I Like The Quiet
by Spring Summers 01-Aug-2005
=====================================================================================
SPIKE: “Sodden sleeping chair is bloody - sodden.”
XANDER: "The quake just knocked a couple of pipes lose. There’s a wrench hanging up over there by the workbench. Try tightening the coupling.”
SPIKE: "Do I look like a plumber to you?”
XANDER: No, you look like a big mooch that doesn't lift a finger around here. But I have to get to work.”
SPIKE: Yeah, delivering melted cheese on bread, doing your part to keep America constipated.”
XANDER: Mock not. Remember who pays for the plasma around here, pal. You earn your keep or you don't get kept. When you're done fixing that leak try cleaning up this mess. And doing a little laundry for once wouldn't kill you - unfortunately.”
-from Doomed, 18-JAN-2000 - by Marti Noxon, David Fury, and Jane Espenson
=====================================================================================
Wearing only a bath towel tucked around his waist, Spike was sitting on an old workbench and listening to the clothes tumbling in Xander’s dryer. Swish-plop, swish-plop. He had no idea, really, what he was doing. His mum, then Dru, then Harmony had taken care of the laundry; clean clothes were simply there for him whenever he needed them. He’d done his part for Evil & Country in other ways. That was the thing. He couldn’t tolerate a parasite – in his estimation, there was nothing lower than a bloodsucker. So to speak. Vamps who had nothing to offer, if they had dared enter his circle, had always been quickly dispatched or dusted.
To have to listen to his current degraded state so accurately described by Xander: It had been the worst of the worst. Xander, of all people, had handed him his ultimate humiliation. The wanker had spoken nothing but the truth: He, Spike – he, whose deadly Slayer-skirmishes were the stuff of legend - was completely dependent upon a pizza peddler. Spike lowered his head into his hands. He had to get out of this basement, and get this chip out of his head. He wasn’t going to be able to go on this way much longer.
As he ran a hand over his face, the clothes stopped tumbling and the dryer beeped three times, announcing mission accomplished. He approached the dryer more gingerly than he’d ever approached the prickliest enemy. He carefully opened the hatch. The warm, moist air felt good. But when he pulled out his jeans and t-shirts, he could see immediately that they had all shrunk to unwearability. He let out a loud cry of frustration, and began beating a pair of his shrunken black jeans against the dryer. He was still venting his anger when he heard a voice:
“Who the hell are you?”
Spike whirled around. He knew that the slightly swaying, middle-aged woman in front of him was none other Xander’s mother – who, like her husband and son, should be at work. He knew her from her voice. It was a voice he’d heard many times during the past week. She had loud, mostly drunken, arguments with her lout of a husband nearly every evening. The first time, Spike had made a smartass comment to Xander, after listening to the crash and clank of Mamma Harris tossing pots and pans at Poppa Harris:
“Your mum isn’t much of a domestic type, is she? But at least she’s found some use for the kitchenware.”
But Xander had turned on him with such an intense and murderous look, that Spike had, uncharacteristically and from then on, passed on every juicy opportunity to torment Xander on the subject of his parents. Truth be told, he was glad to ignore the nightly dramas himself. They disquieted him – they were no fun at all, and neither was witnessing Xander’s uncanny and automatic ability to shut it all out. It was part of the reason Spike felt desperate to leave Hacienda Harris. He had reveled in the tears and blood-curdling screams of his victims for over a century, but now he found himself wincing at the senseless shrieking of the Harrises and at their son’s badly disguised, but nevertheless drearily dry and expressionless, pain. It was no fun at all. What satisfaction was there, in twisting a knife into already deadened flesh?
And now, here she stood, the rum-soaked banshee herself, right in front of him.
”Who are you?” she repeated.
“Friend of Xander’s,” said Spike as he attempted to intimidate her with a cold glare. “He said I could use the washing machine. Said you’d be at work.”
Mrs Harris looked him up and down very slowly and thoroughly, which suddenly reminded Spike that he was dressed only in a short towel. She took a step toward him, and he could smell the alcohol on her breath. When she put a hand on his shoulder, he tensed. If she took even one more step, he’d send her hurtling toward the wall as hard as he could – headache or no.
But she didn’t advance on him. It seemed she was merely steadying herself. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and looked at the jeans in his hands, and at the several shrunken black t-shirts he had thrown out of the dryer, and onto the linoleum-covered floor. “You shrunk them, huh?” she said.
“Yeah.” She was brilliant.
“Well – come on upstairs, and I’ll find you something of Xander’s to wear so you can get home. He’s got some things he hardly ever wears anymore.”
Spike stared at Mrs Harris. “Yeah. All right,” he said.
The stairs led to the kitchen, where Spike spotted a bottle of Jack Daniels, a shot glass, and three empty beer bottles, on the kitchen table.
“Electricity went out at the store,” explained Mrs Harris, “so they sent a bunch of us home. I decided to celebrate my unexpected day off.” Spike’s eyes flicked from the bottles to Mrs Harris. “You want a beer?” she asked. “Go ahead and get one out of the fridge, while I go look for those clothes.” She started to walk away, but then she turned back toward him. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Spike,” he replied.
“Spike? Is that a nickname?”
“Yeah. My given name’s William.” He frowned. Why didn’t she just shut up with her lame-ass questions and get on with it?
“My name’s Jessica,” she continued. “Can’t say I remember Xander ever mentioning you. Do you work with him at the Pizza Pantry?”
“No. I’m . . . a friend of Buffy’s,” he said. Christ! Why didn’t he just shut up with his lame-ass answers?
“Oh. Buffy.” Jessica frowned slightly. “You’re her new boyfriend, aren’t you?”
“Not hardly.” The woman was not only drunk, but clearly insane.
“Well, wait right here and I’ll find you some clothes.” She again looked him over slowly, and Spike, again wary, squinted hard at her. But she just looked back up into his eyes and nodded. “Yep. I’m pretty sure I’ve got something that’ll fit,” she said.
When she left the room, Spike helped himself to a beer. Sipping on it, he wandered around the kitchen and into the adjacent living room. He was surprised to find it neat and clean – he had assumed that the upstairs was as messy as the fights that issued from it. Off in the far corner of the living room there was a set of shelves devoted to Xander – baby pictures and school pictures throughout the years, and several photos of a young mother and son, smiling together. Dad was no where to be seen. There were a set of baby shoes, a shiny green ceramic child’s handprint, several homemade mothers’ day cards, a large brooch made of glitter, glue, and elbow macaroni, a framed grade school certificate for “best handwriting,” and more. Spike was still smirking at the mementos when Jessica returned.
“Xander was the cutest little thing, wasn’t he?” she said.
“Yeah. Adorable. Every bit as cute as a bug,” replied Spike.
“He was a sweetie, too,” she sighed. Then she held up the clothes she’d found. Spike’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of the loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy, knee-length shorts. “You can use Xander’s old room at the end of the hall to put them on,” she said, “I think these’ll be just fine, don’t you?”
Every molecule inside Spike was screaming the same thing: “No I don’t, you sodden, crazy bitch! Do I look like I’m as big a flaming geek-wad as your son?? Are you blind or just bloody stupid??” But when he opened his mouth, all he said was: “I’ll try them.” For some reason, which he could not begin to fathom, he also mumbled a barely audible “thank you” as he took the clothes from her hands.
Spike removed his towel and climbed into the ridiculous costume. He was, for once, glad for his lack of a reflection in the mirror in front of him. But he didn’t need a mirror to tell him that he looked like a clown. He couldn’t believe that he had thanked that wanton, ignorant witch for choosing this outfit for him. He wondered seriously what else the chip might be doing to his head. But what he needed now was to get past Jessica and back to the basement to wait for Xander. Then he’d find a way to make the idiot poofster bring him some new, decent clothes straight away.
He took a long breath for courage and patience, and stepped out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. He found Jessica sitting at the kitchen table, opening a fourth beer. She smiled up at him. “Well, I just knew they would fit you, William!” she said. “You look wonderful!”
Spike closed his eyes. This was truly unbearable. Maybe he should do everyone a favor, and sink his teeth into Jessica’s jugular right now. He could feed until the blood loss killed her, and the pain killed him. If only he could be sure events would occur in that order.
“Sit down here and have another beer with me before you rush off,” she said.
Spike opened his eyes. He was fairly certain, pathetic as it was, that this was the best offer he was going to hear all day. All week, even. He sat down for a beer.
“Yeah, well, voices carry,” said Spike, to Jessica, after his third beer.
“I never thought about Xander and his friends hearing us,” said Jessica. Alcohol had taken its toll, and she looked considerably older than her 43 years. Her face sagged with regret.
“’Course we can hear you,” said Spike, “you’re not thinking.”
Jessica frowned. “We were so close, me and Xander,” she said, “when he was a little guy. But then I started drinking again. It changed me. I used to protect him from his dad, but I couldn’t anymore. And I’ve said things to him, done things - awful things I never would have, except for the drinking. He hates me for it.”
“Yeah,” said Spike.
“You think he hates me?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Sure he does. It’s betrayal, innit? Betrayal leads to hurt which leads to anger which leads to hate. Which leads to more anger, and more hurting all around, and more anger and more hate. It’s a bleedin’ merry-go-round, is what it is.” Spike sighed and sat back in his chair. The beer and hate-talk was making him feel a little nostalgic.
“Yeah. I know.” Jessica took another sip of beer. “You’re very smart, you know that, William?”
Spike shrugged. “Been told I gotta way with words.” He took a swig from his beer bottle. “Got any pretzels?” he asked.
“No, but I was thinking of scrambling some eggs.”
“Gotta pass on the eggs,” said Spike. “Beer’s made me a little sleepy.” Spike cupped the back of his head with his hands, and tipped his chair back. He yawned. “I’m gonna go take a nap downstairs and wait for Xander there.”
“Oh.” Jessica sounded a little disappointed to lose her agreeable drinking buddy so soon. But she knew how to be a good hostess. “You go right ahead and make yourself comfortable,” she said. “And it was nice meeting you. You won’t hear us fighting anymore, I promise.”
As he opened the door to the basement, Spike lifted his beer bottle in salute. “God Save the Queen,” he said to Jessica, as he turned away. He closed the door behind him, and padded down the stairs on his bare feet. But once he was alone in the basement, he began to feel too agitated to sleep. He put on his dark shoes and socks – his feet were cold, and if he was going to have to wear this Ugly-American-tourist ensemble, he might as well go all the way. There was no use not properly capping it off.
Upstairs, Jessica decided against scrambling eggs. Drinking alone wasn’t a problem, but eating alone was. She needed a nap herself; unconsciousness sounded like a very good idea.
During the days and weeks and months that followed her encounter with Spike, Jessica wasn’t able to keep her promise, not entirely. But she tried hard enough that her son quickly noticed the significant decrease in the commotion from up above. And he was too grateful for the quiet, too relieved by this unexpected break in the storm, to even begin to question its origins.
Throughout his life, he would hear many sounds: In the jungles of Africa and South America, he would listen to the sweetest bird songs imaginable. In the concert halls of Europe and Asia, he would hear music that would make him weep. Back home in the United States, sweet nothings, that he’d yearned for all his life, would be whispered into his ears. And he would listen with unmitigated joy to the welcoming cry of his firstborn. But there would never be a sound – never - that Xander Harris would appreciate more than silence.
***
by Spring Summers 01-Aug-2005
=====================================================================================
SPIKE: “Sodden sleeping chair is bloody - sodden.”
XANDER: "The quake just knocked a couple of pipes lose. There’s a wrench hanging up over there by the workbench. Try tightening the coupling.”
SPIKE: "Do I look like a plumber to you?”
XANDER: No, you look like a big mooch that doesn't lift a finger around here. But I have to get to work.”
SPIKE: Yeah, delivering melted cheese on bread, doing your part to keep America constipated.”
XANDER: Mock not. Remember who pays for the plasma around here, pal. You earn your keep or you don't get kept. When you're done fixing that leak try cleaning up this mess. And doing a little laundry for once wouldn't kill you - unfortunately.”
-from Doomed, 18-JAN-2000 - by Marti Noxon, David Fury, and Jane Espenson
=====================================================================================
Wearing only a bath towel tucked around his waist, Spike was sitting on an old workbench and listening to the clothes tumbling in Xander’s dryer. Swish-plop, swish-plop. He had no idea, really, what he was doing. His mum, then Dru, then Harmony had taken care of the laundry; clean clothes were simply there for him whenever he needed them. He’d done his part for Evil & Country in other ways. That was the thing. He couldn’t tolerate a parasite – in his estimation, there was nothing lower than a bloodsucker. So to speak. Vamps who had nothing to offer, if they had dared enter his circle, had always been quickly dispatched or dusted.
To have to listen to his current degraded state so accurately described by Xander: It had been the worst of the worst. Xander, of all people, had handed him his ultimate humiliation. The wanker had spoken nothing but the truth: He, Spike – he, whose deadly Slayer-skirmishes were the stuff of legend - was completely dependent upon a pizza peddler. Spike lowered his head into his hands. He had to get out of this basement, and get this chip out of his head. He wasn’t going to be able to go on this way much longer.
As he ran a hand over his face, the clothes stopped tumbling and the dryer beeped three times, announcing mission accomplished. He approached the dryer more gingerly than he’d ever approached the prickliest enemy. He carefully opened the hatch. The warm, moist air felt good. But when he pulled out his jeans and t-shirts, he could see immediately that they had all shrunk to unwearability. He let out a loud cry of frustration, and began beating a pair of his shrunken black jeans against the dryer. He was still venting his anger when he heard a voice:
“Who the hell are you?”
Spike whirled around. He knew that the slightly swaying, middle-aged woman in front of him was none other Xander’s mother – who, like her husband and son, should be at work. He knew her from her voice. It was a voice he’d heard many times during the past week. She had loud, mostly drunken, arguments with her lout of a husband nearly every evening. The first time, Spike had made a smartass comment to Xander, after listening to the crash and clank of Mamma Harris tossing pots and pans at Poppa Harris:
“Your mum isn’t much of a domestic type, is she? But at least she’s found some use for the kitchenware.”
But Xander had turned on him with such an intense and murderous look, that Spike had, uncharacteristically and from then on, passed on every juicy opportunity to torment Xander on the subject of his parents. Truth be told, he was glad to ignore the nightly dramas himself. They disquieted him – they were no fun at all, and neither was witnessing Xander’s uncanny and automatic ability to shut it all out. It was part of the reason Spike felt desperate to leave Hacienda Harris. He had reveled in the tears and blood-curdling screams of his victims for over a century, but now he found himself wincing at the senseless shrieking of the Harrises and at their son’s badly disguised, but nevertheless drearily dry and expressionless, pain. It was no fun at all. What satisfaction was there, in twisting a knife into already deadened flesh?
And now, here she stood, the rum-soaked banshee herself, right in front of him.
”Who are you?” she repeated.
“Friend of Xander’s,” said Spike as he attempted to intimidate her with a cold glare. “He said I could use the washing machine. Said you’d be at work.”
Mrs Harris looked him up and down very slowly and thoroughly, which suddenly reminded Spike that he was dressed only in a short towel. She took a step toward him, and he could smell the alcohol on her breath. When she put a hand on his shoulder, he tensed. If she took even one more step, he’d send her hurtling toward the wall as hard as he could – headache or no.
But she didn’t advance on him. It seemed she was merely steadying herself. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and looked at the jeans in his hands, and at the several shrunken black t-shirts he had thrown out of the dryer, and onto the linoleum-covered floor. “You shrunk them, huh?” she said.
“Yeah.” She was brilliant.
“Well – come on upstairs, and I’ll find you something of Xander’s to wear so you can get home. He’s got some things he hardly ever wears anymore.”
Spike stared at Mrs Harris. “Yeah. All right,” he said.
The stairs led to the kitchen, where Spike spotted a bottle of Jack Daniels, a shot glass, and three empty beer bottles, on the kitchen table.
“Electricity went out at the store,” explained Mrs Harris, “so they sent a bunch of us home. I decided to celebrate my unexpected day off.” Spike’s eyes flicked from the bottles to Mrs Harris. “You want a beer?” she asked. “Go ahead and get one out of the fridge, while I go look for those clothes.” She started to walk away, but then she turned back toward him. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Spike,” he replied.
“Spike? Is that a nickname?”
“Yeah. My given name’s William.” He frowned. Why didn’t she just shut up with her lame-ass questions and get on with it?
“My name’s Jessica,” she continued. “Can’t say I remember Xander ever mentioning you. Do you work with him at the Pizza Pantry?”
“No. I’m . . . a friend of Buffy’s,” he said. Christ! Why didn’t he just shut up with his lame-ass answers?
“Oh. Buffy.” Jessica frowned slightly. “You’re her new boyfriend, aren’t you?”
“Not hardly.” The woman was not only drunk, but clearly insane.
“Well, wait right here and I’ll find you some clothes.” She again looked him over slowly, and Spike, again wary, squinted hard at her. But she just looked back up into his eyes and nodded. “Yep. I’m pretty sure I’ve got something that’ll fit,” she said.
When she left the room, Spike helped himself to a beer. Sipping on it, he wandered around the kitchen and into the adjacent living room. He was surprised to find it neat and clean – he had assumed that the upstairs was as messy as the fights that issued from it. Off in the far corner of the living room there was a set of shelves devoted to Xander – baby pictures and school pictures throughout the years, and several photos of a young mother and son, smiling together. Dad was no where to be seen. There were a set of baby shoes, a shiny green ceramic child’s handprint, several homemade mothers’ day cards, a large brooch made of glitter, glue, and elbow macaroni, a framed grade school certificate for “best handwriting,” and more. Spike was still smirking at the mementos when Jessica returned.
“Xander was the cutest little thing, wasn’t he?” she said.
“Yeah. Adorable. Every bit as cute as a bug,” replied Spike.
“He was a sweetie, too,” she sighed. Then she held up the clothes she’d found. Spike’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of the loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy, knee-length shorts. “You can use Xander’s old room at the end of the hall to put them on,” she said, “I think these’ll be just fine, don’t you?”
Every molecule inside Spike was screaming the same thing: “No I don’t, you sodden, crazy bitch! Do I look like I’m as big a flaming geek-wad as your son?? Are you blind or just bloody stupid??” But when he opened his mouth, all he said was: “I’ll try them.” For some reason, which he could not begin to fathom, he also mumbled a barely audible “thank you” as he took the clothes from her hands.
Spike removed his towel and climbed into the ridiculous costume. He was, for once, glad for his lack of a reflection in the mirror in front of him. But he didn’t need a mirror to tell him that he looked like a clown. He couldn’t believe that he had thanked that wanton, ignorant witch for choosing this outfit for him. He wondered seriously what else the chip might be doing to his head. But what he needed now was to get past Jessica and back to the basement to wait for Xander. Then he’d find a way to make the idiot poofster bring him some new, decent clothes straight away.
He took a long breath for courage and patience, and stepped out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. He found Jessica sitting at the kitchen table, opening a fourth beer. She smiled up at him. “Well, I just knew they would fit you, William!” she said. “You look wonderful!”
Spike closed his eyes. This was truly unbearable. Maybe he should do everyone a favor, and sink his teeth into Jessica’s jugular right now. He could feed until the blood loss killed her, and the pain killed him. If only he could be sure events would occur in that order.
“Sit down here and have another beer with me before you rush off,” she said.
Spike opened his eyes. He was fairly certain, pathetic as it was, that this was the best offer he was going to hear all day. All week, even. He sat down for a beer.
“Yeah, well, voices carry,” said Spike, to Jessica, after his third beer.
“I never thought about Xander and his friends hearing us,” said Jessica. Alcohol had taken its toll, and she looked considerably older than her 43 years. Her face sagged with regret.
“’Course we can hear you,” said Spike, “you’re not thinking.”
Jessica frowned. “We were so close, me and Xander,” she said, “when he was a little guy. But then I started drinking again. It changed me. I used to protect him from his dad, but I couldn’t anymore. And I’ve said things to him, done things - awful things I never would have, except for the drinking. He hates me for it.”
“Yeah,” said Spike.
“You think he hates me?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Sure he does. It’s betrayal, innit? Betrayal leads to hurt which leads to anger which leads to hate. Which leads to more anger, and more hurting all around, and more anger and more hate. It’s a bleedin’ merry-go-round, is what it is.” Spike sighed and sat back in his chair. The beer and hate-talk was making him feel a little nostalgic.
“Yeah. I know.” Jessica took another sip of beer. “You’re very smart, you know that, William?”
Spike shrugged. “Been told I gotta way with words.” He took a swig from his beer bottle. “Got any pretzels?” he asked.
“No, but I was thinking of scrambling some eggs.”
“Gotta pass on the eggs,” said Spike. “Beer’s made me a little sleepy.” Spike cupped the back of his head with his hands, and tipped his chair back. He yawned. “I’m gonna go take a nap downstairs and wait for Xander there.”
“Oh.” Jessica sounded a little disappointed to lose her agreeable drinking buddy so soon. But she knew how to be a good hostess. “You go right ahead and make yourself comfortable,” she said. “And it was nice meeting you. You won’t hear us fighting anymore, I promise.”
As he opened the door to the basement, Spike lifted his beer bottle in salute. “God Save the Queen,” he said to Jessica, as he turned away. He closed the door behind him, and padded down the stairs on his bare feet. But once he was alone in the basement, he began to feel too agitated to sleep. He put on his dark shoes and socks – his feet were cold, and if he was going to have to wear this Ugly-American-tourist ensemble, he might as well go all the way. There was no use not properly capping it off.
Upstairs, Jessica decided against scrambling eggs. Drinking alone wasn’t a problem, but eating alone was. She needed a nap herself; unconsciousness sounded like a very good idea.
During the days and weeks and months that followed her encounter with Spike, Jessica wasn’t able to keep her promise, not entirely. But she tried hard enough that her son quickly noticed the significant decrease in the commotion from up above. And he was too grateful for the quiet, too relieved by this unexpected break in the storm, to even begin to question its origins.
Throughout his life, he would hear many sounds: In the jungles of Africa and South America, he would listen to the sweetest bird songs imaginable. In the concert halls of Europe and Asia, he would hear music that would make him weep. Back home in the United States, sweet nothings, that he’d yearned for all his life, would be whispered into his ears. And he would listen with unmitigated joy to the welcoming cry of his firstborn. But there would never be a sound – never - that Xander Harris would appreciate more than silence.
***
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