RATING: R, language, violence, some S/B, S/Aus
SUMMARY: Spike and the virtues...
SPOILERS: Season 5 through “Fool For Love”
DISCLAIMER: Joss is God. I’m merely a cheeky pilferer of his intellectual property.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is my answer to Nestra’s 7 Virtues in a 100 words drabble challenge. Er. Never written Spike before now. Beta by the DRV girls, may they continue to put up with me.
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"If thou hast not conquer’d thy self in that which is thy own particular Weakness, thou hast no Title to Virtue." -- William Penn
1 : the ability to govern and discipline oneself by the use of reason
2 : sagacity or shrewdness in the management of affairs
3 : skill and good judgment in the use of resources
4 : caution or circumspection as to danger or risk
If Spike ever used gentle language with himself, he might have called it a strategic retreat.
He ran like a nancy boy
He’d been lighting a smoke when the alley’s air became suffused with their scent. Smelled of adrenaline and alcohol and musk and the taint of steroids.
He pinched off the cherry tip of his cigarette and edged back.
Spike briefly entertained himself with the idea of introducing the humans to the rack, the pleasant sound of their joints popping, cracking, the pleading, and later, the screams when muscle began to tear.
And then he ran.
1 a : the maintenance or administration of what is just especially by the impartial adjustment of conflicting claims or the assignment of merited rewards or punishments b : JUDGE c : the administration of law; especially : the establishment or determination of rights according to the rules of law or equity
2 a : the quality of being just, impartial, or fair b (1) : the principle or ideal of just dealing or right action (2) : conformity to this principle or ideal : RIGHTEOUSNESS c : the quality of conforming to law
3 : conformity to truth, fact, or reason : CORRECTNESS
Spike looked down the street. It was closing in on five in the morning. No moon.
And nobody roamed about Sunnydale in the complete dark.
Nobody but Spike.
His stomach clenched, protesting its emptiness.
He raised his crowbar and swung. Glass shattered with a satisfying crack, scattering in a half-moon starburst at his feet. Spike reached through and unlocked the door, careful not to mark up his duster.
Glass crunched under his boot heels as he walked through the door.
He couldn’t bloody well bite humans anymore, but he’d be damned if he would let their insurance premiums go down.
1 : moderation in action, thought, or feeling : RESTRAINT
2 a : habitual moderation in the indulgence of the appetites or passions b : moderation in or abstinence from the use of intoxicating drink.
The world was spinning. His eyelids were closed and the world was spinning.
Spike felt waterlogged, and still hollow.
His cheek was pressed against the cold granite of his crypt. He cradled a stolen bottle of bourbon.
He’d been too timid to get this sodding pissed as a human, and Spike wondered if drink made the world spin for them, too. For the warm creatures with beating hearts.
Wondered if humans had some trick that shut out the voices.
Knew some trick to excise Buffy’s, “You’re beneath me,” from his ears.
Maybe if he clawed his ears off, Buffy would go away.
1 : benevolent goodwill toward or love of humanity
2 a : generosity and helpfulness especially toward the needy or suffering; also : aid given to those in need b : an institution engaged in relief of the poor c : public provision for the relief of the needy
3 a : a gift for public benevolent purposes b : an institution (as a hospital) founded by such a gift
4 : lenient judgment of others
“Sorry to shatter your illusions, pet, but what did you think was in that bloody spoonful of sugar?”
All right, maybe he wasn’t sorry.
No nicotine. Stale blood. Xander’s collection of wholesome movies.
Almost made Spike start gnawing on his own wrists.
Xander looked stunned. “Oh, God, not Mary Poppins. She’s supposed to be of the good!”
Spike tried to stretch. The ropes creaked. “Pity. You’ve been idolizing a drug user all these years.”
Xander stared at the telly and whimpered. He wrapped himself around a pillow.
Spike shifted again in his chair. “You know, I think Passions is on.”
1 : strength of mind that enables a person to encounter danger or bear pain or adversity with courage
Spike didn’t mind the dreams of Buffy so much, didn’t mind sitting bolt upright, gasping, horrified.
They were better than the dreams of Angelus. Angel.
Of Spike on his belly, chained, blood leaking from split skin, while Angelus fucked him into submission.
Spike rather liked being fucked into submission. He just hated Angelus with every undead cell in his body when he had to watch Angelus fuck Dru. Had to watch her sing for her Daddy, rake Angelus’ back with her fingernails.
All the hot pokers in the world wouldn’t make up for that.
He didn’t know who he hated more.
1 a : allegiance to duty or a person : LOYALTY b (1) : fidelity to one's promises (2) : sincerity of intentions
2 a (1) : belief and trust in and loyalty to God (2) : belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion b (1) : firm belief in something for which there is no proof (2) : complete trust
3 : something that is believed especially with strong conviction; especially : a system of religious beliefs
He loved violence. Loved death. Loved pain. Loved warmth, blood, and the sharp blade. The hot pull of skin as it separated.
He loved. He felt. He wept and drank and fucked and fought. He lived more as a vampire than a human.
Angelus had been very disappointed in him. Darla reserved him a special sneer. Drusilla had only smiled at his overcompensation, and fluttered her hands like broken wings.
Spike knew he loved like a child. Loved with every bit of his being. Loved even after they left him. And they always left him. Because who could satisfy a child?
1 : to cherish a desire with anticipation
2 archaic : TRUST transitive senses
1 : to desire with expectation of obtainment
2 : to expect with confidence : TRUST
Spike perched on a headstone and watched her fight.
Watched a spinning kick, a flip of her blonde ponytail. An explosion of dust.
Watched her dance in all her self-righteous, moral glory.
“What do you want, Spike?” She stood there, forearms tucked under her breasts.
He shrugged. “Just enjoying the show, Slayer.”
She’d had Angel’s fangs buried in the soft skin of her throat, too, only she pretended to be above it. Above the thrill, above darkness. She pretended that sex and death weren’t lovers.
She pretended she wasn’t a hypocrite.
And he waited for one real good day.