Bogwitch (bogwitch) wrote,

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A Stalker's Guide to Sunnydale, Part 1: Bronzed

I've been um-ing and ah-ing over whether to post this for about a week. I want this to be part of a series of Spike ficlets, but I don't know whether to say that in case I never get there. This stands alone, so it's no great problem if I don't, I suppose... Um, I think should just post it!

BTW, this isn't the big fic I'm working on.

Thanks again to calove and gamiilla for looking it over and all the encouragement!

Bronzed – Bogwitch
(Spike, BtVS, Season Five, Spike hates the Bronze)

Spike hates the Bronze.

Why does he bother coming here? Because it's sure as hell not the shitty bands, pumping out forgettable songs of love and longing, or the nasty bland beer that tastes of nothing, and it's certainly not the silly, witless kids, drunk and under-age. Wannabe punks, without an ounce of rebellion in them, pretty young girls with nothing between their ears, they’re all lusty and chock full of hormones; they never change. Another lost generation of vampire snacks, all packaged and ready for him to bite.

Once this place had been a favourite hunting ground of his, back in the old days when he could catch his own dinner, instead of wasting away on tasteless cow blood. On a good night he could get a bite to eat, start a rumble with the locals or the slayer, if she was in the mood, and he'd be back to his girl before sunrise with a bounce, all contented. Now these kids just tease him with the life he can sense pulsing through their arteries, rich, dark and warming. He won't taste that again.

If you ask him, he'll never admit to why he comes here every night, to torture himself with the goodies he cannot have, even though he knows that its her. That’s the only reason he comes, the chance he might see Buffy again. These kids must know by now, they've both been here often enough. Surely they've noticed that he can't take his eyes off her for a moment, focused to the exclusion of anything else. For he’s known since the moment he first saw her here, that first night when he'd have killed her on Saturday, given half a chance, that it would come to this. He hadn't seen anyone like her before. Not once in a hundred plus years of roaming this planet, was there a girl who could compare to this slayer. There was nothing like her, he knew.

Tonight she’s dancing with her friends, as she always does, like a normal girl would do, as if she was just like the rest. He stands at the bar and watches as her shampoo commercial hair bounces to the beat, bobbing with the movements of her fragile-looking body, catching the coloured lights as they swirl through the darkness like a whip. Here no one knows how special she is. What a crime. These songs just feel like a knife to the gut, making him feel that little bit worse. But, never know, maybe she'll see him and will come over and talk, but he’s well aware it’s more likely to be a fist to the face. He’s screwed and he knows it; she won't even look at him, she never see the man inside who is trying to be good enough for her, but he has to try, otherwise the loneliness of his crypt and his heart will gnaw away at his insides until there’s nothing left of Spike but his name.

She’s noticed him now as she turns in her dance. The smile fades and the scowl he knows too well drops into its place as she starts to stomp towards him, the righteous anger in her eye that he secretly loves. There’s going to be hell to pay.

Oh yes, Spike loves the Bronze.

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