Spike was just sittin’ there, picking at his nail polish, when the door shoved open. All he did now, really, was sit there. Cross-legged on the cover of one of the coffins, cultivatin’ his image and considering a Damned record. He minded his own business. He did! He never stuck his nose when he could pretend he hadn’t heard, instead. He helped when he could. And what’d he get for his efforts? Couple brassed-off undeads and a door no one bothered to knock on.
“I’m in the middle of something,” he said, eyes cast down on torn cuticles. It wasn’t a lie. Few rewatches yesterday and a picture someone’d taken at the butcher’s showed his nails were too clean. Prom queens get manicures that stay smooth; Spike needed ‘em torn-up and wearing off. He slid his right thumbnail under the thin layer of polish on his left. It pushed up and ripped away easy enough. Intentional chipping. Get all the ridges right. “‘ppreciate the house call, but you oughta just come back another…”
He looked up. She’d bolted in and taken off, straight to the west end of the crypt, standing with her fingers pedaling through the air at her sides. This was no Buffy he’d seen in a long while. Her anxiety was adorable. Brought a little smile to the side of his mouth. ”…time,” Spike said, finishing the sentence and leading quick into the next one. ”Somethin’ crawly in your knickers, Summers? There’s an easier fix than dancin’ around with your—”
Another sentence cut off. She was rushing at him. All right, touchy. Won’t make jokes like that when we’re all raw and new. Didn’t think it was a threatenin’ offense. At first, Spike thought she was just gonna get close and roll her eyes, wag her finger in his face — any number of scoldings she reserved for off-coloured nonsense when she was frettin’ too much to be fun. Was it too much to ask that they just went back to where they’d been sittin’ when the music ended?
It was.
He got what she was goin’ for maybe a foot away, and then Spike scrambled to move out of her path. He pushed off the cover, legs uncrossing rapid-fire, shoulders near his ears and one hand palm-first. ”Woah, woah, hold up,” he said. He only made it a few paces before his back hit the wall behind him. Damn it. All these people bustin’ in whenever they felt like it and he still didn’t check his exits when he sat down. Her mouth was doing that flat-lipped thing. Angry Buffy wasn’t any friend of his. ”I—what?—so we won’t talk about your problems, then, all right? Christ. Just tryin’ to help.”
As she rushed toward Spike she noticed a couple of things about him, what with her incredibly keen slayer sensibilities. He was just sitting there, messing with his stupid nail polish, just chipping away like nothing was wrong. He told her she ought to come back another time, that he was busy. Busy with what? Redoing his manicure the caveman way? For a guy who spent more time on this planet using traditionally feminine beauty products (hello bottles of bleach and vial after vial of the same black nail polish…) she thought he might have discovered nail polish remover by now. But he hadn’t, no, he instead felt the need to sit there highly absorbed in his fingernail maintenance when he should be paying attention to her. He should be cowering or possibly bracing himself to fight back, but he was ignoring her.
And then he looked up with a grin she couldn’t stand. Ugh! Smiling in the face of her frustration? It only goaded her on. She rushed forward, and yes those were indeed fists she felt herself forming. Suddenly, there it was. The realization of what exactly was about to happen to him. Spike finally reacted to her. By running, or at least trying to. But he ended up at a wall. "Can’t get away that easily,“ she said under her breath. He could definitely hear her, she knew that much. She didn’t need to yell, not yet.
Hold up? No. Talk about our problems? No. Wait. Yes. That’s what she was here to do. Talk and maybe yell about her problems, vampires couldn’t read minds. At least not that she knew of? She stopped dead in her tracks with her fist about three inches from Spike’s face. He had that dear-god-no expression on. She took a couple of deep breaths and lowered her fist, untightening her tense fingers with a few good shakes of the wrist. "Actually, we will talk.” she said through clenched teeth. She was still incredibly angry despite not actively committing a violent assault. "I’ll go first. You don’t mind do you?“ She paced away, if he knew what was good for him (which she honestly wasn’t sure he did) he wouldn’t answer.
She walked to the coffin Spike had just been resting on, taking the time to readjust the cover which had moved ever so slightly during Spike’s rapid takeoff to the wall. She took another few deep breaths, she’d learned somewhere that it helped angry people to breathe sometimes, and then jumped up on the coffin. She sat there with her legs crossed adjusting her clothes so they fell just so, and then she was ready to talk. She wet her lips before speaking, because being rabidly angry always made her mouth a little dry. Probably due to her increased breathing rate which tended to near hyperventilation.
"You’re aware, I’m certain, that my life is a living hell as of right now.” She looked over at him, gauging his reaction and then continuing on. “You’re also aware of the fact that you supposedly care about me at least a little.” She spoke without really paying attention to him. She was trying to work all of this out in her head. Trying to piece together why he would do this. She understood it on a base level. He was an egomaniac who honestly deserved his fifteen minutes of fame, she knew this. She could see the allure of being on television for him. The adoring groupies that had probably been contacting him left and right, he must feel like a rockstar. He was accustomed to a certain amount of infamy in his soulless days, so naturally he’d be seeking fame once he came over to the good side. It had only been a matter of timing. "What I don’t get is why now? Why now, when I’m fighting tooth and nail for my right to do the right thing, would you decide to intentionally do something that would make my life all the more miserable?“ The questions were rhetorical at the time, she was just thinking out loud. Did he just not care?
"Do you just not care?” She looked to him through squinted and inquisitive brows. For the moment she’d actually calmed down and the time had come for Spike to say his piece. Defend himself, or do attacking of his own. It was time for him to say something, time to offer some sort of explanation And quickly before she exploded.
This Is A Test 