Summary: Spike wrote a letter to Buffy before the final battle in Not Fade Away. It's starting to become a habit.
Characters/Pairing: Spike/Buffy, OC
Genre: Romance, Angst
Warnings: Spoilers for the end of Angel Season 5 and After the Fall.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just playing for fun.
A/N: Second Installment.
Spike stared at the bottle of whiskey on the bar in front of him. He glanced up and noticed his lack of reflection in the mirror behind the greasy bartender. Not that he had to worry about anyone noticing. It was a demon bar. Vampires welcome as long as they paid cash. Or kittens. Huh. He wondered if he should do something about the kittens. He doubted he’d make it out alive if he tried. Demons were funny about kittens. Only the slayer could scare them enough into letting her set their precious tabbies free. Maybe he’d call the ASPCA on the joint. Yeah. He’d do that tomorrow.
“Feeling lonely tonight?” A raspy voice purred in his ear.
Spike turned to face the brunette with the pornstar hair and the boobs to match it brushing up against the leather of his jacket. Her smile screamed sex and Spike glanced down at her straining cleavage before looking up to notice her heavily-lined eyes were a hazel-green.
“What’s that, pet?” He’d forgotten what she’d asked. As fake breasts went, hers were certainly eye-catching. Or they were til he noticed the color of her eyes.
“You feeling lonely tonight?” Her mouth quirked flirtatiously as she waited for him to answer, stroking his right arm as she leaned in closer.
Spike shook his head and broke eye contact as he turned back towards the bar. Her eyes unnerved him. Wrong color. No, not the color - he liked the color. They just looked wrong. Shallow, maybe. No, hollow. They looked hollow. There was no light in them.
The girl pouted for a second then reconsidered her approach. She sat down on the stool to his right and crossed her legs towards him, painting her smile back on. “Wanna buy me a drink?”
Spike glanced at her out of the corner of his eye then nodded at the bartender. “Jack, give the lady whatever she wants.”
“I’ll have what he’s having.”
The bartender’s eyes widened. “You want a whole bottle of Glenfiddich?”
She laughed nervously. “Make it a shot.” She toyed with the shot glass handed to her then turned back towards Spike. “So what should we toast to?”
Spike raised the bottle in front of him and tilted it her way before taking a hard slug. “Not much for toasting. Sorry.” The girl’s shoulders slumped as she lifted her glass and downed the shot.
“So you’re a vampire, right? I heard about this bar from a friend of mine. Says that the non-killing variety of demon hangs out here.” She leaned in closer running her painted fingernail along the collar of Spike’s jacket.
“That’s what you heard, eh?” Spike eyes narrowed as he looked at her. Vampire groupie. Figures. Stupid cows looking for a thrill with the Big Bad.
“I hear that vampires have amazing stamina.” Her tongue caressed the syllables of the last word, lingering.
Spike leaned his head down slightly, his mouth quirking into a half-grin as he scoffed out a breath of air. “People do like to talk, don’t they?”
“So what do you say? Wanna go somewhere more…private?” Her voice deepened into what he assumed was her sexy-bedroom voice.
“Can’t. Kinda busy at the moment.” Spike muttered offhand.
Her jaw dropped in surprise then she looked down at the bar. “Doing what? Writing on postcards?” She reached forward to grab one. “Who’s Buffy? What kind of bimbo name is that? She your girlfriend?”
“Oy!” Spike grabbed the postcard back, snarling. “Hands off.”
She raised both hands as she rolled her eyes. “I get it. Hands off. Off of everything.” She grumbled the last line to herself. “I’m Christy, by the way. In case you wanted to know the name of the woman you just rejected.”
Spike swept the remaining postcards together into one pile in front of him, encircled between his arms resting on the bar. He looked a bit suspiciously at Christy for a few moments. “Name’s Spike.”
“Spike.” She repeated his name in a dull monotone.
“Yeah.” He muttered in response.
“Okay.” She sighed.
They both sat facing the bar not looking at each other in silence for several minutes. Christy looked over her shoulder to see if anyone else might be worth talking to. They weren’t. All she saw was slime, horns, flabby skin and creatures with scales. She sighed.
“So why are you writing to this Buffy girl on multiple postcards? Shouldn’t one be enough?” At least this Spike guy was nice to look at, no matter how rude and grumpy he was. Being hot made up for a lot of character flaws.
Spike shook his head. “Not gonna send all of ‘em. Like that would make sense.”
“So what then?” Christy shook her head.
“Just…” Spike’s gaze unfocused and Christy felt like he was looking right through her.
“Just what?” She asked frustratedly.
Spike looked down at the pile of postcards in front of him. “Just making sure I get it right. You know, don’t come on too strong. Don’t say anything embarrassing.”
Christy rolled her eyes again. “If you’re that worried, why even bother to write it? You’re here torturing yourself over writing some chick a postcard. You realize you’re pathetic, right?”
Spike closed his eyes and visibly clenched his jaw. Christy looked down at her empty shot glass and then reached across Spike’s arm for his bottle. He jerked reflexively, tightening his arms around the postcards only to relax when he opened his eyes to see her reaching for the whiskey. Christy took a few more shots straight from the bottle, shaking her head after each hit.
“Whoo! Wow, that is intense.” She looked at the bottle label. “I’ve never been a big fan of whiskey but this stuff ain’t half bad.” She smiled crookedly as she raised the bottle for another drink.
Spike started chuckling to himself. “Should be good, pet. I paid a pretty penny for it.”
Christy hiccoughed and then giggled a bit. “Well, it sure does go down nice.” She grabbed the bar with her free hand to steady herself. “So you want me to read it for you? Let you know if you’re being…embla- embarrassing?”
“Oh, so you can read?” Spike’s mouth dimpled his left cheek.
“Yes, I can read and, and – shut up.” Christy let go of the bottle to use both hands to brace herself as she wobbled on her bar stool, her stiletto heels grasping for purchase on the stool's foot rest as she blinked dazedly.
“You really can’t hold your liquor, can you pet?” Spike’s voice softened. He reached to steady her by the arm as he pushed the postcards into the inner pocket of his duster. “Come on, then. Let’s get you home.”
Christy let him help her down from her seat, holding her arm firmly as she wobbled from side to side in her heels. “We can’t go home. It’s not even…what time is it?”
“Time to go home, pet.” Spike said as he tossed money down on the bar and led her towards the door.
“I thought you didn’t wanna go somewhere more private.” Christy muttered as she let him walk her towards the door.
“Just doing my duty.”
“Duty?” Christy squinted up at Spike, stumbling slightly as they weaved forward on the sidewalk.
Spike half-smiled. “Rescuing kittens.”
An hour later
Spike stood on the sidewalk looking up at Christy’s apartment building. Once he’d gotten her to tell him where she lived, they'd walked the few blocks to her place only stopping so Christy could vomit her guts out in each passing alley. Her roommate had helped her into bed, inviting Spike to stay for a drink. He’d passed on the offer.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the last postcard he’d been working on before Christy bumped into him at the bar. The last one. Pathetic. How many of them had he written? Enough to feel a bit heavy in his duster's pocket. He looked down at the oversized postcard with his tiny script squished together to fit everything he’d wanted to say. He’d even put a stamp on this one, thinking he’d finally got it right. Disgusted, he walked towards the trashcan on the side of the street. Raising his arm up, he clenched the postcard in his right hand prepared to toss it away only to stop and lower it slowly.
“Bollocks,” Spike muttered angrily. He looked up the street and noticed a mailbox at the corner. Glancing back at the trashcan, he clenched his jaw and hurled the postcard inside. He stormed off, muttering “I’m not pathetic” to himself as he walked away.
Half a block down the street, he whipped around and ran back to the trashcan, leaning down to grab the postcard off the top of the rumpled heap. He wiped it on his jacket, brushing it clean carefully, inspecting it for any offensive damage. Seemed to be alright.
He looked up the street at the mailbox, straightened his shoulders and strode directly toward it. He grasped the handle of the mailbox firmly, opening it with a jerk and tossing the postcard in before he could change his mind. He jumped back, panting.
Spike nodded. “Right then.” His chest rose as he continued to breathe heavily. “Right. Not pathetic.”
So I made it out okay. Guess that’s obvious. I thought I might as well tell you. Trying to keep it a secret didn’t go so well last time. Bloody Andrew never could keep his trap shut. So yeah, was in hell for a bit. Not exactly what you’d expect. Torture, chaos, demon overlords – well okay, I guess it was what you’d expect. But the thing is it wasn’t really hell. No eternal damnation going on. I didn’t feel like I’d been judged or found wanting. None of that going down when the whole city went down with us in it. Was more an absence of judging. Like being abandoned. Forgotten. I doubt you even realized I was gone. Time had no meaning, right?
But at the end of the day you still have to get up and continue to fight. No matter how pointless it seems. Or how much you failed the day before. Life is still life even when you’re in hell. Difference is you’re constantly fighting for your right to live. Which hey, I’m used to so no strain there. It was harder on everybody else. I tried to help. Tried to keep them safe. I never really understood how hard it must have been for you that last year in Sunnydale. All those girls who… You lost them but you had to keep going, keep leading everyone. It really does make you tired.
I think a vacation is in order. Somewhere not too sunny with a nice nightlife. The Vegas strip isn’t too far off. Guess I can avoid the sun easy enough. Might be fun to gamble with something disposable like money for a change. Doubt I’ll be going to the demon casino there – kitten poker just isn’t as fun as it used to be. And who knows? Maybe I’ll figure out where I fit.
I hope you’re okay. Better than okay. And that you don’t mind me sending you this. I figure if you don’t want to read it, you don’t have to. Angel knows how to get in touch with me, if you needed anything. Not that I think you need anything, but just in case.
You are okay, right? I just had this weird feeling. Ya know, the kind that just starts to make everything feel not quite right.
Hope you’re good. And you’ve got someone with you to watch your back.