Chapter Text
Here’s the thing about happiness: it’s relative.
Spike’s been out of the bath tub for two days. Not long ago, he was being starved half to re-death in a glass cage, trapped in worse conditions than your average lab rat. Then he was traipsing around town in the same emaciated state, only a mouldy old blanket standing between him and total combustion. So when he ended up chained in the bath tub in Giles’ house, things were actually looking up. At least he was being fed and had a telly, plus someone to take the piss out of.
In light of this, his current conditions – lounging on Giles’ couch – aren’t too shabby. Yeah, he should have some pride, probably, but fact is, he’s often found that when the going gets tough, dignity’s just not worth the hassle. He’d never admit it openly, but it’s the truth.
Point is: he’s got a couch. He’s got blood. He’s got Passions. Things could be worse.
“I don’t know how you continue to watch such rubbish,” mutters Giles, who’s chopping a tomato at the kitchen island. “You’ve lived for over a century. Surely the novelty of petty, contrived drama should have worn off long ago.”
That’s another thing Spike’s got: company. Yeah, so he hates the lot of them, but liking people isn’t a prerequisite for liking being around them. More interesting hating their guts, sometimes. He doesn’t like half the people on his soaps, either, but giving ‘em mean nicknames and judging them’s half the fun, innit?
Giles is a self-righteous old prick and he’s not half as smart as he thinks he is, but at the end of the day, Spike can talk with him. Plus, the old codger’s lonely. Sad, really, watching him waste away like this. May as well throw him a bone. Spike’s not a monster. Okay, well, yeah, he is, but he’s got standards. He doesn’t pick on the weak. Not gonna kick the old sheepdog when it’s already on its way to the barn.
Spike shovels a spoonful of blood-drenched Cornflakes into his mouth. “Not s’posed to be high art,” he mumbles with his mouth full. “S’a bit like Dickens. Catering to the common man and all that.”
Giles shrugs with his mouth, like fair enough.
“Still. I imagine if I lived to be over a century old, I’d prefer to entertain myself with something more–” Giles wrinkles his face up. “–intellectually stimulating. Or does brain capacity decrease with age, even for immortal beings?”
Spike rolls his eyes, chewing loudly. “I’ve seen your video collection, y’know. Most of it’s rubbish.”
“Well, I don’t watch much television,” Giles says, sitting down at the dining table with a sandwich and a mug of tea. “I prefer to read. Something about the, ah, passivity of merely watching, it’s, ah…”
“Christ, you’re a snob.” Spike jumps up and heads to the kitchen to shake a few more Cornflakes into his bowl. Ratio’s off; too soggy. “Feel the same about Shakespeare, do you?”
Giles pauses, then makes another concessionary face.
Two-nil to Spike.
“When you live this long, everything’s bloody boring,” Spike says. “Nothing’s new. I reckon you could stand to learn something from us vamps.” He bounces back down onto the couch. “Learn to appreciate the little things, y’know? Like–” he nods towards the television screen, “–these poor buggers living their sad little lives, chasing their tails over the same old nonsense, like it hasn’t all been done before.”
Again, Giles looks thoughtful.
“I suppose that is a point,” he says. “Mundanity might grow fresh appeal, once novelty’s been exhausted.” He hums and takes another delicate bite of his sandwich, staring into the distance, like he’s just read something very interesting.
Spike feels an odd pang of pride. And a pang of something worse.
It’s that feeling you get, sometimes, when you’re talking to someone. When they listen to what you say, and they seem to get it. It’s a good feeling.
Spike screws up his face mid-chomp. He’s not sure he likes where this is going.
—
It’s just after sunset and the film Giles picked out is almost over when the front door bursts open.
Giles lets out a tiny panicked noise and jumps up from the sofa, pushing his glasses up his nose, as if they’ve just been caught shagging.
It’s the slayer. Which is a bit annoying, 'cos they’re in the middle of something, but, well, guess the film was a bit boring anyway. It’s about some poor kid who finds a bird. Giles was on about it capturing the mood of Britain in the sixties, and though personally Spike doesn’t care what poor people were whinging about then or ever, he indulged Giles anyway. Mostly because he’d told Spike he could pick the next film he rents (since Giles’ taste is “apparently so tragic”).
“Giles, I need your– help.”
Buffy’s eyes jump to Spike, who’s got his arm slung over the sofa and is smirking at her, and then quickly away again. She’s been even more highly strung than usual lately, ever since that bloody spell the witch put them under. Won’t even look at him anymore. Spike’s convinced it’s because she fancies him rotten and is embarrassed about it. Stuck-up cow. Would drive him spare if he gave a damn, which, luckily, he does not.
“Sorry to interrupt–” Buffy squints, “–movie night?”
“You didn’t,” Giles bumbles, and Spike rolls his eyes.
“God, this movie looks really old. And boring,” Buffy says. She looks at Giles. “Can’t you just have actual fun, for once in your life?”
“How can I help you?” Giles asks flatly.
“Why is he still here, by the way?” Buffy says, pointing at Spike and distinctly avoiding his gaze. “He’s useless. Shouldn’t we just stake him or throw him out in the sun to fend for himself? Not, y’know, continue feeding and clothing and–” she makes a disapproving face. “–culturing him?”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m all pampered. I’m still a bleedin’ prisoner.”
Buffy raises a brow at him. “A prisoner with popcorn?”
Spike shrugs, shoving some into his mouth and holding out the bowl to Buffy in offering.
“Ew. Gross,” she almost spits, then tears her eyes away again.
Singing a very different tune to last week, Spike wants to say, but he swears she’s already blushing and thinking the same thing herself, so he just basks in another smirk instead. The crunch crunch crunch of the popcorn is suddenly very satisfying.
“Anyway, Giles,” Buffy says impatiently, turning back around. “Think we got some new intel, and, uh– well, I thought there might be more in the books?”
“We can take a look,” Giles says. “What is it you've learnt?”
Buffy side-eyes Spike. “I don’t think we should talk about this in front of him. He might use it against us later.”
Giles starts to say “Oh, I wouldn’t be too worried–” at the same time Spike says “Yeah, fair point”. Giles glances over quickly, looking a bit embarrassed, then sighs dramatically.
“Fine. Spike, would you mind, ah–”
“Giles, you’ve got to be firm with him, or he’ll never learn,” Buffy cuts in, like he’s a dog they’re housetraining. “Spike. Get the hell out of here, now, or I’ll chain you back up to the tub myself.”
“Go right ahead, then,” Spike threatens, lifting his chin petulantly.
Buffy scowls at him. “Just go. I don’t actually wanna waste energy on you.”
Spike considers kicking up a fuss, but he doesn’t want Giles to rescind the video rental offer.
He settles for rolling his eyes and shoving exaggeratedly off the couch, then closing the bathroom door with a smack. He slumps down into his old friend, the bath tub, bracing his arms on either side.
He wishes he hadn’t said that thing about double-crossing them. Not because he wouldn’t – he definitely would – but ‘cos it’d be more interesting eavesdropping than sitting here in the bloody bath. He wants to hear what’s going on, plus he gets the biggest kick out of brassing off the slayer. She’s easy to wind up, even easier than the rest – uptight cow that she is – but stakes are higher with her, pun not intended. She’s the only one who’ll actually smack him round the head if he goes too far.
He sighs and tosses his head back. He hears them mumbling through the door, but can’t make out what they’re saying.
The walls of the bathroom are familiar, but somehow it feels like much longer since he was let out of here. Was after that spell that they unchained him, in the end. Feels like it changed something, somehow, even though it was just a spell.
He’d sat with Buffy out there on the armchair, her all up in his grill, and Giles had been the one they’d wanted rid of. For some reason the thought makes Spike bristle. Was nice – not just the bliss of the lovesick delirium, but– also, being at the centre of things. Not just looking in from the outside the whole time.
Funny – he doesn’t even like them, but vamps still have this hangover from being human, where they’d prefer to fit in somewhere than nowhere, no matter how rubbish it is. That’s what keeps that lot out there shackled together, no doubt. Just like in a cult. People’ll do the most grim things you can imagine, just so’s not to be alone while they do it.
So maybe he’s getting a bit institutionalised, but that’s normal. It’s a survival strategy, innit, to make the best of a shoddy hand. The cleverest thing you can do, really, when you’re forced into– or, well, kept in a situation against your will. Point is, soon he’ll be on his merry way, and he’ll never have to spare a thought for wanky sixties films or rotten little love spells ever again.