Cause Scoobies deserve to be eaten.
He thought about his words, as he sped along the highway, engine strumming beneath his legs. No, he wouldn’t bite Anya, would he? He liked her, she’d been a friend on a hard day, and he hadn’t made her life any easier. Sure, she’s said it was just a thing, or he was just a thing, or something, but he wouldn’t bite her.
But the rest of them. Yeah, soon as this chip was out, bye, bye Scoobies. Like Tara. Tara with the soft soulful eyes, the silly little jokes and the gentle way. She treated him like a person, a man, when no one else did. No, he wouldn’t bite Tara. Not that there weren’t lots of other choices.
Red. Yeah, he’d told her once he’d bite her. Couldn’t finish the job, but he’d tried. Willow, who’d tried to include him in the gang when he first got chipped, forgettin’ what he was till he reminded her, over again. Willow, struggling with the magic, tryin’ so hard to set aside who she really was. Yeah, but she’d cut him out last summer. That summer he’d fought by her side. Her voice in his head, helping them fight. Her voice, telling him to save Dawn on the tower. Besides, it would kill Tara to lose her, and he liked Tara. So, no, not gonna bite Willow.
And what about Dawn? His little bit. His Niblet. The thought of sinking his fangs into her neck sickened him. It’d be like biting his own sister. Her life drainin’ away. Not a thought he could even entertain.
But Harris. Yeah, take him out. Wanker. Look a pain on his face when he found Anya, knew what they’d done. Man had nothin’ left. No future anyway. Just spending his life drinkin’ it away. Not that he could relate to that. Man in pain. Solace in a bottle. Lettin’ him live in his basement, even though he hated him. Strugglin’ with the breaks life gave him. That father of his, at the weddin’. He was just a kid, really, in a man’s body. Besides, he’d taste real bad. Bitter. Maybe he’d give Harris a pass.
Her cold eyes were all he could see in front of him. The pain, buried deep with her love. And god, how he still loved her. It was the chip, that’s all. Right. The chip. Touchin’ in him all the right places. Callin’ out his name when she couldn’t hold it in any more. Her soft, soft skin. Wild, like an animal, shaggin’ and fightin’. Sittin’ on the porch with her, the night Joyce started to die. Kissin’ her. The terror on her face in the bathroom. All the chances he’d had, and he’d never given one thought to bitin’ her, not really. As he drove, as she receded farther into the distance, her presence grew in his heart.
But he could do strangers. People who weren’t them. He could bite them, chip or no chip. Couldn’t he?
He drove on into the night.