jwaneeta

I don't know why my Stubbs forgery is looking so stupid. The big one over my fireplace doesn't look stupid. Why? What am I doing wrong? I'm not accustomed to this sort of misfire, and it's confusing.

For some reason there's nothing painterly about this latest; it's ham-handed and bold and clunky, all the things you don't want if you are trying to channel George Stubbs. Crap.

Maybe I've forgotten how to paint. Maybe I should panic.

Hm. This is seductive. I'm fooling about with the stuff I want to write, with no regard for order, and deferring the spadework for another day. I will have to pay the piper for this, at some point, yes, I will.

And the other problem is, I am so far out of reckoning I can't assign even a fanciful chapter heading to this fragment. But what the hey. This takes place after the discovery of a spell that will return souls to every vampire on earth if worked properly with the willing sacrifice of a resurrected hero, after Giles meets Fred, after Angel takes the spell into protective custody, and after a spat between Lovebird!Buffy/Spike.

***


"A moment, Spike. Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to find that spell," replied Spike hotly, "and rip it up under a certain blonde, pert nose. Laugh at the expression on her face when she realizes how unjustly she's accused me. Laugh! Hah! Martyr! Me!"

I considered him. "I'll just tag along, if you don't mind."

"No way. You're lousy at stealth, Rupes. You'll just gum things up."

"I really think I'd better."

Spike stared. "What is this? What the f -- what on earth has gotten into everybody around here? I'm not going to sacrifice my life for a bunch of stupid vampires. Let them work out their own salvation! What's it to me? I've got a job and and a fiancee, thanks ever so, and I gave my little all back in Sunnydale."

"Hm."

"I mean it! I've done enough!"

"Hm."

Spike threw up his hands. "Fine. Come with me if you want, and watch what I do when I find that spell."

"I intend to. Spike," I said, aiming for the avuncular tone as I fell in with him, in aid of soothing the old wounded pride, "hindsight is cruel but effective teacher. After you closed the Hellmouth, I had time to ponder, you see. I reviewed your activities in Sunnydale over the last two years with a clear eye, and a vivid pattern emerged. I was blind not to see it before. You may blush at such frank talk, but there is no denying the fact that well before the First landed among us you had already started working the selfless wheeze right, left and center. It may be that you have become, shall we say, habituated to the Noble Gesture. There is no shame in this, Spike. We all have our quirks."

"You're simple in the head, Watcher."

"There is no need to take offence, or use titles in that frosty tone. I am merely voicing a concern for your hide, and Buffy's happiness, and the continuation of the Watcher line. I am here to guide you, Spike, and keep you from offering yourself to death and destruction for the good of all, if such a course of action can be reasonably avoided. That is what friends are for."

Poor Spike. One has to quash the ugly surge of triumph when besting him with words, really, because he is not a debater born. The man simply lacks the discipline to marshall effective argument. And in this instance, I succeeded in pricking his tender underbelly: between his indignation at my summary and his transparent gratitude at being styled someone who could, at last, have friends, rebuttal failed him. He scowled and growled but answered not. Which was just as well, because at that point the elevator sighed open, with that expensive, oily perfection that informed all the workings at Wolfram and Hart, and we
found ourselves in the hallway outside Angel's penthouse abode.

There was a moment of conflict as Spike and I vied silently, with word and gesture, for the priviledge of defeating the lock. After a bit of headshaking and finger-pointing my better nature advised me to let Spike have it, as another means of soothing the wounded p., so I gave up and conceded with a wave. Spike produced a rather savage-looking jimmy from a pocket, and we found ourself within the Fortress of Solitude half a tick after.

"Jesus!" breathed Spike. "Where does that guy get off?"

"Ostentatious," I agreed, whispering, because it was. It occurred to me, taking in the plush appointments and lighting, that Angel could hardly have done himself better if he were the sultan of a sandy, oil-rich nation. Money simply dripped off the walls. The distance from the door to the outrageously huge window was roughly that of a cricket pitch, and I had no doubt that the vases dotted thither and yon were genuine, ancient and beyond price. The only thing in sight that was not clearly of incalculable worth was a hideous statue of a sleeping pig lizard, and I was forced to revise my negative assessment of the thing's artistic value when it blinked, rose, and stepped forward, slavering.

"Bloody h --"

Spike was unable to deliver his signature epithet in toto, and I was spared the experience of hearing him apologize, for at that moment the pig lizard sprang.

Spike did not tarry. He rose like a flock of seagulls and achieved the summit of a vast cherrywood bookcase in an instant. I saw the wisdom in his approach, and as the pig lizard bounced off said bookcase, wheeled in midair, and turned its attentions to me, I emulated him in my own way. I scaled Angel's towering entertainment console with dispatch, and the pig lizard's jaws closed on empty air.

And there, for the moment, the matter rested.