CrazyEvilDru
DISCLAIMER : I do not own these characters.
It’s already been twenty days and I can’t believe it. I’m getting used to the smell of an empty house. There are no brownies in the oven when I get home. There are no hamburgers made for after patrol. There’s no perfume in the bathroom, or hairspray in the hallway. There’s just me in an empty house that used to smell of all those things. It used to smell like home, now it reeks of death and loneliness.
And I still can’t sleep there which is why I’m here, in his arms, smelling the death and stagnant air of a crypt, and it’s still ten times better than home. I can smell the smoke on him, and a little spilt beer. And even though he smells of smoke, he still smells better than home. Home is cold and lonely. He is cool comfort. He is company. Nothing has happened since the other day when I basically beat the shit out of him and then fucked him. And he hasn’t said anything.
Perhaps he’s masochistic. He likes knowing that I don’t love him. He likes knowing that I’d sooner stake him if I didn’t need to sleep in his arms. Perhaps that’s torture in itself. He’s felt my skin on his, me around him. He’s tasted my mouth, and he’s smelled my sex, and sweat. But I’ve laid here every night since, in my sweats and t-shirt, like before. So maybe this is torture for him, but I really could care less, because it doesn’t matter to me. His comfort doesn’t matter. And it’s selfish of me to expect that when I creep in, that he’ll make room for me, but I do, and he hasn’t complained yet.
But I’ve gotta get up cause I have class. And even that is stupid, but I get up anyway. And I sit through boring class after boring class. None of it matters anymore. What am I gonna do but live a year or two more and then die? It doesn’t matter. Why should I waste my time studying when I could be out killing a few demons?
But Giles and Willow think it’s important to keep my schedule. So after class, I’m off to train. Then after training, I have to go to the house for a shower and dinner, which never fills the house with its aroma.
I get out of the shower and walk downstairs, wrapped in my towel, because I can. I can do anything I want. It doesn’t matter. I can blare the music without being interrupted. I can eat cookies for breakfast and drink milk out of the carton. I can read a book with my bedroom door opened and I can take a bubble bath without being interrupted for a grocery list or for a question on boys.
But I wish for those interruptions. I *beg* for them. But they never come.
I open the cabinets and grab a few stale crackers from a box. I haven’t gone shopping. Why? I can’t stand to be in this house. It’s suffocates me. It stands for death and loneliness and I never want to step foot in it again. And that realization causes me to run upstairs and dress quickly. I grab a twenty from my wallet and pull the front door closed as I run out.
I’m hungry and angry and lonely and I want nothing more tha-
I inhale the air around me and I want pizza. I walk towards the pizza place. The scent fills my nostrils and for once, it’s not death or hurt that I smell. I welcome the relief. Twenty minutes later, I’m on my way. I don’t feel like eating alone. I open the crypt and find him sitting watching television.
He turns and looks at me before turning back to watch his show. I walk over to the couch and sit down next to him. “I brought wings for you.” I say as I hand him the bag. He nods and opens the bag. I open the pizza box and sit back and watch with him.
I don’t know why I come back here day after day. It seems that all I do besides sit in class, train and patrol, is be with Spike. A month ago, I would have said that this day would never come. I’d have sworn that I’d never bring a pizza and just hang out with Spike. But he doesn’t want anything from me. He doesn’t ask me how I am. And he doesn’t acknowledge my existence unless I say something, or hit him.
We eat and he watches the programs until it’s dark. “I’m gonna do a few sweeps.” I announce as I stand up. I grab my jacket and check to make sure I have a few stakes. I forgot them yesterday. There was a little issue of not being able to stake a vampire that came after me, but luckily there was an old tree. But that’s not the only time I’ve slipped up a little.
And I think he’s been following me because he grabs his duster and is by my side before I’m even ready to go. He must have seen those demons two nights ago. I was so out of it, I didn’t even notice there were two of them until they had me on the ground about to kill me. Luckily that woke me up. Ever since, he’s just tagged along, fighting when needed, watching when not. And it’s okay, to have company. I feel alone most other times; it’s nice to have someone like me. In the world but not part of it.
He lights up a cigarette, which I don’t mind because that smell is now his. Whenever I smell it at school, I think of him. I think of being wrapped in his arms and it feels nice to think of that at school in the middle of class.
I some times wonder what he would smell like if he stopped smoking. Would he still be Spike? Spike smells like smoke, and if he stopped smoking, what would he smell like? And would he still be Spike? I don’t know. I think he would be. He would *have* to be. He just wouldn’t be smokey Spike. He’d be cologne Spike, or peppermint Spike, or some other form of Spike. I wonder if I would like him as much.
I look over and find him looking at me. “What?” I ask.
“You look deep in thought.”
“When aren’t I?” I retort before hearing growls from behind me. I turn around and find four vamps. They really are stupid; on the average, vampires are stupid. They really should know that Spike is a vampire, cause they have that whole hearing-the-heartbeat thing. But they *still* attack, probably figuring they can steal his dinner. But they don’t know that I’m nobody’s dinner.
I make quick work of them and dust myself off as I turn to find him sitting on a tombstone. “Get down.” I say.
“Why?”
“Because it’s disrespectful.”
“So? They’re dead. What do I care?” He asks and I run towards him and kick him the hell off that tombstone. “BLOODY HELL!” He shouts and I realize his hand is smoking. He’s just lit up. “You really gotta stop that, Slayer!” He says as he stands up.
“What? Giving you what you deserve?”
“It’s just a rock. I was resting my legs, Luv.”
“Well, if I were dead, I wouldn’t want *you* sitting on my tombstone.”
“I wouldn’t sit on yours. I’d be dancing on your grave, Slayer.” He winks as he walks by me and I laugh despite the tears that are fighting to fall.
“You won’t live to see my grave.” I whisper under my breath.
“Yes I will.”
“No.” I stop myself from saying too much. We haven’t been saying much. It’s less complicated that way.
We start walking again before I stop in front of the oak tree. I look to my right and I have to walk over and read the names. ‘Joyce Summers. Beloved Mother. 1952-2001. Dawn Summers. Sister & Daughter. 1986-2001.’
I feel him standing behind me and I can’t help but lean back against him. I feel his arms wrap around me. “I’m sorry, Slayer.” He says. And I know he’s apologizing for sitting on the tombstone. But he’s also apologizing for who I am, and for what happened, and for being a vampire. He’s apologizing for all the times he tried to kill me, and the times he tried to kiss me, and all the times he did, and all the times he didn’t. He’s apologizing for the world and the galaxy and the guy who made my pizza.
I guess they’re just words I need to hear because I break down and fall to my knees and he’s right there next to me holding me up. I don’t know how long I cry, or for how long he holds me, but he does. Spike doesn’t leave. He never does. And a year ago, that was a bad thing, but right now, it’s something that I need.
After a while, I have no more tears to cry and he helps me stand up. We get back to his crypt and I sit on the couch. He brings me some water and I drink it. I glance at my watch, way past midnight. Time to go to the house.
I stand up and he watches me from where he’s standing, leaning against the wall. “Buffy.” He says. I stop and look at him. “Just stay.” He says. He knows I’ll be back in an hour. *I* know I’ll be back in an hour.
“I can’t.” I whisper and turn to leave. It’s just too complicated that way. I get home and shower again. I wash the dust out of my hair and use my coconut shampoo. I’m almost out.
I get out and dry off. I slip into my sweats and a new t-shirt. I crawl into a bed that doesn’t want me and lay in a house that doesn’t need me. So I get out and sneak into the crypt where he’s laying in the dark. I pull back the covers and slip in underneath. He pulls me close and I rest my head on his chest. He smells like smoke.
I often ask myself if Spike stopped smelling like smoke, if he’s still be Spike. I suppose I can ask myself the same of the house. If a home smells of Dawn and Mom, and Dawn and Mom stop, is it still home? Can it ever smell like home again? And how will I know what home smells like?
~El Fin de Smell~