concentrate, and maybe it feels like you just can't handle the pressure anymore, but you've got more important things to think about right now. Like training. Training to take on the forces of evil. I mean seriously, boys or boyfriends, or potential boyfriends should be the last thing on your minds when..." she began.

"Hey Buffy, you never told us. How did your date go? You know, with the principal?" Dawn's voice had that blaring quality of a little sister who knew damn well what kind of trouble she was getting big sis into.

Buffy turned slowly and locked narrowed eyes with her sister. Dead, you are so dead, she found herself thinking. You are SO in for extra chore duty after this. Like, until the end of time.

"It went fine. Completely work-related levels of fine," she gritted.

"Uh-huh."

"Look, can you..." Buffy trailed off, and heaved an exasperated sigh. What was the point? Dawn's little interruption had done its work. The girls were already looking at her with that waiting expression she'd gotten all too familiar with, like she was a comedian who'd forgotten the punch line. Oh, forget it.

"Fine. Whatever," Buffy huffed out. "Don't listen to me. Do what you want! You want to giggle over some teen hottie? Be my guest. I'll be downstairs." She mentally slapped herself even as the words were leaving her mouth. "Working!" she added, with perhaps a little too much emphasis. Stupid!

"We were charting the guys in this house," Kennedy chimed in. Buffy wheeled around to look at the dark-haired girl, slouching in the armchair in a way that Buffy found unconciously irritating. Kennedy reminded her of kids at school who started fights - a little something in the eyes, a little challenge in the voice. Don't let her get to you, she found herself thinking, although she could already feel her reaction - teeth clenching, face getting hot. Think of Willow. She's close to Willow. That's a good thing. Good for Willow.

"It was kinda funny. You know," Kennedy continued, meeting her eyes coolly. "Figuring things out. Matching people up. Like Molly said." She lifted a shouder in a shrug, gave her an appraising look that seemed to last a little too long, then looked away. "It was something to do," she finished. End of story, her voice seemed to silently add. The other girls followed her lead, looking everywhere but at Buffy.

As if that didn't just prove my point! she thought, taking in the girls' distracted manner, their weird discomfort. We've got work to do! Anger rose up in her like a tide. She marched up to Vi and snatched the magazine.

Dawn let out a snort of disgust. "Wow, touchy much?"

"Don't you start," Buffy bit out. "Out of everyone, you should know better," she started to say, but felt the air go out of her argument, because all of a sudden he was there. Even without the familiar prickle at the back of her neck to warn her, the wafting scent of cigarette smoke told her exactly where he was, right at her back. And any second now he was going to open his mouth, and then she could just kiss the last shreds of her authority goodbye. Perfect. All I need. she fumed silently.

"Oh c'mon, pet. Let them have their fun, why don't you. Not like there's all else to do."

Right on schedule.

She turned, slowly. Folded her arms. Glared at him. He smirked back, and took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Did I or didn't I say something about smoking in the house?"

He raised an eyebrow at that.

"Maybe. Don't remember. If you worked it into one of your longer speeches, I might not have noticed." He lifted one shoulder in a dimissive shrug, a little too much like Kennedy's gesture for comfort, took another drag on his cigarette, blew it out, then inclined his head toward the girls. "Ta, ladies," he rumbled, flashed a quick, toothy smile, then swept out, dark coat flicking at his heels.

Trust Spike to make walking through the living room on the way to the kitchen into a big dramatic exit. Showoff, she grumbled to herself. She turned back to the girls with thoughts of finishing her lecture, or whatever she'd meant to say, and abandoned the idea after the first glance. They were giving her that look again. That something's-going-on look.

"No. More. Magazines," she said stiffly, and stalked out of the room.

..........

He'd already left the kitchen by the time she passed through. She hadn't heard the microwave running. Probably already had his daily blood dose then. She checked the sink. Yep, one congealed yuck coffee mug waiting there for her to wash out.

So much for today's emotional weather report, she thought, snapping on the faucet and rinsing out the offending piece of dishware with hard, angry motions.

He was mad at her. Not like she needed an interpreter to explain. And he was making sure she noticed too - all his lousier habits were back in full force. The smoking and the snarking and the disgusting blood guzzling. Just because he knew how much she hated them.

Better than the alternative, she thought grimly. Let him be Mr. Annoying. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Just like I told them. Not the time.

She shut off the water and dropped the cup into the sink drainer. It wasn't the old "Kiss the Librarian" mug from Giles' place, but a new one emblazoned with the Sunnydale high school logo. She didn't bother to dry it. Everyone knew it was his - whether she'd been the one to originally "liberate" it from the teacher's lounge or he had, it hardly mattered. No one else would touch it.

Flinging water from her hands with an impatient motion, she flung the back door wide and left it open, feeling a burst of petty satisfaction as the kitchen flooded with sunlight. At least she would be ensured of privacy from the daylight-challenged for a little while. She stretched out her sore limbs across the porch steps, smiling at the thought.

It was a bright day. There had been light rain the night before, and droplets glittered on the treetops as she looked out over the yard. A cool breeze lifted the leaves as she stretched her face up to meet the sun, enjoying the warmth. She felt a sudden, intense craving for a deep, dark tan. Skin cancer, not really a worry right now, she reminded herself, wiggling her toes in her sandals.

The minutes ticked by. The pleasure of sitting in the sun aside, she was actually kind of bored. She leafed through the purloined magazine with a distracted air, not really all that curious. She'd read magazines like this once. They'd been her guidebooks to life - fashion and beauty and gorgeous clothes. Now she couldn't remember the last time she'd looked at one. The thick, glossy paper felt downright foreign between her fingers.

Next week, all these people could all be gone, she reminded herself, staring at a photo of a model in an outfit she made a mental note of even while she mentally critiqued the whole idea of caring about fashion at a time like this. The fashion models could be dead. The photographers. The people at the printing plant. The editors. All those people who make annoying telemarketing calls. All deader than disco. And it could happen anytime.

"Gonna sit out here sulking all day then?" Spike's voice drifted from behind her.

Startled, she turned to look. Against all expectations, there he was, hovering at the edge of the porch, tucked securely in the one spot of shade the morning light had to offer, a little area protected by the overhang of the house.

Her eyes followed the line of the roof to the awning, and then back to him. He met her gaze coolly, expression just this side of bored, as if he'd just happened to find himself in the same place that she was. Buffy found herself staring over his shoulder, measuring the distance between where he stood and the open door. At least ten feet of strong sunshine. There was a light haze of smoke in the air. She drew a breath, unaware until that moment that she'd been holding it.

"Do you ever not do that?" she heard herself asking. "The whole courting death by sunshine thing?"

He copied her gesture, eyes drifting up to the awning for a minute, then back to her.

"Hadn't really thought about it," he replied mildly.

No, you wouldn't, would you? You just go where you think you need to. She turned away, willing herself not to notice that his voice had been soft this time, the silent invitation to talk. She really shouldn't have chosen the porch for her time-out. It was where they'd always talked before. He'd probably taken it as a sign.

I asked for this, she reminded herself, barely even aware of the subject change in her own mind. I asked for dangerous Spike.

She couldn't have it both ways.

Her eyes fell to the magazine in her hand and she idly began leafing through the pages again. Behind her, she heard the snap of his lighter, the familiar creak of leather. A door slammed somewhere in the house. Buffy sighed, hard.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asked without looking, aware of the irritated edge in her voice, glad for it. Not like she'd asked him to come out here. She turned the pages angrily, snapping the paper in fast, jerky motions.

It wasn't until a minute or so had gone by that she realized he hadn't answered.

She turned to look, brow knitting in frustration. He was still there, but his posture was stiff now, one hand drifting at his side with a cigarette clenched tight in his fingers, eyes narrowed. Their gazes locked for a moment, and she saw his shoulders slump, as if bearing up under a sudden heavy weight, and her stomach answered with an odd little clench.

He looked away first. "Right then. I get the message. Won't bother you," he muttered, dropping his cigarette to the boards and grinding it out with his boot. He stared toward the kitchen door in a long glare, as if gathering his nerve.

Buffy watched these motions with a gathering frown. She didn't really want to see him dash back through the sunlight, and knew on some instinctual level that he'd rather she didn't see it either. There was something embarrassing in it, like the way he'd felt about her telling the principal about his soul. Like the shock in his face when she'd dressed him down in front of the others. It was like... making fun of him somehow. His failed attempts to reach her.

Unbidden, the image popped into her mind of another morning, of him bursting through her kitchen door under a smoking blanket. Slamming the door and rattling the shade. Stamping out the smoke. Then acting all casual, saying he was "just out for a stroll." A bewildered Willow holding a spatula.

A helpless giggle bubbled out of her before she could stop it. She tried to choke it back, failed. His eyes turned to hers, the obvious hurt in them disappearing quickly behind a hard glare.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself," he snarled.

"I'm not," she answered, and felt a smile quirking her lips as she said it. "But... I was just thinking. That I could be. Or I would have, anyway... if you still were who you were then. You know. When we first met. The 'vampire who tried to kill me'? I would have laughed myself sick to see your hair on fire."

She bit her lip then, trying not to smile too widely. The look of startled panic in his eyes had been worth it. At her reminder, he made a nervous, smoothing gesture, sweeping his hands through his hair, then wrinkled his brow and shot her an irritated glance. Her smile got even broader.

"You know, there'll be shade in front of the door in a few minutes," she said calmly, turning back to the magazine and tossing her hair, as if she were still that tanned girl at the beach she'd been once upon a time. Her fingers lingered over the glossy photos, examining each one as if they were transmitting very important signals from The World of the Fashion Gods. There was a moment of quiet.

And the creature behind her let out an exasperated sigh, coat rustling as he settled in to wait.

She let herself relax, and turned to the next page. "Is He Your Perfect Match?" the headline blared. There were pen and pencil scribbles where the girls had filled in the quiz, noting their own personal scores with a scattering of letters and numbers, like a secret code. She was sure that her own name was tucked in there somewhere.

"Whatcha looking at?" he asked, finally. Never could be quiet for long, she remembered.

"Just some quiz," she answered, and let her eyes drift over the questions. Huh. Do you share similiar interests?

"Gotta pen?" she mumbled, and glanced over her shoulder. He stared at her, mouth open, then let out a little snort of laughter.

"Could make a dash for one." He smirked as he said it, but his eyes were soft. She couldn't help smiling back.

Creature of the night, she thought with amused irony, her eyes taking in his shaded face, the sunlit backyard just over his shoulder. One step back, and he'd be in full daylight. Unlife on the edge. Her smile faded a little.

"Nah. I'm good," she said quietly, and turned her gaze back to the page.

[end]