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Chain Smoking	By : RavenWolf Category: -Buffy the Vampire Slayer > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1463 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chain Smoking
- 1
Spike flicks the cigarette, still
glowing, to the ground. Number ten, or somewhere in there. Sometimes
he smokes just because it's a habit and he likes the nicotine, and
sometimes he smokes because it's the only valid reason for leaving
the house.

He finds it odd that he has to find a
reason to leave now, because
God forbid he hurt anyone's feelings. That's something Old-Spike
would do. Soulless-Spike. New-Spike sits and watches impotently while
Buffy whirls around, the picture of efficient power, and surprise!
Doesn't even stop to notice him.

Easier to be
outside. No one to ignore him, here. Still kind of disappointing, to
be so mundane and useless as to be constantly ignored.

But just think how
much attention he'd get if he snapped one of the girl's necks one
night. She'd hate him again, though. He still might do it, because
those girls are getting damned annoying, and he's far past the age
where his libido might cool his rising irritation at them. Idiots,
all. Maybe he should just kill one of them, just to finally shut them
up.

Killing is bad,
Spike. He remembers. And hurting girls is what got him into this mess
in the first place.

He lights another
cigarette, and hey, maybe he is still a little crazy. Probably
just his own arrogance making him think he could get over his soul in
two weeks when it took Angel a hundred years. But then, Angelus was
far more of a bastard than he ever was.

And see, he can
admit that now, because he has a soul and heavenly virtues to go with
it. Prudence, humility, faith...aw, fuck, he can't remember any more
of them. Probably bodes poorly for him, that.

He's halfway
through this cigarette when someone opens the door, and he really,
really hopes it's Buffy, because it's getting to the point where he
doesn't even remember what it sounds like when she says his name, and
it's a bit of a challenge to your dogma when your goddess forgets
about you.

It's not her, of
course, but at least he can add that little disappointment to his
penance pile. It's that black bloke, the one that tried to kill him
not two weeks' past.

He smiles faintly,
because here's someone he can really piss off. Someone who not
only notices him, but can't seem to focus on anything else. He knew
when he smelled the oak-y scent of blood on wood, and it made him
happy. In a soulless way. Vaguely, he wonders what true happiness
feels like on this side of evil.

“Robin, isn't
it?” he asks pleasantly, exhaling smoke.

Robin doesn't say
anything, just leans against the post opposite him. His posture
mirrors Spike's. Yeah, Spike thinks, you'd do good to be more like
me. 'Cause even though I kinda like you, and feel sorry for you and
all, you're still kind of a pussy.

“Don't talk
to me,” Robin says, trying to be all uncaring and bad assed,
but failing miserably. Spike wants to laugh, because his voice is so
loaded with desperate hatred, it's obvious that's all he has.

“Aw, don't be
like that, mate. Just 'cause Buffy's got you pussy-whipped like the
rest of us is no reason to be bitter.” And, okay, maybe he's
baiting the guy a little, but how could he not? Old habits die
hard, and this guy reminds him uncannily of Angel. Version 2.0, soul
and all.

Robin looks over at
him intensely, and Spike grins, just knowing the various ways he's
being ripped apart in Robin's head. Doubly funny that he won't touch
him. Moral standards, and all that. Spike really doesn't understand
them, but since he's not planning on touching Robin either, maybe
he's got them, too.

“So, what are
you doing out here? Shouldn't you be upstairs, fucking the
second-string Slayer?” he continues, conversationally. Robin
glares daggers at him. “Cigarette, mate?” he asks,
offering his already-lit fag to him.

Robin looks at it
with disgust. “I don't smoke,” he says haughtily.

“Suit
yourself,” Spike says, and wraps his lips around the cigarette,
glancing with heavy lidded eyes over at Robin. Maybe he's flirting
with him. But he's bored, and for the life of him, he can't
recall whether or not seducing your enemies falls under the category
of 'good' or 'evil'.

Really, he wouldn't
mind sleeping with Robin. He's a good-looking man, well-muscled. But
more importantly, he's wounded and hurt in all the right places, and
if Spike were to say he didn't like that, he'd be lying. And he's
pretty sure lying falls under the 'evil' category.

So he plays with
the cigarette. Pretends he doesn't see Robin's eyes watching him
intently. Pretends he's not amused and turned on at the hint of lust
warring with revulsion and hate in the boy's eyes. Because really,
Spike's lived Robin's life several times over, and any hurt he has,
Spike has times ten, so he feels entitled. To what?
A tiny voice in his head asks, but he just ignores it.

He throws his fag
on the ground and grinds it out casually with a boot. When he reaches
into his pocket, he finds that his pack is empty. Well, fuck. He
could go inside and ask Faith for some of hers, but then that would
defeat the whole purpose of smoking in the first place.

He watches Robin,
who shifts uncomfortably. So. On to plan B. He knows he wasn't
planning on touching Robin, but, dammit, now he's out of cigarettes,
and he has to do something with his hands and mouth. And when
you think about it, he really does owe the other man. He did
kill his mother.

Besides, it doesn't
help when he runs into Buffy in the hall, wearing the silkiest,
laciest, nicest things to go out on her big date, and he has to lie
through his teeth when he pretends it doesn't bother him. Because
he's never seen that particular garment, nor any of its partners, and
Buffy never cared enough to wear something sexy just for him.

And to know it was
all for this man, this veritable stranger, who is her boss and an
unknown and already merits more attention than Spike...

He steps over to
Robin, casually. He can see him tense up. “Get away from me,”
he whispers, and it doesn't sound very much like a threat.

“Listen, do
you happen to have a cigarette on you? Because I'm all out...”

“I just told
you that I don't smoke... Oh,” he says, and the realization is
in his eyes. This is not about a cigarette. Spike changes his opinion
of Robin; he's not that dumb after all.

So, Spike kisses
him. Forces his mouth open like an open wound, knowing that every
single touch is painful for Robin, knowing that every spike of
pleasure is paired with guilty anguish.

Robin pushes him
back. “I hate you,” he says, but it sounds like he
doesn't even mean it, like he's telling it to himself, and not to
Spike.

“I know,”
Spike says. “Feeling's mutual. You tried to kill me, remember?”
Although, Buffy had tried to kill him, too, and look what had
happened with that.

Robin's hands are
up, palms facing outward, in a bizarre mixture of supplication and
defense. Spike can't help it. He kisses him again, briefly.

Robin pushes him
off quickly, ready this time. He doesn't stop there, staring into
Spike's eyes for a second, searching, before he punches him in the
face.

Spike grins madly
and rubs his jaw. “Trying to turn me on, now, are you, love?”

Robin doesn't rise
to the bait this time, leaving to go inside.

Spike can't say
this evening was a total loss. His jaw hurts, and that's good. As far
as this redemption thing is concerned, hurting is good. And maybe
he's a little aroused now, but that's good, too. Nice to know that he
hasn't completely fallen prey to sexless monogamy with Buffy.

More importantly,
that guilty lusting look that Robin gave him, just before he punched
him, is going to give him a high for at least the rest of the night.
Goodbye, boredom.

Okay, so maybe he
is still a little evil. But nothing the ache in his jaw won't
atone for.
- 1
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Chain Smoking