One Word, Three Syllables 1/1

by Len

Spoilers: Hells Bells, sorta.

rating: R, for some rather naughty language.

Teaser: Answer to Mary's challenge to use Linkin Park's 'My December' in a fic.  A rather sad song, I thought, so was inspired to write this Introspective!Spike™ story.  I used 2 verses, but I couldn't get the rest to fit what I wanted to say. Buffy/Spike, Willow/Spike, allusions to Willow/Tara.

Dedication: For Mary, of course, and to Kendra A. and Poppy for being kick-ass writers (although I'm still ticked that Poppy's cutting us off from her stories), and to Angel S. and Mieke for being a kick-ass writers themselves, and always being so supportive.

Archive:  Kaz’s Near Her Always, Chelsea’s Breathe, Sekhmet’s Sanctuary, and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.

Notes:  Not a B/S shipper fic.  Sorry.  If you’re going to flame me for that, don’t read it.

Feedback:  Oh please!  Like you need to ask?  <beg> (and you can take that acronym any way you choose, lol.)

 

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

this is my december

this is my snow covered home

this is my december

this is me alone

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  He figured it was probably the only part of his human self he'd carried over after being changed - all vampires kept certain aspects of their mortal personalities.  Spike just wished he could have carried-over something a bit more...macho.

 

  Duster flowing out behind him, he strode down the street, away from the vampire-infested parts of town; away from any place Buffy was likely to be.  He didn't need to see her just now, didn't need to be reminded of his failure, his heartbreak.  His pathetic need to be loved and his ridiculous addiction to loving. 

 

   There was a spot he knew - actually, it was one Will had shown him once.  He remembered that night well.  It was the first time he'd really gotten to talk to the witch since he'd decided to go an enamor himself with the slayer.  Willow'd taken pity on his shattered state after Buffy's death, and dragged him out for a walk.  Spike had thought that she was probably running from her shaken relationship with the looney witch just as much as he was running from the emptiness of being all alone.  Again.

 

  It was above the town, but not overlooking it.  For that Spike was thankful.  He knew exactly what evil lurked the streets of Sunnydale, and to see it from on high, looking all peaceful and sickly-Capra-sweet was a mockery of those few peaceful dreams he still had left.  No, Willow's spot looked away from the town, away from the bright lights.  He turned his back on Sunnydale and looked away towards the foothills and the stars. 

 

  He ached all over - as if the beating his heart had taken left a physical mark on his body.  Addiction.  That's what it was, those were the symptoms.  It immediately made him think of the witch.  Spike was more like Willow than anyone would ever admit.  Or would they even see it?  Not likely.  As long as the witch didn't kill anyone with magical explosions, she was on her own.  And as long as he quit tormenting the Slayer, they wouldn't care if he dusted tomorrow.

 

  He sighed.  Then groaned and dragged a hand through his hair.  He was beginning to sound more whiney than the Brooding Poofter himself.  But who cared?  He could wallow in self-pity for a few hours then...go back home.  Alone.  And then go to sleep.  Alone.  Or hey - just to spice things up a bit - he could watch telly for a bit.  Alone, of course.  But who's counting?

 

  Spike was concentrating so hard on a particularly bright star in the sky that he almost didn't hear her approach.  Fortunately, the faintest crunching of gravel met his ears at the last moment.  It wouldn't do for the Big Bad to be seen jumping out of his skin from surprise.

 

   "Hey, Spike," she said quietly, not wanting to break the stillness.

 

   Spike nodded at her and turned back to the hills.  That was a fair bit of Providence, wasn't it?  Her just popping up like that?  Not that he was complaining.  He was struck suddenly by an absurd desire to cry, just because there was now someone who wouldn't hesitate to comfort him.  He could pretend that it was love and not pity that made her take him in her arms, and he could let the real world fade away for a bit.

 

  Fuck.  He was a love junkie, no doubt about it. 

 

  Willow seemed to understand his silence, and so after a moment, she sat down in the dirt and pulled on the bottom of his duster for him to do the same.  With a wry smile, he complied.

 

  "So, Will," he said breezily.  "How's the straight and narrow been treatin' you?"

 

  "Sometimes I think my head is going to explode," she replied calmly, "just from the aggravation of it all.  And you?  How's unlife been lately?  We don't see you around much anymore."

 

   He shrugged, unconsciously moving closer to her warmth.  "Well, you know how it is - liquor to drink, people to frighten.  Why?  You miss me?"

 

   She turned then, and gave him one of those peculiar Mona Lisa half-smiles.  "Of course."

 

   In that moment, Spike had a flash.  The ease with which she'd answered his half-serious joke nearly broke his heart again.  'I could have that,' he thought.  'Why *can't* I have that?'

 

   Because as much as he's addicted to the chase of love, Spike reckons he's probably addicted to the danger and tragedy of playing the romantic hero more.  He's gotten pretty damn good at playing the Lover over the years - so good, he's not even sure that it's in him anymore to play the Loved.

 

  Because every time that door slams in his face, he asks himself 'why?'.  And instead of torturing himself over why these women - Cecily, Dru, Buffy - why they can't let him in, maybe he needs to ask why he wants inside in the first place.

 

  Because next to him is a girl who has survived, and has the greatest capacity for caring he's ever seen.  And she scares the hell out of him.  Not because she could kill him - although she probably could if she really wanted to.  But because in her Spike can see himself falling. 

 

  And that's why he can't have her.  Because once he started falling with her, it would be forever.  He's known it since he first met her eyes, all those years ago.  And bugger it, he may be over a century old, but the concept of forever is so much bigger than them both that it scares him witless...

 

  So he'll continue on a coward.  He'll go out, find someone else to break his heart, and feel bloody good doing it.  And Willow will give herself to some other undeserving. 

 

  Maybe some day they'll meet up again where they are now.  He'll ask, 'You miss me?' and she'll smile again, and hold his hand and answer, 'Of course,' in the voice you only use when you're talking to someone you can't live without.

 

  But they're not ready for that yet, so Spike returns her smile with one of his own, and oh-so-casually reaches over to grab her hand.  She doesn't protest.  He finally relaxes, letting the still night air dull the sounds of his thoughts like a blanket of snow.  Pretending is enough for now.

 

   For now.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

this is my december

these are my snow covered dreams

this is me pretending

this is all i need

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

   The End