Spoilers: Post Get It Done, I guess
Summary: Mental ramblings
Disclaimers: All Joss, all ME, all the time...
Author's Note: Complete and utterly unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own... Turnabout's fair play - Spike's POV
He smirks self-deprecatingly. Costume again, but at least it is a better show than last time. He nods once in satisfaction. Got it done. That's what counts, right? What she wants, right?
He always tries to do what she wants. And somehow, no matter what reason she gives, it turns out she's right. Got a bit of the old buzz tonight, out doing the 'fists and fangs' thing. Stopped worrying for a while about the right thing and did what his bones told him he was meant to do. Hunt, fight, kill.
Used to be, putting on the coat didn't mean much - there was a swagger in his step whether he wore it or not. These days, the swagger is bloody hard to come by. Needs the trappings to help get his head in the right place.
He looks forward to a time when he doesn't need a crutch. A little wicked in the cause of good can't be bad, right? Got a bit of a boost from it, soul didn't squeal, so what's the harm?
Leaning forward, he digs in the pocket of the coat to dig out the fresh pack of smokes he'd picked up after Buffy had gone up to bed. Strips the pack and lights one.
It's not quite the same anymore, but that's all right. Can't expect that, what with the soul and all. If putting on the coat keeps her alive, then it's all good with him. Anything that keeps her and hers alive is good.
Besides, there were a couple of moments there that the coat had felt like his skin again. And he hasn't been comfortable in his own skin for a long, long time. He'd felt a quiver of the old energy, a bit of the old Big Bad.
Touch of wickedness.
He lays the cigarette on the side of a cardboard box, and lifts the duster, slipping his arms in as it drifts down. Reaches over and places the cylinder between his lips, leaning back to take a deep drag.
The smoke tastes a little sweeter this time around.