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fic: when it stirs, it slurs, pg-13

Title: When it Stirs, it Slurs
Author: purely_distel
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Spike, Buffy/Spike
Spoilers: None, it happens mid season 5.
Disclaimer: Not mine, it all belongs to the strawberries!
Summary: Life hadn’t been good the last few days. Well, weeks more like. Oh, Bollocks. If he were honest with himself, it hadn’t been good for a long time.
Author's Note: Look, I wrote Buffy fic! SQUEE! Uhm, yeah. No. I wrote this about a year ago, during a time when I had no internet for about two months and went kind of crazy. I have not read many BtVS fics and I have never before or since written some. So I still hope Spike is accurate ;)
Not betaread :)



Life hadn’t been good the last few days. Well, weeks more like. Oh, Bollocks. If he were honest with himself, it hadn’t been good for a long time. Surely, there had been the odd moment of bliss and many-a drink poured out with a smile or some delicious dark intend, for sure. But somehow, in the altogether, things had been not worth the kittens he had won at poker (and later sold for a good penny - Clem always came through on that account). He had ignored it. That nagging feeling in the back of his mind that had told him oh-so long ago that he needed to change his gear and fast. Not sure why he had ignored it - usually he and the little man upstairs got along just fine but, somehow, he had kept him quiet, not for his conscious mind to hear.

Funnily enough, right now, with the better half of a bottle of Bourbon and another pitcher of stale pigs blood running through his system, the little man in his head was louder than ever. Called him a coward, he did. Said that The Big Bad was no worse than the kittens that went through his hands.

Great. So now he let himself insult himself, it really was a low day.

Oh but he was bad! Very much so, thanks a lot. He was evil, he was bad, his intend dark, his ambitions high and harsh and young girls screamed in fear when he ... oh, who was he kidding. Wasn't it just a couple of weeks ago that Dawn had out-right laughed at him? Then again, Dawn was one of the Sodding-Summer-Society so she didn't count. No, she was actually part of the reason for his being in this mess in the first place. Well, more or less. Less more like. Geez, everything was spinning. Or was that just his head? Well, still, spinning. And a bloody lot at that.

The Sodding-Summer-Society. He knew he should have stayed in the poetry business. Could have got him a shiny penny, that, surely. Sodding-Summer-Society. Though you had to ask yourself - was it a society now that only two people were part of it? One was gone. Left. Kicked the bloody bucket, as they said.

He had spend a lot of time picking the flowers. They had been lovely flowers. And it really had not been about Buffy. Not one bit. OK, so maybe a little. But not in the way Xander, the stupid ape, had made it out to be. He had meant to pay his respects to a good woman, a lady. One of the few people in this blasted century that had reminded him of someone he had thought up until recently he didn't want to be reminded of. But Joice hadn't brought back the bad memories. She reminded him of the times he would sit with his own mother, her telling him about her day out on the market and him reading his newest scribbles to her. Joice had been a good woman. A good mother and he could very well imagine how Buffy felt. He might be a soulless (as far as human souls went anyway) monster (and a fear-striking and evil one!) but he could still feel.

So bringing the flowers had not been about impressing the Slayer. And he wasn't even allowed that small, simple act of dignity.

So why was he still here? It seemed to come back to the same question, all the time. Ever since Dru had pulled him out of the debris. He should have left then. Should have regained his strength elsewhere, come back more powerful than ever and struck her down when she least expected it. Sure would have spared him a lot of heart-ache, that plan of action.

It also would have spared him the sight of Angel. Angelus. Whatever he called himself these days. The Avenger, maybe. Stupid Poofter that he was. He had been wanted and he had left her! Try to get behind that brilliance for a minute. Then again, being faced with eternal sexual abstinence would have had many-a bloke running for the hills. And being around Buffy sure didn't make abstinence in that department a walk in the park. Crawling out of hell probably was a more pleasant experience. But so would be to just leave.

He should have stayed gone after he had left Drusilla in South America, that would have even been a good idea. He had been on semi-good grounds with the Slayer and her gang then, hadn't he? No death threads (not immediate ones anyway) had been exchanged after they had made short work of those vamps. Strange how even back then dusting his own kind had given him this certain tingle.

But somehow, he figured that it didn't really matter, did it? Because he was still in Sunnydale, still had a chip in his head and wet dreams about a blond (and since when had blonds been his type anyway? Harmony should have made him realise they cost more nerves than they were worth) and to top things off, he suddenly seemed to develop self-reflection which was a character trade he had gotten rid-off right along with his reflection in the mirror, back when and some such. Good thing the reflection at least stayed gone. He really didn't want to see himself in the mirror right now. Oh well, that was a lie but it didn't matter anyway.

One thing was certain though, he needed to work out those melodramatic, self-reflecting, pathetic side-affects of being love's bitch. They were what made the Big Bad the Big Bad Puppy.

At least he was still good at torture, even if it was just his lonesome that he was torturing. But if he weren't so dead-sat on pain, he surely would not be here. On the cemetery, in the middle of the night, another bunch or slowly rotting flowers in his hands trying to pay his respects silently in the shadow of the night.

Not that he was even able to do that. She was still there, had been there the entire day by herself, he was sure. Not alone any more now, she was. Leave it to his old mentor to come running back when she was already breaking apart. Great thinking there, Angelus. Pour a bit of sold on the wounds. Hold her hands for a few hours and take off again - that sure will make her feel better! And he wouldn't even be allowed to pick up the pieces Angelus would leave behind. He like pieces. Pieces had edges and who would want smooth sailing anyway?

So yeah, his sentences where starting to make less sense but then so was sitting here, crouched behind a tombstone, the now empty bottle in one hand and the slightly crushed flowers in his other.

Senseless was what it was. All of it. Him sitting here, them cuddling over there, Joice dying, Dawn not being Dawn, Dru leaving him, him being chipped.

Still, he was here and for some reason he still had to figure out, he knew with absolute certainty he would not leave, not ever again. She wouldn't want him around. Or so she said. Maybe she meant it. Maybe (hopefully!) she was deluding herself. He really didn't know any more at this point. And he didn't care. Thinking about how's and why's had always given him a headache. So he wouldn't, he decided. Wouldn't wonder any more. He would just take every day as it came and make the best of it.
Seemed like a decent enough plan to him and it had proven to be a decent plan in times past. Might not be the easiest thing to accomplish at the moment, but if there was one thing he was good at, it was living. Living the best unlife a person could have. And somehow he was sure that living that life would always include the blasted Chosen One from now on.

God, he really went for the melodramatic ones, didn't he?