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fenderlove Dec. 19th, 2010 07:05 pm)
fenderlove Dec. 19th, 2010 07:05 pm)Title: Twelve Christmases in the Life & Unlife of William H. Pratt
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fenderlove
Pairing: In these sections, Spike/Drusilla and Spike/Buffy.
Rating: R for mentions of torture and unpleasantness.
Summary: When you live as long as Spike, you've had a variety of holiday-related experiences. Here are twelve glimpses into some Christmases in the life and unlife of our favourite vampire.
Twelve Christmases in the Life & Unlife of William H. Pratt
:: Part V, VI, VII, and VIII ::
December 25th, 1997
Sunnydale, California
Sleeping was how Spike spent most of his days and nights after becoming paralyzed from the waist down. He felt something tickling against his face, and, as it strayed too close to the burned portion of the right side of his face, he swatted at the object. Opening his eyes a sliver, he saw Drusilla was lightly brushing a poinsettia's petals down the bridge of his nose.
"Wake up, my Spike," Drusilla smiled, "it's Christmas morning! Santa Claus has come and gone!"
Spike should have been enjoying the holiday, should have been a sitting proper as king and master of the whole city, should have been able to use the Slayer's bones as Christmas ornaments on a tacky plastic evergreen. Instead, he was so weak he needed help just getting dressed. He pushed the flower in Drusilla's hands away from his face and tried to turn onto his side on their four-poster bed. Unfortunately, even though he could not feel anything below his waist, he could still feel aches from his injuries. As he twisted his upper body, a jolt of intense, wrenching pain shot up his spine and exploded between his shoulder blades, and when he grimaced, it caused the scarred side of his face to hurt terribly.
"Naughty boy, you know better," Drusilla chided as she helped him roll over and straighten out, allowing him to lay on his stomach.
Spike hid his face in a pillow, not wanting her to see the tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes. He was in agony, both physically and emotionally. Drusilla insisted on treating him like a child, feeding him, bathing him, changing his clothing for him. He felt like less than a vampire and even less a man. He hated himself for the pitiful state he'd been placed in and for having ill feelings towards his sire.
At first, Spike had blamed Dru for his situation and was angry that in making her strong he had become crippled. While he could not twitch a toe, Drusilla made frequent displays of her strength, picking him up and carrying him around, sometimes against his will. Dalton, one of their minions, had done research on spinal injuries, and Spike had wanted Drusilla to assist him in doing some of the exercises to keep his muscles from atrophying from disuse. He didn't want anyone besides her to see him in his current state, but she was content to play with him as though he was nothing more than one of her dolls. Spike didn't hold any anger towards her anymore; he couldn't fault her for what happened. If anything, it was his own fault as he caused the mob riot in Prague which had weakened Dru in the first place. Spike deserved this punishment, but he was not resigning himself to it yet.
Dru stretched her body across Spike's back, her long hair fanning out over his skin, "My poor William, there can be no favors nor carols while you are not well." She sat up suddenly, "It's time for presents!"
Sighing heavily, Spike mumbled, "There are no presents, love. It's not like I could pop by the Wal-Mart with my legs bloody useless."
Ignoring him, Drusilla disappeared out of their bedroom and returned minutes later with Spike's gift. Though she looked quite proud of herself, Spike glared at her. It was apparent by her choice in present that Dru was not concerned with helping him walk and was happy to leave him as he was, dependent upon her help.
Pushing the red wheelchair with its bright green overly-festive bow up to the bed, she then helped Spike into a sitting position against his pillows. Dressing him quickly, which only humiliated Spike further as he could not feel any of her touches when she pulled up his jeans, Drusilla picked him up and placed him in the chair as if he weighed little more than a stuffed animal.
Spike placed his hands on the wheels, trying to test out if he had the strength to even propel himself. Drusilla slid onto his lap, her fingers tracing over his lips. He leaned his forehead against hers and felt calmer as she began to purr. Spike was somewhat relieved that Dru was not repulsed by his weakness, forcing himself to believe that she really was trying to help him be more mobile by getting him the chair.
"Thank you, pet," he said, quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't get you a gift."
Dragging her fingernails gently down his jugular, Drusilla smiled and nipped at his chin, "You can still. And I know exactly what I want."
"Anything your heart desires. Name it."
"I want a party, Spike... and a Jack-in-the-Box, even if Jack comes in many different boxes..."
********
December 25th, 1998
Paris, France
Two weeks had been all that was needed to find Drusilla, including the several days spent in the hull of a ship. Spike was not sure if it had something to do with the bond between sire and childe or if Dru was just very predicable in her unpredictability. He found her waiting under a streetlamp in front of au Lapin Agile in Montmartre as though she had been expecting him, which, with her powers of premonition, was likely. They had gone to that cabaret once with Angelus and Darla in the mid-1890s, and Drusilla was enthralled with all the rabbit-related decor. The building still stood, as they did, but a little worse-for-wear, as they did as well.
Without a word passing between them, Drusilla linked her arm with his and off they went, stopping for a snack at la Maison Rose while supper came from a few young street artists. Dru said they tasted of chalk and charcoal and peppermint, prattling endlessly as though they had not been separated for months due to her capricious sexual appetites. The more she talked, the more Spike's anger grew as he realized that she knew he would come trotting back to her like a pathetic little puppy. This wasn't going to be like the other times Dru had run off for brief periods and he'd fallen to her whims and desires. This would be on Spike's own terms. If she wanted to see his demon, she would get it in spades.
"I've got a surprise for you, ducks," Spike forced a smile as they entered a cemetery that was in desperate need of groundskeeping.
Grasping her waist and letting her hop over crumbling headstones and markers, Spike showed the way to a large mausoleum that he had come across when he first arrived in the city. He had already set up comfortable lodgings for himself within its dirty limestone walls as well as brought along all the toys he would need to win Drusilla back for good.
"Is this your castle, brave sir knight?" Dru giggled as she twirled around on the tips of her toes, her long broom-skirt swishing over the light dusting of snow that had fallen through the barren trees, as Spike opened the mausoleum's grate.
Holding the door for her to enter, he replied, "Yes, my lady, and I've arranged a special tournament in your honor."
She fell against his chest, laughing, her chilly hands on his shoulders, "Will there be feasting?"
"Much," he spoke, placing his hand behind her head and pulling her close.
Drusilla whispered into his ear, "I expect to have the best pieces carved from the roast beast."
His fangs descending, Spike tore into her throat, and, though she struggled violently, he held on tight, draining her to unconsciousness.
"Sorry, baby, I'm not taking second best anymore," Spike replied as he licked the puncture wounds in Dru's neck closed.
After chaining her securely to the stone wall, Spike went behind a sarcophagus and stoked the coals he'd lit in a divot in the floor. The branding irons that he'd placed within the makeshift hearth weren't nearly as hot as he would have liked for them to have been, but they would have to do.
Drusilla awoke to one of the irons burning through her blouse and into the flesh of her stomach. She screamed, her body thrashing and thumping against the wall behind her. Spike steeled himself as he returned to the coals to reheat the iron. The smell of her tears were mingled with the heavy scent of arousal. He had only done this to her once before, ironically the last time they had visited Paris, and Drusilla had enthusiastically enjoyed it even if Spike had a hard time forcing himself to do too much damage to her body.
How glib he had been about these actions before. "Torture her until she likes me again," he had said with a stupid grin as if a little kinky bondage fun would be enough to satisfy her. No, Drusilla needed the dark, the hurt, both his and hers. In a way, her masochism was sadistic as she knew how Spike could not easily harm her as Angelus once had, but she knew how to get what she wanted, all the right words to say to needle and to push.
Spike tried not to think as he crisscrossed Drusilla's pale skin with a tartan of smoldering welts, but his methodical mode of applying the branding iron quickly bored her. He moved on to a cat-o-nine-tails, taking it to her lithe body, leaving her skin and clothing in tatters. As hard as he struck her, it just wasn't enough. She spat at him, mocked him, yelled incomprehensible things at him, but eventually Spike took a step back and dropped the whip. As furious as he was, he could not do anymore.
"Dru, love, I..." he paused as he went to unchain her, "Tell me something else that I can do, anything... please."
Of all the debauchery and villainy they had wrought, Spike had never seen Drusilla look so disgusted, her eyes so filled with revulsion. She rubbed at the marks that the chains had left on her wrists, her back beginning to hunch up like a cat forced into a corner.
"You are not my Spike anymore, not my William either," she growled. "You are something else, and I don't like it. The stars shine for you, spinning and glowing all around you. All they do to me is laugh and pinch. Why do they bother to sing for you when you don't care to listen!"
"Pet, I'm still yours," Spike didn't mean to sound so needy, but if he had to beg, "Just tell me what you bloody want!"
Gathering the rags that remained of her clothing around her, Drusilla's expression suddenly went blank, and she tilted her head slightly, "I want some Diabolo Fraise."
Without another word, Drusilla walked out of the mausoleum and into the Parisian night though she was half-clothed, bloody, and burned, and Spike knew she wasn't coming back. He spent the rest of Christmas Day night huddled on the mat of blankets in the corner of the crypt, stabbing at the small pit of coals until they had all burned out. He was completely alone for the first time in his entire life and death. Even if he had been by himself for short stints, Spike had never felt alone.
I'm never coming back to soddin' France.
********
December 24th, 1999
Sunnydale, California
A crash upstairs jolted Spike out of a sound sleep. He stretched his arms above his head, feeling his back pop as he did. The hideous orange barcalounger he was forced to sleep on gave him no lower lumbar support. At least Xander hadn't bothered to tie him to the chair.
Probably hoping I'll just take off, Spike thought as he stood and walked over to the small fridge in the whelp's basement.
Not bothering to heat up the pint of blood he removed, Spike bit into the plastic, somewhat glumly. Mr. and Mrs. Harris were yelling about nothing in particular upstairs. It always sounded like they were fighting, but Spike got the impression that screaming at the top of their lungs was just the way the couple had come to speak to one another while drunk, which was often. He had noticed, while hiding out in the basement's small bathroom during the day, that Xander's mother would speak the same way over the phone while doing the laundry, and Spike pitied the eardrums of whoever was on the other end of the line.
Earlier in the evening, the Witch had stopped by to watch Charlie Brown and some of the Rankin & Bass claymation Christmas specials. Xander looked somewhat surprised that Spike was interested in watching holiday cartoons, but they sat on the couch in a civil if not congenial manner. However, once Willow had gone back to her dorm, Xander got up, grabbed a large knapsack and a sleeping bag, and left without mentioning where he was going. At first, Spike thought that he'd gone to spend Christmas Eve with Anya, but when the vampire opened the basement door for a smoke, he saw that Xander was camping out in the backyard. It was a strange thing to see, and Spike was a bit confused until he heard the Ma and Pa Harris arrive home. Out of all their bickering and loudness that Spike had heard in the weeks prior, the clatter that arose was truly spectacular.
Spike had been in quite a few war-zones over the century, and the amount of noise and wall-shaking stamping about rivaled several of them. It sounded as though plates were being broken and that the whole Christmas tree had toppled over. And then there was laughing and music, Bing Crosby crooning in the Bells of St. Mary's, if Spike wasn't mistaken. Finally, it was quiet again. Apparently, it was only temporary as Spike had awoken to more of thuds and loud voices a while later.
"It's no wonder the boy's not right," Spike muttered to himself as he sucked the last of the blood out of the bag.
Spike resolved to get his own place. He could protect himself, from demons at least, so he just needed to find a quiet place without too much human activity, somewhere more-or-less fireproof. Maybe a crypt or a large family vault. Sunnydale had over a dozen cemeteries, so there were plenty of real estate choices. Feeling more confident, Spike gave himself a one month deadline. As a shower of dust fell down around him as more foot-stomping upstairs shook the floorboards, he knew he had find a new home before he found a way to kill Harris's parents, chip or no chip.
********
December 24th, 2001
Sunnydale, California
Tonight was going to be special. Spike had everything planned out. He knew Buffy would arrive sometime after Dawn had gone to sleep, and the Slayer would be looking for a little creature comfort what with all the stress from the holidays and forcing herself to be social. He would show her a great time, prove to her that he could be a normal albeit super-powered guy, exactly what she wanted.
His preparations had lasted for days. He'd stolen what he couldn't afford, which was everything, getting new clothing, new sheets for his bed, a bottle of Madeira of good vintage, and a fresh supply of blood for himself. Spike went to an all-night laundromat to wash his favourite quilts and had spent the day before Christmas cleaning his crypt, sweeping the rushes so-to-speak, as best he could. He set the scene with candles and some Rasputina on his CD player. If one squinted, the crypt looked less like a tomb and more like a goth porn set, which Spike figured was a bit of a step up.
Once the environment was as hospitable as possible, Spike proceeded to spruce himself up, using bottle after bottle of water to shower and make himself Pantene-fresh. He even tried to do a bit of personal grooming on his downstairs area, but with a disposable razor and no way to see much of what he was doing, he couldn't get as close a shave as he would have liked. Spike had picked out a silk dress-shirt in deep scarlet and a pair of charcoal slacks as his ensemble for the evening. He debated about wearing a tie, but decided against it. He applied a little eyeliner, slicked back his hair, and then slipped on his boots, which were polished. Then, he waited.
Midnight slipped by, and Spike was still waiting. He poured himself a glass of wine, mixing it with his blood, swallowing it in one gulp.
One o'clock came and went, and the bottle of Madeira was empty. Spike had had it with waiting. Patience had never been a virtue he had been blessed with, and he pulled on his jacket and stalked down his shortcut to the Slayer's house. Though they had only had sex a few times, Spike thought that he was really getting through to Buffy that his feelings were genuine, but maybe he was only fooling himself. His thoughts bounced between self-pity and irritation. Was he really going to be relegated to an eternity of trying to change himself for others? Why was no one ever trying to earn his love? Well, perhaps Harmony did try, but...
The houses on Revello Drive were brightly lit with multi-coloured lights, plastic Santas, and inflatable snowmen, all save one. The Slayer's house was all dark. Most of the other houses had left their trees on for Christmas Eve, but there was nothing festive about No. 1630. Spike knew, from snooping around in the house, that there were boxes of holiday decorations in the basement. He thought for a moment that maybe they weren't home, but he could sense both Buffy and Dawn inside. Then, it struck him. Was this their first Christmas without Joyce?
It might have been his imagination, but Spike felt an unpleasant flush of heat rise into his face as he turned and went back to his crypt. Perhaps there was still one liquor store open he could find on the way.
To be continued...
Previous: Parts 1-4.
Author:
fenderlovePairing: In these sections, Spike/Drusilla and Spike/Buffy.
Rating: R for mentions of torture and unpleasantness.
Summary: When you live as long as Spike, you've had a variety of holiday-related experiences. Here are twelve glimpses into some Christmases in the life and unlife of our favourite vampire.
Twelve Christmases in the Life & Unlife of William H. Pratt
:: Part V, VI, VII, and VIII ::
December 25th, 1997
Sunnydale, California
Sleeping was how Spike spent most of his days and nights after becoming paralyzed from the waist down. He felt something tickling against his face, and, as it strayed too close to the burned portion of the right side of his face, he swatted at the object. Opening his eyes a sliver, he saw Drusilla was lightly brushing a poinsettia's petals down the bridge of his nose.
"Wake up, my Spike," Drusilla smiled, "it's Christmas morning! Santa Claus has come and gone!"
Spike should have been enjoying the holiday, should have been a sitting proper as king and master of the whole city, should have been able to use the Slayer's bones as Christmas ornaments on a tacky plastic evergreen. Instead, he was so weak he needed help just getting dressed. He pushed the flower in Drusilla's hands away from his face and tried to turn onto his side on their four-poster bed. Unfortunately, even though he could not feel anything below his waist, he could still feel aches from his injuries. As he twisted his upper body, a jolt of intense, wrenching pain shot up his spine and exploded between his shoulder blades, and when he grimaced, it caused the scarred side of his face to hurt terribly.
"Naughty boy, you know better," Drusilla chided as she helped him roll over and straighten out, allowing him to lay on his stomach.
Spike hid his face in a pillow, not wanting her to see the tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes. He was in agony, both physically and emotionally. Drusilla insisted on treating him like a child, feeding him, bathing him, changing his clothing for him. He felt like less than a vampire and even less a man. He hated himself for the pitiful state he'd been placed in and for having ill feelings towards his sire.
At first, Spike had blamed Dru for his situation and was angry that in making her strong he had become crippled. While he could not twitch a toe, Drusilla made frequent displays of her strength, picking him up and carrying him around, sometimes against his will. Dalton, one of their minions, had done research on spinal injuries, and Spike had wanted Drusilla to assist him in doing some of the exercises to keep his muscles from atrophying from disuse. He didn't want anyone besides her to see him in his current state, but she was content to play with him as though he was nothing more than one of her dolls. Spike didn't hold any anger towards her anymore; he couldn't fault her for what happened. If anything, it was his own fault as he caused the mob riot in Prague which had weakened Dru in the first place. Spike deserved this punishment, but he was not resigning himself to it yet.
Dru stretched her body across Spike's back, her long hair fanning out over his skin, "My poor William, there can be no favors nor carols while you are not well." She sat up suddenly, "It's time for presents!"
Sighing heavily, Spike mumbled, "There are no presents, love. It's not like I could pop by the Wal-Mart with my legs bloody useless."
Ignoring him, Drusilla disappeared out of their bedroom and returned minutes later with Spike's gift. Though she looked quite proud of herself, Spike glared at her. It was apparent by her choice in present that Dru was not concerned with helping him walk and was happy to leave him as he was, dependent upon her help.
Pushing the red wheelchair with its bright green overly-festive bow up to the bed, she then helped Spike into a sitting position against his pillows. Dressing him quickly, which only humiliated Spike further as he could not feel any of her touches when she pulled up his jeans, Drusilla picked him up and placed him in the chair as if he weighed little more than a stuffed animal.
Spike placed his hands on the wheels, trying to test out if he had the strength to even propel himself. Drusilla slid onto his lap, her fingers tracing over his lips. He leaned his forehead against hers and felt calmer as she began to purr. Spike was somewhat relieved that Dru was not repulsed by his weakness, forcing himself to believe that she really was trying to help him be more mobile by getting him the chair.
"Thank you, pet," he said, quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't get you a gift."
Dragging her fingernails gently down his jugular, Drusilla smiled and nipped at his chin, "You can still. And I know exactly what I want."
"Anything your heart desires. Name it."
"I want a party, Spike... and a Jack-in-the-Box, even if Jack comes in many different boxes..."
********
December 25th, 1998
Paris, France
Two weeks had been all that was needed to find Drusilla, including the several days spent in the hull of a ship. Spike was not sure if it had something to do with the bond between sire and childe or if Dru was just very predicable in her unpredictability. He found her waiting under a streetlamp in front of au Lapin Agile in Montmartre as though she had been expecting him, which, with her powers of premonition, was likely. They had gone to that cabaret once with Angelus and Darla in the mid-1890s, and Drusilla was enthralled with all the rabbit-related decor. The building still stood, as they did, but a little worse-for-wear, as they did as well.
Without a word passing between them, Drusilla linked her arm with his and off they went, stopping for a snack at la Maison Rose while supper came from a few young street artists. Dru said they tasted of chalk and charcoal and peppermint, prattling endlessly as though they had not been separated for months due to her capricious sexual appetites. The more she talked, the more Spike's anger grew as he realized that she knew he would come trotting back to her like a pathetic little puppy. This wasn't going to be like the other times Dru had run off for brief periods and he'd fallen to her whims and desires. This would be on Spike's own terms. If she wanted to see his demon, she would get it in spades.
"I've got a surprise for you, ducks," Spike forced a smile as they entered a cemetery that was in desperate need of groundskeeping.
Grasping her waist and letting her hop over crumbling headstones and markers, Spike showed the way to a large mausoleum that he had come across when he first arrived in the city. He had already set up comfortable lodgings for himself within its dirty limestone walls as well as brought along all the toys he would need to win Drusilla back for good.
"Is this your castle, brave sir knight?" Dru giggled as she twirled around on the tips of her toes, her long broom-skirt swishing over the light dusting of snow that had fallen through the barren trees, as Spike opened the mausoleum's grate.
Holding the door for her to enter, he replied, "Yes, my lady, and I've arranged a special tournament in your honor."
She fell against his chest, laughing, her chilly hands on his shoulders, "Will there be feasting?"
"Much," he spoke, placing his hand behind her head and pulling her close.
Drusilla whispered into his ear, "I expect to have the best pieces carved from the roast beast."
His fangs descending, Spike tore into her throat, and, though she struggled violently, he held on tight, draining her to unconsciousness.
"Sorry, baby, I'm not taking second best anymore," Spike replied as he licked the puncture wounds in Dru's neck closed.
After chaining her securely to the stone wall, Spike went behind a sarcophagus and stoked the coals he'd lit in a divot in the floor. The branding irons that he'd placed within the makeshift hearth weren't nearly as hot as he would have liked for them to have been, but they would have to do.
Drusilla awoke to one of the irons burning through her blouse and into the flesh of her stomach. She screamed, her body thrashing and thumping against the wall behind her. Spike steeled himself as he returned to the coals to reheat the iron. The smell of her tears were mingled with the heavy scent of arousal. He had only done this to her once before, ironically the last time they had visited Paris, and Drusilla had enthusiastically enjoyed it even if Spike had a hard time forcing himself to do too much damage to her body.
How glib he had been about these actions before. "Torture her until she likes me again," he had said with a stupid grin as if a little kinky bondage fun would be enough to satisfy her. No, Drusilla needed the dark, the hurt, both his and hers. In a way, her masochism was sadistic as she knew how Spike could not easily harm her as Angelus once had, but she knew how to get what she wanted, all the right words to say to needle and to push.
Spike tried not to think as he crisscrossed Drusilla's pale skin with a tartan of smoldering welts, but his methodical mode of applying the branding iron quickly bored her. He moved on to a cat-o-nine-tails, taking it to her lithe body, leaving her skin and clothing in tatters. As hard as he struck her, it just wasn't enough. She spat at him, mocked him, yelled incomprehensible things at him, but eventually Spike took a step back and dropped the whip. As furious as he was, he could not do anymore.
"Dru, love, I..." he paused as he went to unchain her, "Tell me something else that I can do, anything... please."
Of all the debauchery and villainy they had wrought, Spike had never seen Drusilla look so disgusted, her eyes so filled with revulsion. She rubbed at the marks that the chains had left on her wrists, her back beginning to hunch up like a cat forced into a corner.
"You are not my Spike anymore, not my William either," she growled. "You are something else, and I don't like it. The stars shine for you, spinning and glowing all around you. All they do to me is laugh and pinch. Why do they bother to sing for you when you don't care to listen!"
"Pet, I'm still yours," Spike didn't mean to sound so needy, but if he had to beg, "Just tell me what you bloody want!"
Gathering the rags that remained of her clothing around her, Drusilla's expression suddenly went blank, and she tilted her head slightly, "I want some Diabolo Fraise."
Without another word, Drusilla walked out of the mausoleum and into the Parisian night though she was half-clothed, bloody, and burned, and Spike knew she wasn't coming back. He spent the rest of Christmas Day night huddled on the mat of blankets in the corner of the crypt, stabbing at the small pit of coals until they had all burned out. He was completely alone for the first time in his entire life and death. Even if he had been by himself for short stints, Spike had never felt alone.
I'm never coming back to soddin' France.
********
December 24th, 1999
Sunnydale, California
A crash upstairs jolted Spike out of a sound sleep. He stretched his arms above his head, feeling his back pop as he did. The hideous orange barcalounger he was forced to sleep on gave him no lower lumbar support. At least Xander hadn't bothered to tie him to the chair.
Probably hoping I'll just take off, Spike thought as he stood and walked over to the small fridge in the whelp's basement.
Not bothering to heat up the pint of blood he removed, Spike bit into the plastic, somewhat glumly. Mr. and Mrs. Harris were yelling about nothing in particular upstairs. It always sounded like they were fighting, but Spike got the impression that screaming at the top of their lungs was just the way the couple had come to speak to one another while drunk, which was often. He had noticed, while hiding out in the basement's small bathroom during the day, that Xander's mother would speak the same way over the phone while doing the laundry, and Spike pitied the eardrums of whoever was on the other end of the line.
Earlier in the evening, the Witch had stopped by to watch Charlie Brown and some of the Rankin & Bass claymation Christmas specials. Xander looked somewhat surprised that Spike was interested in watching holiday cartoons, but they sat on the couch in a civil if not congenial manner. However, once Willow had gone back to her dorm, Xander got up, grabbed a large knapsack and a sleeping bag, and left without mentioning where he was going. At first, Spike thought that he'd gone to spend Christmas Eve with Anya, but when the vampire opened the basement door for a smoke, he saw that Xander was camping out in the backyard. It was a strange thing to see, and Spike was a bit confused until he heard the Ma and Pa Harris arrive home. Out of all their bickering and loudness that Spike had heard in the weeks prior, the clatter that arose was truly spectacular.
Spike had been in quite a few war-zones over the century, and the amount of noise and wall-shaking stamping about rivaled several of them. It sounded as though plates were being broken and that the whole Christmas tree had toppled over. And then there was laughing and music, Bing Crosby crooning in the Bells of St. Mary's, if Spike wasn't mistaken. Finally, it was quiet again. Apparently, it was only temporary as Spike had awoken to more of thuds and loud voices a while later.
"It's no wonder the boy's not right," Spike muttered to himself as he sucked the last of the blood out of the bag.
Spike resolved to get his own place. He could protect himself, from demons at least, so he just needed to find a quiet place without too much human activity, somewhere more-or-less fireproof. Maybe a crypt or a large family vault. Sunnydale had over a dozen cemeteries, so there were plenty of real estate choices. Feeling more confident, Spike gave himself a one month deadline. As a shower of dust fell down around him as more foot-stomping upstairs shook the floorboards, he knew he had find a new home before he found a way to kill Harris's parents, chip or no chip.
********
December 24th, 2001
Sunnydale, California
Tonight was going to be special. Spike had everything planned out. He knew Buffy would arrive sometime after Dawn had gone to sleep, and the Slayer would be looking for a little creature comfort what with all the stress from the holidays and forcing herself to be social. He would show her a great time, prove to her that he could be a normal albeit super-powered guy, exactly what she wanted.
His preparations had lasted for days. He'd stolen what he couldn't afford, which was everything, getting new clothing, new sheets for his bed, a bottle of Madeira of good vintage, and a fresh supply of blood for himself. Spike went to an all-night laundromat to wash his favourite quilts and had spent the day before Christmas cleaning his crypt, sweeping the rushes so-to-speak, as best he could. He set the scene with candles and some Rasputina on his CD player. If one squinted, the crypt looked less like a tomb and more like a goth porn set, which Spike figured was a bit of a step up.
Once the environment was as hospitable as possible, Spike proceeded to spruce himself up, using bottle after bottle of water to shower and make himself Pantene-fresh. He even tried to do a bit of personal grooming on his downstairs area, but with a disposable razor and no way to see much of what he was doing, he couldn't get as close a shave as he would have liked. Spike had picked out a silk dress-shirt in deep scarlet and a pair of charcoal slacks as his ensemble for the evening. He debated about wearing a tie, but decided against it. He applied a little eyeliner, slicked back his hair, and then slipped on his boots, which were polished. Then, he waited.
Midnight slipped by, and Spike was still waiting. He poured himself a glass of wine, mixing it with his blood, swallowing it in one gulp.
One o'clock came and went, and the bottle of Madeira was empty. Spike had had it with waiting. Patience had never been a virtue he had been blessed with, and he pulled on his jacket and stalked down his shortcut to the Slayer's house. Though they had only had sex a few times, Spike thought that he was really getting through to Buffy that his feelings were genuine, but maybe he was only fooling himself. His thoughts bounced between self-pity and irritation. Was he really going to be relegated to an eternity of trying to change himself for others? Why was no one ever trying to earn his love? Well, perhaps Harmony did try, but...
The houses on Revello Drive were brightly lit with multi-coloured lights, plastic Santas, and inflatable snowmen, all save one. The Slayer's house was all dark. Most of the other houses had left their trees on for Christmas Eve, but there was nothing festive about No. 1630. Spike knew, from snooping around in the house, that there were boxes of holiday decorations in the basement. He thought for a moment that maybe they weren't home, but he could sense both Buffy and Dawn inside. Then, it struck him. Was this their first Christmas without Joyce?
It might have been his imagination, but Spike felt an unpleasant flush of heat rise into his face as he turned and went back to his crypt. Perhaps there was still one liquor store open he could find on the way.
To be continued...
Previous: Parts 1-4.
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*hugs*
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Can't wait to read some more
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Thanks for reading!
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Was he really going to be relegated to an eternity of trying to change himself for others?
Excellent question. It sounds as if he does try to break the cycle a bit with Dru, but he is doomed to fail there. The truth is that the only person you can change is yourself, but how much change and for what reason is the million dollar question. *ponders*
It is very interesting that his realization of this being the first Christmas after Joyce's death brings him shame (for not remembering? for failing to help in a helpful way? for being angry when Buffy's absence obviously had nothing to do with him?) and wonderfully echoes the Christmas following his father's death — alas, without the faithful family retainers.
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Part three, the final installment, is now up, and I hope you enjoy it! :D