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Geek the Girl
by Rachel Anton
E-Mail: RAnton1013@aol.com
Spoilers: Through "Wrecked"
Summary: Two power junkies share a Christmas
miracle. Actually, there is no miracle, but there's a
creepy story.
Distribution: Sure. Just let me know where it's going.
Disclaimer: Don't own them, not making any money from this.
Feedback: Would be lovely!
Notes: This is my first Buffy fic ever. Scary. Thanks
to Cynthia Liskow for her writing and gentle
nudging which caused me to watch Buffy in the first
place, and then for helping me through my very first
story. Bet she's sorry she ever sent that Fool For
Love tape. Thanks to Laura for putting up with my
many and varied neurosis. And thanks to Lisa
Germano for the title and a great writing
soundtrack.
xxxxxx
He's not a very patient bloke, generally speaking.
Yeah, sure, he's got nothing but time, and he's not
averse to spending hour after endless hour dithering
about, accomplishing less than nothing, but when
there's something he wants, he wants it straight
away, thank you very much. He's never had the
willpower or the stealth to follow a plan through to
its completion, never been able to keep a secret for
longer than fifteen minutes, and never had the desire
to torture a victim to death because it just takes too
bloody long. If the water takes too long to boil, he
throws the entire pot out the window.
He thinks she's worth waiting for, but God, it's
getting tiresome.
He doesn't come to her house much anymore. It was
easy for awhile. After a year and a half of stalking,
begging, and finally making himself available as a
one stop shop for all the slayer's physical and
emotional punching bag needs, he was quite ready to
sit back and let someone else do the work for a
change. He'd been relatively confident that the
memory of their fabulous shag-fest would haunt her
mercilessly, that she'd recognize it for the thing of
beauty that it was and come running back for more.
He's still pretty sure that she will do just that,
eventually, but fuck, it's Christmas.
He thinks it's probably a sort of sickness bringing
him back here tonight, to the site of his past
disgrace. The good old days of gazing through
Buffy's window like an ineffectual sod should be
long gone, but here he is again, sucking up the
smidgen of pride he'd gained when he finally
managed to stumble his way into her knickers.
It's easy to lose track of time here. Her bedroom light
had been on when he first arrived, but about ten
cigarettes ago she'd given her customary last glance
out the window, allowing him a glimpse of her
frustratingly modest pajamas, then switched off the
lamp. He hopes he hasn't been staring into the
darkness for more than a couple of hours. Either
way, it's pretty obvious she isn't coming out to play
tonight. He should really just leave.
He lights cigarette number fifteen and takes a deep
breath, trying to taste the cold. He misses cold.
Christmas doesn't seem very Christmassy without it.
He misses winters in Paris, with Dru and Darla, after
Daddy ran away from home. Or in New York, him
and Dru skating in Rockefeller Center and snacking
on Japanese tourists, the intoxicating aroma of the
fear, frustration, excitement, and holiday depression
of a million city dwellers mingling with the scent of
roasting chestnuts on the street. He misses snow and
dead trees and weather that was cold enough for the
dead to feel. It never gets that cold in Sunnyhell, but
sometimes he can taste it.
For a minute he lets himself get lost in the stupid
nostalgia for holidays past, with the only thing
resembling a family he's had since his turning, and he
almost doesn't notice it when the front door of the
house swings quietly open. Almost.
He peers, ever hopeful, but the small, huddled figure
emerging from within isn't Buffy sneaking out for an
illicit rendezvous, and it isn't Dawn just plain
sneaking out. It's the other lady of the house,
wrapped in a woven blanket, sitting on the front
stoop, frail and nervous as a sickly bird.
He watches her from his pitifully visible "hideout",
wondering if she knows or cares that he's there.
Probably neither, judging by the look of her. She's
shaking hard, possibly crying.
Withdrawal, he figures. She's trying to quit the
magic, like it was nicotine or white powder, but he
knows it's far worse than that. Physical addictions
are easy. It's turning your back on a lifestyle to
which you've grown accustomed, relinquishing your
only power and your greatest success, that's the
kicker.
It brings to mind his own experiences in the world of
withdrawal, when the will to kill hadn't been
moderately conditioned out of him, and the hunger
pangs and the bloodlust were all he could feel. A
time when love for the Slayer hadn't yet clouded his
every word and deed. A time when the little witch
showed him a strange sort of kindness. Kindness
that no one else had to spare.
It had been, perhaps, the worst day of his life. The
hour of his greatest humiliation. Chained up in the
Watcher's bathtub, like a pig ready for roasting, he'd
been trembling even worse than detox-Willow. The
stupid git had wandered off somewhere and left
Spike alone with no food for hours. It makes his
insides curl to think of those first few days of
confusion, fear, embarrassment, starvation, but she
took a bad situation and made it...well, not good,
but something less than abysmal.
She came looking for Buffy. She was annoyed to
find no one but a neutered vampire in a tub. A
neutered vampire who'd tried to kill her just a couple
of days earlier. Given that, she was surprisingly
sympathetic. He begged, and she brought him a
nicely warmed cup of pig's blood and held it up for
him to drink.
"Not exactly the good stuff, is it?" she asked when
he was through. He shrugged. Beggars can't be
choosers.
"It'll do, for now."
There was a thank you, lingering there on the back
of his tongue, and she seemed to be waiting for it,
just hovering on the edge of the tub with the empty
mug in her hands. He didn't say it, and she didn't
move. After a few minutes of stark silence broken
only by the incessant drip drip of Giles' leaky faucet,
he could tell she was getting uncomfortable. She'd
always seemed uncomfortable though, back then.
Fidgety and skittish.
Finally she sighed and looked him in the eye. "So, if
it wasn't for Mister Chip, you would've killed me,
right? I mean, that was the plan, wasn't it?"
"Uh, yeah, that's generally the plan in those sort of
situations. Hungry vampire. Helpless human..."
"I'm not helpless!" she insisted, and he didn't really
know what to say to that. She'd seemed pretty
damned helpless when he'd had her pinned to her
mattress, shrieking and writhing delightfully, but he
wasn't about to throw stones. She wasn't the one
presently hog-tied in a bathtub. "It's just...well,
you're like this...animal, like a-a bear or a lion or
something, and you have to eat people to live, but
they made it so you can't, and it should be kind
of...sad, but..."
He rolled his eyes. Like he needed her bloody pity.
What was she babbling on about anyway? Was he
supposed to care? And what did she mean, he was
like an animal? He was prone to take that as an
offensive comparison when it wasn't coming from
someone he'd shagged.
"Not getting your point, Red. You feeling sorry for
not feeling sorry for me?"
"I dunno. It's just...I-I had a...a friend, who was sort
of in a similar situation. But not really, cause he
didn't want to be the way he was, but he couldn't
control it, and..."
"You talking about that wolf boy you're always
hanging around with?" During his many hours of
staking out the Slayer and all her little friends he'd
seen Willow and her wolf doing much more than
hanging around, but he restrained himself from
mentioning the particulars. Didn't seem appropriate
somehow.
She nodded quickly and then her frown became even
more pronounced. Before he knew what in God's
name he'd said wrong, she was crying. Hot little
tears running down her pretty round face. Suddenly
her despair was all around him. He could smell it,
taste it. He wanted to taste her.
"He...he's gone," she panted out, and reached
clumsily for the roll of toilet paper. She seemed to
forget she was holding the mug, and it ended up
clattering out of her hand and onto the floor. It
cracked down the middle, and she sobbed into her
tissues. "Oh, I broke iiit," she moaned, and blew her
nose. It was one of the more pathetic displays he'd
been witness to. But he knew she'd seen worse.
She'd seen him, after Dru left.
"It's okay. I'm sure he's got a hundred more just like
it," he offered lamely.
"Oh God, he's really gone," she whimpered. "He left
me. Just like that. Just because..." she broke off into
another sob, and something inside of him felt like it
was ripping, listening to her. Yeah, it made him
hungry, but it was also starting to make him terribly
sad. What kind of a daft fucker would leave such a
choice little bird? Sure, she had a tendency to babble
incoherently, and sometimes she wore really
embarrassing outfits, but she was cute as hell, and
sweeter than candy. And the stupid bugger was a
werewolf. Spike was pretty sure the ladies weren't
exactly beating down his door. Who else would put
up with that kind of nonsense?
"He's a fool, then."
She wiped at her eyes, shook her head. "No, he-he
just...has...issues, like, the wolf thing, that I can't
understand. That, um, other, you know, wolfie,
skank-bucket creatures of the night can relate to. I
guess."
"That's stupid."
She shrugged and sniffled. Didn't argue. Slowly, her
tears began to subside, and eventually she smiled at
him with sheepish embarrassment.
"Sorry," she said, tossing her soggy tissues into the
toilet and flushing away the evidence. "Didn't mean
to get all...depresso-girl on you."
"It'll be our secret," he promised, and, true to his
word, he's never mentioned the incident to her or
anyone else. At least, not directly. He may not have
been particularly secretive about the fact that she
was in desperate emotional pain, but bleeding hell, it
should've been obvious.
She nodded solemnly, and whispered, "Thanks."
Then she started for the door. Hand on the knob,
she turned back to face him again. "Spike, what
if...what if you had been able to bite me? Would you
have really made me, um...fangy?"
"Yeah, probably," he told her. The truth was
somewhat closer to "definitely", or maybe "hell
yeah!" but she didn't have to know that. God knows
she didn't have to know how significant her turning
would've been.
He's only been a true sire to one vampire- a silly
little boy he and Dru found one night, just weeks
after his own transformation. He brought the boy
back because he could, because it was new and
thrilling and a spectacular power. He took him
home, fully intent on raising and teaching him,
because the thought of being so worshipped, so
thoroughly relied upon, gave him an unbelievable
rush. He didn't mind being Dru's slave, but he had a
hankering for a slave of his own.
Darla staked the boy on sight. Apparently the family
was big enough. At the time, she could hardly
tolerate Spike himself, let alone his bastard child.
She put up with him because he kept Dru away from
Angelus for a few hours a night, but that's where her
generosity ended.
It was the first staking Spike had ever seen, and
watching his little son turn to dust sort of lessened
the appeal of the whole siring bit. Also confused the
hell out of him since neither Dru nor Angelus had
bothered to tell him that the end of his existence was
even a remote possibility. Eternal life indeed.
After that whole fiasco, he realized it was all for the
better. He didn't need the responsibility of a hungry
mouth to feed, other than his own, and besides, Dru
was his mate. There was no point in making any
other companions for himself. He turned a few here
and there, just for kicks, but he never kept them
around.
It wasn't until Dru left that his siring fantasy came
back in full force. The loneliness kicked in, and he
started looking again, scanning his kills, trying to
intuit the best choice. Eternity's a damn long time,
though, and most of the women he encountered
were too irritating to contemplate sharing an
evening with, let alone hundreds of years.
He hadn't been searching for a mate that dreadful
night- just a meal, and a spot of revenge- but
something happened when he saw Willow. William
the Bloody cried out from where he lay, buried deep
inside of Spike's mind and heart, and said "Take her,
for God's sake! She's the one!" And Spike knew that
he was right. William and Willow were soulmates, of
a sort. Geeky compatriots. He sensed that her
vampish persona would get along equally well with
his, and he had a peculiar feeling of certitude that
turning her would be making things right for the
both of them.
Plus, you know, bagging the Slayer's best friend.
Separate, but equally compelling appeal.
"What would that've been like?" she asked, finally.
"Fun," he answered with an intentionally malevolent
grin.
"No, I mean... for me."
"Yeah, I know."
"No, I mean..." she sighed and gestured
meaninglessly with her hands. He was pretty sure
she had no idea what she meant, but he thought he
might.
"You wanna know what it's like to be a vampire?
What it would be like for you? How you'd change?
Think being a fellow creature of the night might
bring Wolf Boy back to you?"
"Um, sort of. And yes. And, also yes, and
then...probably not, but it's maybe worth a shot?"
"You'd be you, only evil," he told her. It was,
perhaps, an overly simplistic explanation. But it was
almost certainly accurate. Spike knew that he was
actually further from his human self than most
vampires, but that was only because he'd spent the
better part of a century crafting a new identity,
beating his old one into submission. He'd taken his
vampirism as a prime opportunity for
self-transformation, but most of his kind just
continued on as they had in life. Well, with the
whole killing and blood-sucking thing tacked on.
"I saw myself as a vampire once," she said, strangely
chipper all of a sudden. "I was evil. Really really.
And I dressed all goth and death-like, and I think I
liked girls."
Great, there was another bit of fun he was missing
out on because of the stupid, sodding chip. Trampy
Willow playing with girl-toys. Oh well, at least he
had another image to save for his mental jack-off
file. He wondered if he'd ever get the chance to bite
her again.
"I didn't seem to care about anything, either," she
continued wistfully. "I mean, I just didn't care. It
was like I had no feelings other than 'Grr, I'm evil!
Obey me!' Is that what it's like? Do you still have
feelings? Cause right about now, not having
feelings? It's starting to seem like a really good
plan."
"You'd have feelings. Lots of them. They'd probably
be even more vivid than what you're feeling now."
"But, would they be bad, depressed feelings? Do
vampires get depressed?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Suicidally. Ferociously.
Becoming a vampire's not a cure for the blues, love.
Try Xanax."
"Oh, well, that's...kind of a let down," she said,
deflating again, sagging against the door with a sigh.
"Wouldn't bring him back, either. If anything, it'd
drive him further away. Wolves and vamps don't get
along."
"Right. Well...yeah. Guess it's a good thing you
didn't have your, um....way. With me. I mean, it's
good to be...human. Right?"
"Wasn't for me, but to each his own."
"Oh. Yeah."
She just kind of stood there, hovering awkwardly for
a minute or two. Wringing her hands. Chewing her
lips. She seemed to be out of questions.
"Well, I...I guess I should...leave," she stammered.
"So you can...do your whole, um, tub thing."
"You're a bit of all right, honey. Don't let anyone
tell you different."
She smiled softly, but her eyes were still full of
torment.
"Thanks, Spike. I'm not really sure what 'bit of all
right' means, but it sounds pretty okay. And, um,
thanks for listening and being....well, kind of nice.
Not like you had much of a choice about the
listening thing, being all restrained like you are,
but..."
"It was fine. Thanks for the blood."
"Yeah, no problem. I guess I'll um, see you again at
snacktime."
He nodded, and almost let her go, but it seemed like
a bit of a waste to end it there. She was still so
vulnerable and soft and, dammit, he was supposed to
be evil! Why wasn't he taking more advantage?
"All right, then," he said. "Just give us a kiss and be
on your way."
He watched with a sort of boyish glee as her spine
stiffened. She twisted her head around quickly to
look at him and he moistened his lips suggestively.
"A...a kiss. Right."
She was so obedient back then, so used to following
orders and being a little trooper. It was so fucking
easy it actually scared him a little. She didn't belong
in this world.
She approached the tub slowly, like a trapper
moving towards a tranquilized mountain lion. When
she reached the tub she dropped to her knees, then
planted a tiny kiss on the corner of his mouth.
She lingered there for a few lovely seconds and he
took advantage of her generosity by turning towards
her and capturing her mouth with his own. He
lunged for her, as much as anybody in his state could
lunge for anyone, and pressed his tongue forcefully
against her lips.
To this day he doesn't know exactly what came over
him in that moment. It was a kind of dementia,
really. He knows he wanted it, wanted her, and that
he certainly got his share of prurient jollies out of it,
but there was more to it than that. More that he's
not been sufficiently motivated to consider, until
tonight.
He wanted her to reject him, he realizes. To slap
him, and wipe her mouth and act the part of the
offended, violated princess.
He wanted it for her sake, to give her the chance to
be the object of unwanted desire, be the big woman
and turn him down, feel better about herself and
whatnot. He wanted it for his sake, because it was
what he was used to, what he'd grown to expect
from women. It was an endless scene that had been
played out so many times he knew it by heart. It was
simple. It wasn't complicated or confusing, like all
the other things that happened when she talked to
him that day. It would have been a right quick way
to stifle the tenderness for her, which he felt growing
in the black chambers of his heart like a sickly weed.
He wanted her to be afraid of him. He was supposed
to be big and scary and aggressive and she was
supposed to be afraid.
She didn't reject him. She didn't slap him. She didn't
cry or scream or take out a pointy piece of wood.
She just crouched next to the tub, making little
squeaky sounds and letting him kiss her. Silly girl
even parted her lips for him. She tasted like salty
loneliness and candy.
He could only take it for a minute or so. It was just
too much.
As soon as he pulled back she seemed to get her
senses back a bit. She stood up slowly, and he
wasn't in the least gratified to see that her knees
were trembling. She backed towards the door. He
had to look away from her bright red face.
"I...uh... I think my...whatever I had in the oven is,
uh, burning...so...BYE!"
And with that, she was gone, never to return
without the rest of the gang as backup. And he
thought, why didn't I ask her to unchain me?
He can't remember being alone with her ever again,
after that day.
At the time, he didn't think it was possible for things
to get more cocked up than they already were.
Didn't think he could be more confused and angry
and frustrated. How bloody wrong he'd been.
She's not crying anymore, and he knows he should
really be going now, but the thought of returning to
the dank, dark, well-decorated hole he calls a home
is even less appealing than usual. Maybe it's not too
late to save this Christmas from utter, pathetic
dreariness.
He walks up to the house and sits down on the
stoop, at her side.
"Smoke?" he offers, holding out the pack and
lighting one of his own.
"No, thanks. Um, Buffy's asleep. And I'm not
supposed to let you in."
"Yeah."
She shivers and hugs the blanket closer to her body.
He doesn't think to offer her his jacket.
"So, did you have a good Christmas?" he asks. "Do
Jewish Wiccans celebrate Christmas?"
"Sort of. Yeah, we do. It was okay. Do vampires
celebrate Christmas?"
He takes a long drag and considers the question.
Some vampires do, some don't. He's always
acknowledged it as a holiday, but he'd hardly call
today's alternate pacing, moping and hitting
inanimate objects a celebration.
"We do. Mostly. S'not exactly my favorite holiday,
though. Prefer the Fourth of July, myself. You
know, the noise and explosions and what all."
"Uh-huh."
She's not listening. Just as well. He's not saying
anything. He tries to think of something to say that
she will listen to, some pearl of wisdom that will
help her somehow, some reason for him to be sitting
up here on the stoop with her other than abject
loneliness, but there's really nothing.
He finishes his cigarette and she pulls her knees up
to her chest.
"You know how many people I killed, the first night
I went hunting?" he asks.
"Um, no. Is this a Christmas story?"
"Twenty-three. To make up for the twenty-three
miserable years I'd lived as a human."
"Well. That's...festive."
He doesn't know why he's talking about this. He's
got her attention though, and it seems like it could
be relevant in a completely tangential sort of way.
"That wasn't the first time I'd eaten, mind you. Dru
and Angelus had been feeding me for a couple
weeks before that, bringing scabby vagabonds to the
house and teaching me how to kill and feed. But it
was the first time I'd been out, choosing my own
prey and pursuing it."
"Spike, no offense but, this is creepy. I mean...you
know?"
"Yeah, well, it's either listen to me or go back inside
and try to fend off the shakey wakeys by your
lonesome."
She sighed audibly and blew some snot into a tissue
she'd pulled out of her sweater sleeve. "All right, go
on with the Christmas death."
"Twenty-three's a pretty high number, generally
speaking. And I wasn't even very good at it at first.
Angelus had to hold the first few down, and I even
let one get away half-bit. But once I got the hang of
it, it was like I couldn't stop. Angelus had to knock
me out and drag me back home before I ate the
entire city and got us all burned at the stake. Which,
I sort of ended up doing anyway at a later date, but
that's not important right now."
"Uh-huh..."
"Do you know what it was? Why I couldn't stop?"
"I dunno. Sometimes I eat a potato chip and it tastes
so good that I end up scarfing down the whole bag.
Was it like that?"
"Well, sort of, but mostly it was the power. See,
until that night, I didn't have any. Killing was the
first taste of power I'd ever gotten. It made me feel
alive for the first time, which was sort of ironic since
I was dead, but nevertheless it was very compelling.
I felt like...somebody special, you know?"
"Um, sort of."
"I think you do. I think you know exactly what I
mean, and that's really your problem. It's not as easy
as swearing off some random act like magic or
killing- it's a whole identity issue, a whole loss of
power thing. That's what you've gotta start thinking
about. Not, 'I'm not gonna do magic anymore' but,
'what am I without magic'? You've gotta think about
what's valuable in you, what people love aside from
the magic. And you've gotta figure out why you're
such a bloody control freak, and why you feel so
powerless without the magic. Why you rely on it to
solve all of your emotional problems when you're
perfectly capable of dealing with them on your own.
Why you can't just grow up already. Right?"
Well, that got her attention. She's staring at him like
he's been speaking in tongues and frothing at the
mouth.
"Spike...that's...what are you, the door to door
Vampire Psychiatrist? You don't know anything
about my problems."
"Sure I do. Your problem is that you've built this
whole comfortable super-hero identity around being
the all-powerful witch, and it's really important for
you to keep that because dealing with things as a
witch is so much easier than dealing with things as a
person. But it's also really important for you to be
loved, and the person who loves you doesn't care
too much for the all-powerful witch thing so now
you've gotta chose."
"Spike, you're still talking about yourself. My
problem is that..."
"What? What's your problem, Willow? What is it
really?"
There's a desperate edge to his voice. A plea. He's
so close to having it all sorted out in his head. If she
could just give him the missing link, it would all
click into place and he'd be free.
"It's that...what if-what if, when you take away the
witch *and* you take away the person who loves
me, what if I'm just...just a big old loser? What if my
'true identity' is just... Geek the Girl?"
Nope. No freedom. No clicking into place. Just a
sad sense of recognition and the knowledge that
she's still lying to herself about a lot of things. And,
on top of that, the feeling that, in another place and
another time, he could've been happy with Geek the
Girl. He could've been gentle with her, and loving,
and they could've both become something more.
Something great.
But that isn't for him now. It isn't in him. And she
wouldn't want it.
"Who cares if you're a geek? Geek the Girl is a
better identity than, say, JoJo the Dog-faced Boy or
Willow the Psychopathic, Power-crazed Witch From
Hell. There's nothing wrong with being a geek."
"Uh-huh. Right."
She doesn't believe him. Or maybe she just doesn't
care what he thinks. Whatever small bit of influence
he might've held over her at one point has vanished
completely. He's not capable of cheering her up
anymore, not even for a minute.
He wants to teach her to love her inner geek, to
remind her that he'd wanted that loser of a girl, once
upon a time, and to tell her that his inner geek and
hers could've been soul mates, if things were
different. But that would mean admitting he has an
inner geek, which he's not up for right now.
She's still shivering and he's still wearing his coat and
it's probably not even Christmas anymore, but he
can't go home and neither can she.
She's not easy tonight, or obedient, or soft. But she
still smells the same, and he's sure she still tastes the
same too.
xxxxxxx
end
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