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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.



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



Part 2

He may have to get used to it again, he thinks, critically turning it over in hands. Looks at the worn leather, made up of rips and slashes repaired with stuff he'd nicked from a leather goods store last year - or maybe the year before. Looks a bit the worse for wear. Wonders why he hadn't noticed it before.

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.