"Nothing but a Hound Dog" - Spike
Title: Nothing but a Hound Dog
Author: Eilowyn
Rating: PG
Word Count: 858
Prompt: 179 (Elvis)
Characters/Pairing (if any): Spike, Hound Dog
A/N: For my little Yorkie/Schnauser mix, Taffy, who's sitting on my lap right now.
There was an old mutt, mostly of indiscriminate basset hound origin, that lived in the ally behind the Alibi Room. Spike had once asked Willy who the dog belonged to, but the bartender had just shrugged and said something about how Clem always fed it scraps, maybe as a fattening up ritual for some future feast date. Spike, being evil, didn't read much into the thought of the animal being consumed, but he still occasionally brought small tidbits of meat from the butcher’s where he bought his blood to feed the dog out of some bizarre form of pity. The dog reminded him of William, sad and lonely, and it drove Spike to distraction that he actually could pity some random mutt that was too old to be more than a waste of space. But he trusted the patrons of the dive bar for some innately Hellmouthy reason; he was slow and stupid, but somehow the demons of the Hellmouth had never found grounds to do anything but let him be and occasionally bring food for it when drunk enough to forget their own generally evil persuasion. No demon in Sunnydale would ever admit to such actions of kindness towards an animal, yet Spike knew the dog had been in that back ally since he first arrived in town three years ago, and would probably still be there long after he was gone.
Spike was on his way to Willy’s after another nominal patrol that didn’t even really deserve the word because the slaying business was so slow. The witches were watching Dawn for the night, and Spike was dead set on a bender to end all benders, hoping copious amounts of drink would allow him to forget for at least a few seconds that the Slayer was gone. No, not gone; that Buffy was dead. Spike paused in the alley where the dog lived, taking a few deep breaths to try to get a hold of himself before the shameful tears leaked out yet again. The hound seemed to sense his presence; he came slinking out of his little den made of cardboard and other trash in his low, meandering gait, belly close to the ground. The animal stuck his nose in the air, sniffed twice, and loped towards Spike, sensing the vampire’s distress in that way that all compassionate animals sense pain and suffering and feel that their presence may be the answer to ending such. Spike, head leaning back against the wall, looked down at the hound, noticing that he was favoring his right front paw as if it pained him.
“What’s wrong?” Spike asked the dog, voice grainy with his suppressed tears. The chip must really be making him bonkers if suddenly he was concerned for animal welfare. “Something get your foot?” He leaned down, gently reaching to take the injured paw with an innate sensitivity to the animal’s possibly skittish behavior. It was the William in him that allowed Spike to carefully massage the injured foot, and all his skills learned gentling Drusilla’s injured skittishness came out in a poncy wash of emotion that made Spike want to growl and harangue himself for being such a pouf. But the animal seemed to trust him, seemed to know that Spike had experience in caring for the sick or injured, and allowed the vampire to suss out that there was some sore in the underside of the paw that didn’t seem to be healing on its own.
When asked later, Spike wouldn’t have been able to tell you why he did it. He just got an image of Tara’s gentle touch and soothing words and Willow’s healing magic that would take care of an injured paw as quickly as she had healed his external injuries from the battle at the tower. Dawn’s affinity for watching anything dog-related on Animal Planet and all those stuffed animals that lined her girlish bed was the last visual that came to him, and the one that clinched his decision. There were three girls out at the house on Revello Drive who needed something to love, something to spoil, something to get their minds off the absence of the blond around whom their lives had revolved, but who was now gone. The dog was trusting enough to settle into a loving environment well; some weird quirk of the Hellmouth making it friendly and socialized when it should be cowering somewhere or - more than likely - dead. Spike thought back to William, alone and wanting to love and be loved with the very core of his being, and thought back to his always associating the hound with William, ever since he first came to this town and reigned as Master of Sunnydale, and did something he never thought he would back when he and Dru first arrived and he still had his bite. He turned his back on his intended night of drunken debauchery, lifted the heavy dog in his arms with soothing coos he would deny ever came out of his mouth if questioned, and set out for Revello Drive.
In his head, he named the hound Billy.
ETA: edited to fix typos and horrendous run-on sentences.
Author: Eilowyn
Rating: PG
Word Count: 858
Prompt: 179 (Elvis)
Characters/Pairing (if any): Spike, Hound Dog
A/N: For my little Yorkie/Schnauser mix, Taffy, who's sitting on my lap right now.
There was an old mutt, mostly of indiscriminate basset hound origin, that lived in the ally behind the Alibi Room. Spike had once asked Willy who the dog belonged to, but the bartender had just shrugged and said something about how Clem always fed it scraps, maybe as a fattening up ritual for some future feast date. Spike, being evil, didn't read much into the thought of the animal being consumed, but he still occasionally brought small tidbits of meat from the butcher’s where he bought his blood to feed the dog out of some bizarre form of pity. The dog reminded him of William, sad and lonely, and it drove Spike to distraction that he actually could pity some random mutt that was too old to be more than a waste of space. But he trusted the patrons of the dive bar for some innately Hellmouthy reason; he was slow and stupid, but somehow the demons of the Hellmouth had never found grounds to do anything but let him be and occasionally bring food for it when drunk enough to forget their own generally evil persuasion. No demon in Sunnydale would ever admit to such actions of kindness towards an animal, yet Spike knew the dog had been in that back ally since he first arrived in town three years ago, and would probably still be there long after he was gone.
Spike was on his way to Willy’s after another nominal patrol that didn’t even really deserve the word because the slaying business was so slow. The witches were watching Dawn for the night, and Spike was dead set on a bender to end all benders, hoping copious amounts of drink would allow him to forget for at least a few seconds that the Slayer was gone. No, not gone; that Buffy was dead. Spike paused in the alley where the dog lived, taking a few deep breaths to try to get a hold of himself before the shameful tears leaked out yet again. The hound seemed to sense his presence; he came slinking out of his little den made of cardboard and other trash in his low, meandering gait, belly close to the ground. The animal stuck his nose in the air, sniffed twice, and loped towards Spike, sensing the vampire’s distress in that way that all compassionate animals sense pain and suffering and feel that their presence may be the answer to ending such. Spike, head leaning back against the wall, looked down at the hound, noticing that he was favoring his right front paw as if it pained him.
“What’s wrong?” Spike asked the dog, voice grainy with his suppressed tears. The chip must really be making him bonkers if suddenly he was concerned for animal welfare. “Something get your foot?” He leaned down, gently reaching to take the injured paw with an innate sensitivity to the animal’s possibly skittish behavior. It was the William in him that allowed Spike to carefully massage the injured foot, and all his skills learned gentling Drusilla’s injured skittishness came out in a poncy wash of emotion that made Spike want to growl and harangue himself for being such a pouf. But the animal seemed to trust him, seemed to know that Spike had experience in caring for the sick or injured, and allowed the vampire to suss out that there was some sore in the underside of the paw that didn’t seem to be healing on its own.
When asked later, Spike wouldn’t have been able to tell you why he did it. He just got an image of Tara’s gentle touch and soothing words and Willow’s healing magic that would take care of an injured paw as quickly as she had healed his external injuries from the battle at the tower. Dawn’s affinity for watching anything dog-related on Animal Planet and all those stuffed animals that lined her girlish bed was the last visual that came to him, and the one that clinched his decision. There were three girls out at the house on Revello Drive who needed something to love, something to spoil, something to get their minds off the absence of the blond around whom their lives had revolved, but who was now gone. The dog was trusting enough to settle into a loving environment well; some weird quirk of the Hellmouth making it friendly and socialized when it should be cowering somewhere or - more than likely - dead. Spike thought back to William, alone and wanting to love and be loved with the very core of his being, and thought back to his always associating the hound with William, ever since he first came to this town and reigned as Master of Sunnydale, and did something he never thought he would back when he and Dru first arrived and he still had his bite. He turned his back on his intended night of drunken debauchery, lifted the heavy dog in his arms with soothing coos he would deny ever came out of his mouth if questioned, and set out for Revello Drive.
In his head, he named the hound Billy.
ETA: edited to fix typos and horrendous run-on sentences.