|STATUS:||Incomplete (last modified 3/07/2001)|
|CLASSIFICATION:||B/S UST, angst. (W/T featured as well)|
|SPOILERS:||Season 5 up to and including "Checkpoint."|
|SUMMARY:||Spike crushes badly on Buffy, not aided by the words of a certain female crooner.|
|DISTRIBUTION:||Available at http://www.angelfire.com/weird/bjelica/. Please email me if you're interested in archiving my fic, I'll be stunned speechless.|
|DISCLAIMERS:||All characters, locations, and such contained herein are the property of Joss Whedon and his band of merry men. The albums Surfacing and Solace, and all songs contained therein are the property of Sarah McLachlan and her label. Not for to sue the nice fanfic author!|
|AUTHOR'S NOTE:||I was listening to Sarah McLachlan's CD Surfacing in the car cd player home from work one day and, while singing along with "Sweet Surrender," suddenly thought to myself, 'my god, this is a complete and utter Spike/Bufy song.' Days later I read a post to alt.tv.buffy-v-slayer where someone was listening to the same song and thought to himself, 'my god, this is a complete and utter Willow/Tara song.' Ah well. It's a complete and utterly magnificent song, no matter whose 'ship you like best. :) This isn't songfic, but the song did inspire it, and it plays a guest starring role. Lyrics reprinted at the bottom of the fic. Oh, and the series is named after the album, as well. All hail Sarah! Written third, though it is second in the series, I decided that "Surfacing" was a fairly appropriate title for the series.|
Another Tuesday, another crowded night at the Bronze. No band, tonight – just a shaggy deejay spinning themed records. The theme was, according to a colorful banner splayed across the back wall, "Wacky Canadians Night." Spike sat down at the bar and had his first drink to an impossibly-fast song by a band with the improbable name of Barenaked Ladies. The evening progressed quite normally and he had been having a perfectly pleasant discussion with the bartender, over the course of multiple Guinnesses, on the true demons of the world – women – when things began to wind down from raucous dance music to the stuff by what the bartender dubbed "DFCs": Depressing Female Crooners. Ugh, Spike thought. I wouldn't be surprised if they played that French Canadian whiner – talk about someone who ought to be drained in the public interest. Instead, they played something else, something that piqued the interest of the morose vampire. "Who is this," Spike half-shouted to the bartender. He shrugged, and Spike waved him away disgustedly before taking his Guinness and wandering through the club.
A few tables away Spike spotted a familiar face. Two, actually – the two redheads, Willow and Tara. Snuggled back in a corner together, they had their faces inches apart as they talked and giggled about something. Never say I haven't a sense of timing, Spike thought, smirking inwardly. He walked over to the table, pulled up a stool, put down his pint, and smiled at them.
Tara looked at Willow. Willow looked at Tara. Then, they both looked at the newcomer through the corners of their eyes. "Um, hi, Spike. Something we can help you with before you go back to wherever it was you came from?" Willow asked pointedly.
He grinned at her. "Sure, Red. Tell me who's done this song we're listening to now." She blinked, evidently surprised at the mundane request. Spike sighed. "Look. It just reminds me of someone, you know?"
"Mmmmkay...," Willow said, trailing off, before giving him the name of the singer.
He grinned toothily at her, and she smiled crookedly in answer. "I'll be off, now. Leave you two to your witchy business."
In the wake of Spike's departure, Tara raised an eyebrow and peered at Willow. "What do you suppose that was about?"
Willow frowned. "I don't know. Maybe Spike has a secret love for wacky Canadians?"
Spike prowled through Sunnydale. He slipped through the shadows, easily evading the betraying sodium- arc streetlights. Like a cat, he made no sound as he padded stealthily through the town. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't evade the one person who didn't depend on ordinary human senses to find his kind.
"Spike. Being skulky at night. Imagine that." Buffy strode out from the shadows of an alley. She walked up to him, invading his personal space, and backed him up against the wall. "Where're you going?"
"None of your bleedin' business, bint." Spike snarled as she pinned him to the brick. "Not like I was doing anything wrong by trying to be quiet, at night, when the decent people of this town are sleeping. Of course, you wouldn't know, not being decent people, would you, Summers?"
Buffy snarled at him. "Bite me, Spike."
"Sod off," Spike snapped back, and shrugged his shoulders free of Buffy's grip. "For your information, I'm going to visit a pal."
"Really?" Buffy lifted an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware you had any pals."
Spike sighed, annoyed. "Well, now you are, and I'll just be off." He pulled away from the wall and started to stalk off down the street, stealth forsaken in favor of speed.
Buffy stared after the rapidly departing vampire, perplexed. Oh well. Now I can get back to my regularly scheduled slaying, she thought. Still, she didn't move as she watched him disappear into the night, and she deliberately didn't think about the reason she watched.
Spike fumed while he walked. Damned nosy twit. For a ten-spot I'd hire someone to kill her and be rid of her once and for all. He sighed and mentally recanted, unable to lie to himself, and lapsed into a more morose frame of mind. Why does she always find me when I least want to talk to her?
After a brief - and swift - walk, he arrived at his destination: Willy's. Cheaper booze than at the Bronze, and Spike was of a mind to take advantage of that fact tonight. He pushed open the door and entered the dim room, which was hazy with a thick wreath of smoke. Spike walked up to the bar and sat down on a stool, slouching over the bar.
The bartender walked up and raised an eyebrow. Spike answered the unspoken question. "O neg, rocks."
"You know," the bartender began while fixing the drink, "I have to admit I've always wondered if you guys can tell the difference in the different blood types. Like, does A positive taste different from AB positive?"
This time it was Spike who raised an eyebrow. "Of course we can tell the difference, mate." The bartender set the glass down and he drained it in one swift motion. "Just like you can tell the difference between a merlot and a rose. Or between a double- and a single-malt scotch. Speaking of which," he slammed the now-empty rocks glass down on the bar, "draw me one. I'm of a mind to drink away my troubles tonight."
"Women trouble?" the bartender asked. "Nine times out of ten, a guy comes in here and says he wants to drink away his troubles, it's because of some chick in his life. So what's yours done to you?" He set aside the blood-tinged glass and retrieved another as he spoke, filling it with fresh ice cubes and several fingers of whisky.
Spike snorted. "I 'aven't got one, is what she's done to me. Oh, don't get me wrong. I've got someone else who's more than happy to have a quick shag -- thanks --," he accepted the glass, "-- but she's just a convenience, really. No, it's the other one who's got me wrapped around her little finger, only she doesn't want me." He shook his head in disgust before tossing back half the whisky in a single gulp. "Oh, now, that's no way to drink a decent whisky. Fortunately, this is the swill from the well, hmm?" He finished off the glass and gestured for another.
The bartender shrugged. "You didn't ask for Glenfiddich." But he selected a different bottle for the refill.
Nodding, Spike continued. "Well, anyway, it's a sad tale you've heard a million and one times. Boy loves girl, girl thinks boy is creep, boy pines to either kiss the girl into incoherency or kill her for being such a bloody bitch. And I've just been in a thinking kind of mood lately is all." He fell into silence, sipping the drink moodily.
The bartender moved down the bar to serve some other customers. He continued talking to Spike as he fetched glasses and poured drinks. "Moping's more like it, looks to me like," he observed.
"Whatever you call it. Get me another drink, will you?" Spike abruptly switched tacks. "D'you ever have a, what d'ya call it, epiphany? When you finally realize something that everyone around you has known for months?" He was starting to show the effect of two whiskys atop multiple Guinnesses, as the bartender refilled his glass. "It's just I realized this girl, the one who tells me repeatedly how very like pond scum she thinks I am, she's probably ruint me for other girls for the rest of my bleedin' unlife! It isn't fair, mate. She's changed me and now I can't go back to being a fun-loving evil sort of demonic fellow. Now I have to think about the consequences when I go gettin' in a fight. D'you know what that does to a man? Havin' to think out whether or not she'd approve or not?" Spike made a disgusted face. "Disheart'ning, that's what it is. Takes the joy right out of raising hell."
The bartender made a sympathetic noise and surreptitiously eyed the level of whisky in Spike's glass. "I 'magine so," he grunted, in what he hoped was a properly agreeable voice.
"Sweet Surrender" - Sarah McLachlan
It doesn't mean much
I've crossed the last line
And sweet surrender
You take me in
Are you an angel
And sweet surrender
And I don't understand
I miss the little things
It doesn't mean much
And sweet surrender