Author: Robin the Crossover Junkie

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Chosen

Disclaimer: I have a half a glass of wine and a half a pack of cigarettes, and NO you can’t have any.

Notes: Dedicated to Lazuli and Sheep and everyone else I haven’t seen in forever. *hugs* Oh, look, a drabble!



His eyes are the exact same color of a blue cashmere sweater Kennedy bought Willow for her last birthday, before they broke up, but unlike the soft, pliant fabric, his eyes are brittle like the ice was last March when we went to Canada to find another Slayer. Before he came back.

Things have been…shaky, since he came back. Things with Buffy are strained, things with all of us are strained because everything is strained, not least of all Spike. He doesn’t know how to deal with it, not being dead anymore. He was dead for too long, constantly burning in fire, but never burning up. We can’t have a fireplace.

He let his hair grow out, and the white’s all gone, replaced by a caramel brown, the color of peanut brittle. He bought new Docs, and constantly complains about how uncomfortable they are, and how they need to be broken in by kicking in a few heads, while he sucks on a cigarette, his hand shaking, nearly imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it. But he sees the glowing tip of that thin, white cylinder, and all he can think about is that it’s burning.

Our relationship is delicate, too, though I never thought I’d be using the word “delicate” in relation to Spike. But I can, now, and know that it’s true. His handwriting is delicate, his cheekbones are delicate, like fine china, and his sanity is delicate.

I hate that he’s so breakable. There was a time when he could get a chunk of rebar through his shoulder and just get mad, kick ass a little harder, and grumble about it for a few hours. Last time he got a chunk of rebar through his shoulder, he had to get a tetanus shot, stitches, and weeks of rest. His arm still doesn’t lift all the way up.

There was also a time when a burning cigarette didn’t phase him, when the thought of crawling out of a hole didn’t haunt his nightmares, when he could sleep properly because he didn’t have that pesky thump-thump rattling through his brain in a perfect, balanced rhythm.