Title: Who Were You
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: Spike took some things to heart in the episode "Who Are You", and he decides to act.
Spike hurled the broken TV at the wall of the crypt with all his strength, watching as it exploded in a small shower of sparks and an electronic sizzle. He was breathing heavily, he was about to tear his home apart, and he felt like his head was going to explode any moment.
Two days since that night at the Bronze, and he was already suffering from what he hadn't done. Maybe someone should have told Buffy that there were things that you just didn't say to guys to see what effect they had upon impact. There were usually only three ways it could turn out: good, bad or just plain horny. It was just his fault that he had settled for the latter. Sitting down on the stone tomb in the middle of his crypt, Spike buried his head in his hands. He should have told himself that there were certain 'rules' that he wasn't supposed to even contemplate breaking. He had gone ahead and broken all of them anyway.
And in addition to that, he had broken all of what he had learned to call 'The Vampire's Guide to the Commandments, Numbers 1 through 16'. In reality, it was just a few random thoughts he had scrawled down onto a piece of paper the previous night, just so he could assess how bad his situation really was.
The paper was sitting on the tomb next to him, and he picked it up, reading it over for the millionth time, hoping to get something through his head. A direct statement, maybe.
"I. You aren't supposed to be kidnapped and defanged by bloody lunatic marines. Even if it wasn't your fault, you're still partially to blame. Why? Just because.
II. You don't go running to the Slayer for help about the aforementioned problem, and you don't help her in return. Ever.
III. You never get engaged to a Slayer, no matter what the circumstances are at the time.
IV. You don't live in the basements of geeky, unemployed twenty-year-olds, for any amount of time. Even vampires have standards, and that just sinks far, far below any of them.
V. You don't drink pig's blood from a novelty mug.
VI. You shouldn't go more than three weeks without sex.
VII. You don't run away from anybody, not even if they had the unfair advantage.
VIII. You don't do things that get you beaten up by other demons who should rightfully fear you.
IX. You don't try to commit suicide. That just defeats the whole point of getting turned into an immortal vampire in the first place.
X. You don't pay attention to a Slayer when she starts saying naughty things to you. Not if she's really seductive, and not even if she's completely invading your personal space and giving new meaning to the concept of foreplay.
XI. You don't give Slayers the chance to say naughty things to you, no matter how sexy they might be."
Spike groaned, noticing the contradiction he had included in writing this, and continued with reading his list.
"XII. You don't think Slayers are sexy in the first place. Sometimes a little tact is in order.
XIII. You never allow yourself to get turned on by a Slayer who starts to say naughty things to you.
XIV. If a Slayer said naughty stuff to you, you don't dwell on it. That only means that you enjoyed hearing it, which is, in its own right, a really bad thing.
XV. You never, ever start having fantasies and/or lusty feelings about Buffy. It's just wrong.
XVI. You're technically not supposed to mention the name of the Slayer who just happens to be in most of these rules, stupid."
Spike blinked. It was an awfully long list. Was he honestly that bad? He thought about that for a moment, and not for the first time in the past two days, either.
Yes, he really was that bad. He was pathetic. He was lower than pathetic. He was almost worse than Xander's level of pathetic, which was pretty scary. He had broken every one of his newfound 16 vampire commandments, which roughly meant that he was steadily progressing down the road to his own private hell, also known as becoming his sire.
Spike swung his long legs over the side of the tomb, stretching out. Not wanting the thought of becoming his sire to bother him, Spike fished around in his pocket for a pen. He found one, and then pulled off the cap with his teeth. Smoothing out the paper, he added something to commandment number 14.
As a matter of fact, don't dwell on anything if it doesn't deserve your time.
With the new resolve, he haphazardly folded up the paper, and stuffed it into his coat pocket before folding his arms behind his head, getting comfortable on his 'bed'.
Just as he was about to close his eyes in an attempt for sleep, he heard the heavy door to the crypt being pulled open. He leaned back on his forearms, craning his neck, trying to see who it was.
Buffy stepped inside, spotting him immediately. She offered a little half-smile, brushing a lock of golden hair from her eyes.
Spike, on the other hand, had hopped off the tomb to face her, nervously making sure that the paper hadn't accidentally fallen from his pocket and onto the floor. God forbid she would find it and…
Goddammit…number 15, number 15, number 15…you've once again completely obliterated commandment number fifteen…
"Uh…Slayer. What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, unable to make eye contact with her.
"Giles sent me," she replied. "I don't know why you would care, but he wanted me to let you know that Faith is gone."
"Really. I don't know why I would care, either."
"He just told me to tell you that you don't have to worry about finding her anymore, lest you're still intent on aiming a loose canon our way."
He could hear that she was trying to do a poor imitation of the old Watcher, and he half-heartedly figured that she had used his exact words.
"I have no idea what he was talking about, but he figured you would." She shrugged.
"Is that all?" Spike said, in a devil-may-care tone. He folded his arms, unconsciously shifting as he tried to hold back the nervous feeling he was getting, just by being near her.
"Then leave. Please."
"Fine. Sorry to bother you." She turned to leave, and then stopped when she was at the door. "Spike, did you, uh…did you see me at all two days ago? Like at the Bronze or around the cemetery or anything?"
Spike felt like he had been hit with a bucket of cold water. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed, trying to find a voice with which to speak. "You're just a laugh a minute, Slayer," he said at last.
"That's not even remotely funny--"
"Just get out," he responded in exasperation.
She shot him an angry glare. "I don't know why I didn't just stake you when I had the chance. You're not even worth my time." She walked out, shoving the crypt door closed behind her.
Spike sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You're a fucking wimp," he said to himself.
He looked around for something else to throw in his frustration, but found nothing. Maybe he would start looking for an apartment. They always had things in them which were good for hurling at walls or launching out windows in various fits of anger, depression, or sexual frustration. Wanting what you couldn't have? That was most definitely another situation he should be aware of.
Spike took a few steps towards the wall, and then slammed his fist into it so hard that he heard something crack. Whether it had been his hand of the wall itself, he wasn't sure, but he did know that the rock had crumbled a bit where he had punched it, and his hand was also throbbing insistently now.
"Damn that stupid Slayer and her fucking ability to do this to me," he hissed, his voice a combination of pain, resentment, and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Sitting down on the tomb again heavily, he found himself burying his head in his hands once more.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Well doesn't someone look bummed."
Spike glanced up from the bottle of beer he was cradling in his hands -- which had finally healed since he had punched the wall two days ago -- to Xander, who sat down on the couch beside him. For a fleeting moment, he wondered how the teen had managed to spot him in all the commotion of the Bronze.
"What are you doin' here, mate? Decided that I wouldn't be getting my daily allowance of torture if you didn't come talk to me?"
"Nah, it's just that you're the only one here…and you're almost one of us now…"
"Such foolish words," Spike sighed, taking a sip of his beer. "Take them back."
Xander shrugged. "So why are you moping around the Bronze, anyway? Don't you have your demon buddies to hang out with?"
He turned to glare at the young man. "Don't ask."
"Please tell. Sounds bad. Possibly something I can bug you about."
Spike started to get up, not in the mood for childish bickering, but Xander gestured for him to sit back down. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I forgot how sensitive you are."
"I don't have any demon friends," the vampire said at last. "They kicked my ass last time I saw them."
"As if I honestly need to spell it out for you. It's 'cause of what I've become…and my associations with you lot. It's pissing them off."
"Since we're the closest things you have to friends, I think I can tell you that you don't need 'em. All that mindless destruction must get tired after a while."
"So you're saying that…Buffy is one of the closest things I have to a friend? After all the shit she's done to me? The shit she's doing to me now? No, that's not what even I would call a friend."
Xander raised an eyebrow. "What did she do? Y'know…besides the other stuff she does that you don't like."
"She said a few things to me a while ago. It's not something I've forgotten." His gaze focused on the stairs directly in his line of sight. Those stairs; where all the seduction had begun in the first place. "It was…something that she definitely shouldn't have said, and something I shouldn't have heard."
Spike just shook his head, gulping down more beer. "My boldness does have its limits, you know. You have just reached it."
"Okay. I probably didn't want to hear it, anyway."
There were a few moments of silence, and when Spike didn't make any move to speak, Xander decided to take charge of a somewhat different conversation. "So why do you still try to kill us?"
Spike made a scoffing sound as he rolled his eyes. "Stupid, stupid question. That's like asking Angelus why he's such a prick."
"But it's not. I mean, we aren't trying to kill you anymore; we've actually helped you a lot. Everyone saved your ass when from the commandos when you had that tracker stuck in your back, Willow and I stopped you from committing suicide, Buffy stood up for you when Riley finally figured out you were a vampire…should I continue?"
"No. If I hear anymore I'll either throw up or start to agree with you."
"My point is, we've been good to you. We've put aside our differences, and you're still trying to aim loose canons our way, or so you said."
"The bad guys hate the good guys. It's always been that way, and it will always be that way. I have no control over that."
"You do when you're the bad guy who can't do bad stuff anymore."
"See, this is what I can't stand. I bloody well know that something's stuck in my brain, and it's fucking around with my system, but you people have to constantly rub it in my face. I do not need to be reminded."
Xander paused. "Sorry."
Spike looked over at him, perhaps a little surprised that he had actually apologized. "Yeah. It just…it really, really sucks being like this. I can't do anything without worrying whether my head's gonna friggin' explode…I can't live like this."
"But you don't need to hurt people, and that's the whole point."
"Oh, but I do. If I go too long without hurting something, my demon goes absolutely nuts. It's like denying a druggie of his daily fix. Sometimes that feeling's worse than getting a migraine from this thing."
Xander nodded in partial understanding, and then sighed. "I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you this, but Giles wants your help."
"Just your help. I thought I was putting that concept into pretty simple terms," he deadpanned. "We've lost a few people in the last while. Faith turned into a psycho and went to the dark side, Angel went to LA, Cordelia went to LA, Wesley got his ass fired, Oz just…took off. It's not as easy as it was before. Giles hasn't really told anyone besides me and Willow, but he's starting to feel the real burden of slayage."
"And I'm supposed to care? I've been feeling the burden of slayage, too. It got me into this bloody mess. No one seems to be too concerned about that."
"Well, the G-Man thinks that if you actually tried to do something good, you may wind up getting that chip outta your head in the end."
"By who's saving grace? Riley?"
"It was just something to think about."
Spike wanted to say that there was only one thing that he had been able to think about in the past few days, and that was Buffy. Her and the little speech she had decided to give him. But somehow, with his stubbornness and the extreme want to keep his dignity, he managed to resist.
He got up, feeling Xander's gaze following him. "I'm getting out of here. Maybe go beat on some demon for a little while. This place is starting to bug me."
"Should we be looking out for anymore loose canons of yours?"
"Let me think on it," Spike replied with a smirk. "I'll let you know."
"Uh…listen. If you run into any of the commando guys tonight? Don't try to use Riley as a bargaining chip. They don't know he's the double agent yet. Just get your ass out of there and find Buffy or Giles or something. We all need to watch out for them nowadays."
"Thanks, mate. I'll be sure to keep that in mind." He turned and left, making his way through the crowded club towards the exit. But I definitely won't be running to Buffy just yet, he added silently.
* * * * * * * * * *
He bolted upright, literally gasping for breath, peeling the blanket away from his sweat-slicked chest. Taking a few moments to look around his dark home, realizing the familiar surroundings, he ran a shaking hand through his hair, sighing heavily.
Spike tossed the blanket aside, and then slid off the tomb he used as a bed, wiping his hands on his jeans. Even though he was warm with the blood from his last meal, and even though he was dead, he shivered, partly because of the chilly air on his bare chest and arms, and partly because of what he had woken up from.
For once in his life, he was actually worried about something. Worried whether or not he'd go out of his mind if he continued to feel this way about Buffy…worried that something was seriously wrong with him for thinking like this.
Another dream about her…another reminder of how screwed his unlife really was…he so needed to do something about what was happening. But what could he say to someone he hated? Unconditional lust didn't make them friends. It just made her a bitch who had taken her pleasure from his torment, and it made him a sucker who wanted her so much it hurt.
That's a bloody fine combination, his mind complimented. A second later: Shut up.
After he had irritably disposed of the harmless demon he had found inside his crypt earlier in the evening, he had gotten drunk and passed out, only to drift off into a state of sleep wracked with dreams of a certain Slayer in particular. Some of what he saw were memories -- memories that often ended in a manner of his choosing, which usually involved him grabbing Buffy and kissing her senseless, and the rest of his dreams were just the fantasies of a vampire -- brutal, passionate, erotic fantasies. Ironically, the things Buffy had described to him had been close to what he really wanted. It was funny how she had known that.
And now, it was barely a half-hour before sunrise, and he was ready to break down the door and live up those fantasies.
Christ, he thought. This has gotta stop…you've got to get a grip, mate. Stop this…whatever the fuck this is.
Was that even possible? He was becoming obsessed with Buffy. Her words had sent his mind rolling with the possibilities, and it was still the only thing he could think of.
If he got through the day without doing anything incredibly rash, he was going to make sure that his Slayer ate her words.
* * * * * * * * * *
Somehow, over 14 hours later, Spike wound up standing in the hallway in front of Buffy and Willow's dorm room, one hand on the doorknob, the other hanging limply at his side.
He was debating whether it was a good idea or not to confront her about his feelings. If he didn't, there would be that annoying throb in his groin for weeks to come, and if he did…well, he'd either get a stake through his heart or he'd get laughed at.
To him, the prospect of getting laughed at was a hell of a lot better than having to keep his desire under control for any longer. He wasn't a very patient person -- or demon, whatever -- and this was just something he would get even more frustrated with over time.
So, taking a deep breath and praying that Willow wouldn't be inside the room, he turned the knob, letting himself in. He was greeted by the empty room and the soft beat coming from the CD player on Buffy's nightstand.
"Crap. No one's home," he said to himself.
But he saw the pile of clothing on Buffy's bed, and he figured that since the music had been left playing, someone was still nearby. He took off his leather duster and tossed it down on the bed, and started to pace the length of the room, cracking his knuckles in impatience every so often.
After five minutes of trying to think of something that he could possibly do or say, the door began to open, and he saw Buffy emerge, clad only in a towel, her wet hair pulled back into a messy bun. He almost gasped in delight at the sight of her, looking sexier than ever.
She closed the door and then turned, finally catching sight of him. Her hands immediately went up to the top of the towel, tugging it up slightly as she blushed in both surprise and embarrassment. "S-Spike! What are you doing here?"
He watched her set the bottle of soap down on her desk, and he discovered that he was at a loss for words. But…not for actions.
With an unintelligible swear, he moved quickly, pinning her back against the door before she could make any attempt at a protest. He growled loudly, and then crushed his mouth down upon hers, feeling her body tense under his in shock. He kissed her recklessly, exploring roughly with his tongue and nipping gently at her lower lip with blunt teeth.
She whimpered softly, and then tore her mouth away from his. "What the hell are you doing?" she shouted. "Get off me!"
"Come now, luv. After all those things you said to me? You didn't really think that this wouldn't happen, did you?"
"What are you talking about?" she asked, trying to shove him away. But his strength, and the fact that any fast movements would most likely rid her of her towel -- which was the only thing standing between them -- restricted her movements somewhat.
"Playing stupid won't make me want you any less," he sighed, before capturing her lips in another kiss.
She struggled against him, and managed to pull back once more. "Stop it! Do you have any idea how wrong this is?"
Spike's anger immediately flared up at those words. They were so much like what she had said to him the other night, right before she had stopped either of them from actually doing anything. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you got me as horny as hell," he snarled. "A word of advice for next time? You don't say shit like that to a guy if you aren't looking for these kinds of results."
He ran a hand down her body as he lowered his mouth to her neck, sucking at the skin playfully before looking up at her confused face again. "And what's stopping you from doing this, anyhow?" he demanded, shaking her a little bit, the anger still evident in his voice. "I mean, why the hell can't you just knock me off my feet at any given time of day and fuck my brains out? Lord knows you want to."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he cur her off. "Lemme guess…you're probably gonna say it's wrong again. Like this is the eighth fucking deadly sin, right?" He kissed her brutally again, delighting in the throaty sound of pleasure she made, even if it was just an unconscious reaction. "Well who the fuck cares?" he finally asked. "Not me."
Spike's hand slid inside the towel, seeking skin. She cried out softly, but whether it was out of shock or because she liked it, he didn't know.
"Now, what were your exact words the other night?" he asked, looking thoughtful. "Let's see…you could…ride me at a gallop until my legs buckled and…my eyes rolled up, was it? Those muscles you've got that I've apparently never dreamed of? What you don't know is…I've dreamed of them quite a lot. Especially in the past few days. And, just for the record, I know you could squeeze me until I popped like warm champagne, begging you to hurt me just a little bit more."
His body was pressed up against hers, and he loved the feel of it. "Surprised that I remembered all that?"
"I have no idea what you're--"
"Oh, stop it." He grinned at her, and then gently brushed a hand through her hair. "Why don't you lose the towel, luv. As much as the look is turning me on -- and we know it is -- I think that this would be a lot more interesting if you weren't wearing it. For both of us."
The anger at his implications hit her at about the same time as the realization of exactly what was going on did; why he was acting like this: Faith had said something to him. But until Buffy could figure out a rational way to explain it to him -- hopefully something he'd believe -- he couldn't be here.
With a new burst of strength, Buffy pushed against him as hard as she could, and he flew backwards onto the bed, unprepared for the sudden move. "Back off," she growled.
Spike just shook it off, and then stretched out, leaning back on his forearms. "You like rough, eh? We can do it that way, too."
She adjusted the towel again, glaring at him. "Get out of my room."
He recognized her sharp tone, and then slowly got off the bed. "What?"
"Get out of my room. I'm not saying it again. And take your stupid jacket."
Spike regarded her in silence for a moment, and then finally sighed. "Fine."
He grabbed his coat as she had asked, and walked out angrily, heading straight back to his crypt without stopping.
Once there, he slammed the heavy door closed, listening to the echo for a moment before he threw his jacket down and started to take out his anger. He shoved the stone statues to the floor roughly, shattering them, and then picked up the leftover chunks and pitched them at the wall.
His tirade lasted for a good ten minutes until he finally ran out of things to destroy. Panting heavily, his chest heaving, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up against his body, forearms resting on his knees.
His unlife was over. The minute Buffy found him, he was going to be even more dead than he was now.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered to himself miserably. "So fucking stupid…"
He knew that something was wrong; she had reacted so badly to his overtures. The Buffy who had tried seducing him would have gladly returned his desire. She shouldn't have gotten so defensive.
What the hell had he done wrong?