whatever your type // baby if that's what you like
It had been six months, ten days, fifteen hours, and thirty-two minutes since Spike had last seen Buffy Summers. He stared down into the amber liquid this hipster bar called beer. It weighed on his heart, and while he knew it was pathetic to count, he found himself ticking the minutes off, and even the seconds, automatically before he could talk himself out of it. This wasn't his prophecy; wasn't his battle, and Angel didn't even want him here. Not that she would be any different. How could she want to see him, after so long of ignoring her. Sure most of that time he'd been dead, but he still thought it should count against him, tipping his bottle as he thought.
He was almost drunk enough to dial the number, to make the step, but it still felt far removed and as overseas as Buffy herself. Andrew had undoubtedly told her of his alive and corporeal state. She would be angry, but that had to be better than this silent Hell, didn't it? Never knowing where she was or how she was doing. Why wasn't he over there right now, weaseling his way back into her life.
But he already knew the answer. And she was probably already onto the next by now, Spike easily forgotten. She was better off that way, but Spike could barely breathe without her, not that he needed to.
Growling, he threw his money down on the counter, pocketing his hands and nudging his way quickly from the bar. He wanted to rip something's throat out, but it all came back to her. It would always come back to her. He pulled out his phone and just stared at it for long minutes while he walked. Maybe he should just smash it. That would be nice and satisfying - for about twelve seconds. In any case, Wolfram & Hart would just give him another so what was the point.
If he had a heart beat, it would be racing, as he dialed information and hung up, over and over. He was really something else, he had to hand it to himself. Blow himself up for the girl and save the world, fine. Call her up? He's having a bloody panic attack.
After about ten tries, half from nerves and half from drunkenness, he managed to patch through, saying her name as clearly as he could. But even saying it makes his heart ache. It's ringing and he very nearly hangs up again, forcing himself to stay on the line as he focuses on walking straight, mind going numb.
He was almost drunk enough to dial the number, to make the step, but it still felt far removed and as overseas as Buffy herself. Andrew had undoubtedly told her of his alive and corporeal state. She would be angry, but that had to be better than this silent Hell, didn't it? Never knowing where she was or how she was doing. Why wasn't he over there right now, weaseling his way back into her life.
But he already knew the answer. And she was probably already onto the next by now, Spike easily forgotten. She was better off that way, but Spike could barely breathe without her, not that he needed to.
Growling, he threw his money down on the counter, pocketing his hands and nudging his way quickly from the bar. He wanted to rip something's throat out, but it all came back to her. It would always come back to her. He pulled out his phone and just stared at it for long minutes while he walked. Maybe he should just smash it. That would be nice and satisfying - for about twelve seconds. In any case, Wolfram & Hart would just give him another so what was the point.
If he had a heart beat, it would be racing, as he dialed information and hung up, over and over. He was really something else, he had to hand it to himself. Blow himself up for the girl and save the world, fine. Call her up? He's having a bloody panic attack.
After about ten tries, half from nerves and half from drunkenness, he managed to patch through, saying her name as clearly as he could. But even saying it makes his heart ache. It's ringing and he very nearly hangs up again, forcing himself to stay on the line as he focuses on walking straight, mind going numb.