Pretty When You Cry

By Joanne

Blood... everywhere. The rich, deep colour coated their breath, bleached their skin, stained their clothes. Everyday it was the same, everywhere he went, everywhere he looked, it reminded him of what he was denied by some idiotic kids who wanted to play at being army pricks. And he wanted to revolt, wanted to do the appropriate thing and turn away. But the smell... the smell broke through his skin, through his senses. And attacked him.

Stripping him bare and leaving him wanting more. More.

He'd always wanted more... It didn't matter what form it came in as long as it was wrapped in the forbidden, he'd always wanted it, craved it, needed it to make him whole.

At first it was money. Money he'd thought was the answer to everything. Have enough of those dulling coins, those paper notes and it would fulfill his life completely. He can recall the feel of them in his hands when he was human. The history held by things so fragile and yet so deadly important to every living and undead thing. But at the same time they were nothing, shells of something that only existed in a world that was created by those who dared to perceive a life that didn't really exist.

Those aging yet timeless notes gave way to paper that he dared to create his own symphony upon. His perception of the world that he only wanted to share with one other. But he was ridiculed by the bitch that he poured his heart out to because she thought she was too fucking good for him.

"It's the same old story." He tells himself as he absent-minded flicks the ash off his cigarette. "Some slag comes along with an attitude that makes her too big for her pretty little shoes and she gives you the eye, shows you a bit of skin. Makes your head spin as you look at her. Your eyes traveling across a perfectly crafted little body that hides an interior that's enough to shatter any half-decent man's, or demon for that matter's heart. Her words that beg for you to touch her, to give her what she wants. Those delicate little words that fill your heart and make it soar like you never thought it could. And as soon as she's filled up your heart with all those shitty little gestures, they freeze... and turn your heart to ice before she crushes it, and it breaks into little shards that splinter your body and take away your soul.

By another.

Another who offers you so much more and doesn't even have to speak. You see it in her eyes. In those swimming hazel eyes that speak so bloody much. Words don't have to grace a mouth like she has. Like plums, so dark and ripe and inviting. A touch is all it takes, a deadly kiss that was placed upon my neck. A neck that still bares an eternal friggin' scar."

He takes a swig from the bottle, doesn't even notice as you edge further away from him. From this man that is so obviously broken in too many ways. One foot to the ground. Then another. Until you're standing on both feet and he's taking another swig and lost in thought. Both feet are then suddenly moving and you run away. As fast as you can, you run away like leaves being spread by a merciless wind.

"Fuck, i'm sounding like the great poof himself. All I have to do is cause a bit of havoc, steal another man's girl and plan to take over the god-damn world."

The bottle falls to the ground like his heart. Breaking into the infinite number of shards that won't be counted. His eyes follow them. Piercing blue eyes that change tone with emotion and yet he can't see it, can only sense it like so much these days. Sense when he's being taken for a ride, sense when the woman he's built his life around goes off and shags her sire because he got himself banged up in a wheelchair trying to save her.

"Poetic justice." The words stumble from moist lips that are soaked in alcohol and bittersweet memories.

He should have known better than to have run back to her like some bleedin' puppy that's all lost without its owner. But that's what he is and he'll never admit it. Like he'll never admit to the real reason he keeps Harmony around. That she'll never be able to break his heart because he's the one with the words that edge further into hers, and when it's time he'll let them freeze leaving her lying in a pool of her own blood that still reeks of so much innocence. Just like he thinks Willow's would taste like. He doesn't think much about the witch, well he tries not to. Because he has Dru or at least he wishes he does. Wishes she was still twirling in his arms, dark hair contrasting with ivory skin. Such the opposite of the fiery red hair that spills around Willow's face and perfectly formed neck, that was, for a moment *his* for the taking. He ponders at this point what kind of vampire she would have made.

A smile flickers across his pale face that's covered in jagged lines. They are caused by the shadows of the bar making his smile look hard, reflecting the pure evil in his thoughts. He likes to think about how he'll get his own back. To him, revenge is a dish that's best served without warning nor expectancy. Unlike the warnings he gives to the Slayer and her own little puppies that follow her around.

He hates himself for turning into one of those puppies and he's determined to stop it happening again. That's why he bides his time in this place. Wondering how a gun wound would look between hard eyes on that dainty little face, and through that body that dares to stay so unscathed battle after battle. The pain in his head is numbed by the alcohol that fills his body with the evil and he grins openly now.

But it quickly fades as reality comes crashing down on him.

*She* dared to push him away like all the others. Wouldn't even open up her heart to him. He didn't want it but that wasn't the point, it should have been his for the taking. He's always wanted more. The forbidden... A Slayer... And Angelus' at that. No... he didn't love nor want her, but he needed it like a trophy to hang on the wall of his crypt. Something to gaze upon and play the kill over and over again in his head for as long as eternity should be.

And with that thought he throws a bundle of cash on the counter and pushes himself off the hard wooden stool he's occupied for the better half of the night, and staggers to the door.

Stone walls in every direction he turns as he moves around the small crypt that he likes to call home. Well... it was home until he got back with Harmony, now it's only the place he has to stay during the daylight hours. Or when he's in need of release and knows that there's someone there just desperate to fuck him. Because that's what it is. A good fuck, no love involved because he can't afford to. Love isn't an option these days.

Facial expression knot into those of a madly grinning mad man, as he discovers the old trunk he's been looking for.

"Spike, what are you doing?"

That whiny voice dares to break through his thoughts and he replies, wondering why when they have conversations he feels like he's addressing a child. "**Because the bitch is you twit,** his inner voice comments.**Just like the Slayer.**

"Beneath me... I'll show her." Mumbled, still thinking.

He finds it, a double-barreled shotgun. Concentration as he cracks the breech and loads two rounds.

"Put her six bloody feet beneath me. Hasn't got a death wish? Bitch won't need one."

"Okay, I'm trying to be supportive here so don't drive a stake through my heart like last time, but you can't kill Buffy. She's the Slayer. She is so gonna kick your ass."

"I've got two barrels here that'll prove you wrong."

"I knew you'd take this personally. You are so sensitive! How are you going to kill her? Think! The second you even point that thing at her, you're gonna be all ahhh!" She holds her hand to her head in mock pain. "And then you'll get bitch-slapped up and down Main Street unless she's had enough and just stakes you!"

He tries to shake off the extreme need to roll his eyes at this moron who someone had the idiocity to sire. "Sure, it'll hurt like hell for about two hours..."

Suddenly he grabs Harmony by the neck and twists. She gasps in pain.

The flickering smile appears again. "But she'll be dead just a little longer than that."

Disgusted he tosses her aside, not wanting that negative, boy-band energy to infiltrate his body and he makes a run for it but her voice follows him.

"Fine! But don't come crying to me when you fail. You couldn't kill her before you got the chip. You had plenty of chances!"

Curling blue trains appear and disappear continuously as he smokes from the shadows. Knowing that he's probably giving himself away but doesn't care.

A Slayer. A forbidden fruit that tastes of vanilla and power and the weight of the world. Those kisses caused by the witch's spell still haunt his dreams. Laughing faces merging from one to another, all the time with that knowing look in their eyes, the flirtatious smiles and then BANG! The pitiful words as they scuffle his heart repeatedly into the ground.

His ears prick up at the sound of the back door opening. And *she* walks out.

He lets a small indifferent sigh spill from his own lips. "After all," he notes silently. "This won't be happening again... I feel kinda sad," then there's a beat and he shrugs. "Or maybe not."

Moving forward now he strides purposefully towards her. The gun in his hands, reassuring him like those dulling coins, paper notes and symphonies did at one time. It raises in his hands, edging him on and he cocks it, the power surging through his body.

She looks up at him, her face wet with fresh dewy tears.

Tears.

"Oh god-damn you heart-stealin' slags," he wants to shout at the night sky that's decorated with stars. Dru's stars.

"What do you want now?"

He goes to pull the trigger, so completely wants to pull the bloody trigger, and stop this dance, that if he carries on a moment longer knows he is sure to lose.

But those tears that escape from her eyes right now are reflecting so much pain. And he wonders if he's looking into a mirror.

"What's wrong?" He can't remember saying it.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Is there something I can do?" The gun's now lowered.

She says nothing but the tears are still falling.

Then he's sitting down, his hand's moving and patting her back. Realising what he's doing and the awkwardness of the situation, he falters and just sits there. The silence pricking him. The hand's now down in his lap, clenching into a fist. And it happens again. The mounted head disappears from his crypt wall along with the others because he realises that there are somethings you just can't do. Like stop history repeating itself.

And stop loving someone.

...Or find a decent Chinese takeaway on a hellmouth.

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