All About Spike - Plain Version

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Chapter: 1  2

Wicked Energy
By Kimi

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... A little Buffy POV that won't let go.

Part 1

When she dreams, the Spike in the basement isn't the one she sees. Even awake, she knows deep down that that's not all he is. She knows him. Oh, yes, she knows him, and she's waiting for the chick to crack the shell.

Right now, he's more - and less. And she hasn't got time for the big epiphany to come, because she's afraid his dust will precede it.

She looks for the joy he once had in the fight. The joy he had in taking on every night as if it was his last. No regrets. A lesson she really needs to learn. She looks for it in him. Prays for it, really, if it can be called praying.

Wicked energy.

She's spoiled to it.

Knows it. And doesn't know what to do about it. She's already tried the good guy - the non-bad guy. No fangs, except invisible ones, hidden away until he rips out her self-respect in some uber-sick 'fang and bang' brothel.

Thoughts scream through her head, almost deafen her with taunting. Her judgment's not perfect. No, never was. And no one will let her forget it. Their eyes say it, even when their lips are still.

She can't forget it herself. Even when she hugs the pillow to her face to mute the racket.

Wants to make good choices, right choices. Save-the-world choices. The kind of choices that would make her mother proud. But her mother's gone and her soft voice gets further and further away with each passing day. Suddenly, somehow, there's no one to ask. They can't look her in the eye anymore. No one has any answers. Especially her. She's in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight.

So far from normal, it seems like a fantasy word. Of course, in this place, nothing is normal. Maybe it isn't 'normal' anywhere.

If that's true, then what is she trying for? A fairy tale?

Sometimes she'd like to be forgetful. Submerge her responsibilities in mussed sheets and stomach-tightening moans.

She's tired. Tired of the responsibility. Tired of only being one thing... being good at one thing. Killing, hurting, maiming. And not real great at that right now, truth be told.

She could use a little wicked energy of her own.

Continued in Part 2

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