Author: Narcoleptic73 (narcoleptic73@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG 16 fluffy fic, but does have a couple of ‘f’ words.
Couple: Willow / Spike
Disclaimer: Joss owns all, of course (Joss = God). I own nothing. The characters are not mine, and so on and so forth
Feedback: You betcha…….
Summary: Willow has kicked him in the knackers for the last bloody time – payback is a bitch called Spike!
Notes: Sequel to OH, BLOODY HELL! Fluffy rubbish forms part of a lightweight series of nonsense.
Status: Complete.
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It was a lucky thing he was so bloody drunk, because if he had been anywhere near sober while he was reduced to this he might just decide to end it all. Yes, it was a sad day indeed when a girl, for shit’s sake, drove him to such petty measures for what should be his evil revenge.
Still, he should probably be happy that he was even getting this chance. He smirked his very best evil smirk and felt a little better for it. What kind of idiot, particularly if living on the hell mouth, left a ‘welcome’ mat at their back door?
He took another deep swallow from his fast emptying bottle of whiskey. With concrete evidence that the witch was indeed fucking stupid and had only managed to walk away from him with a pulse on their last two meetings out of sheer good luck, his mood was improving and with a suitably evil cackle "mwaa ha ha haaaa" he flicked his cigarette into the potted fichus that resided next to the freshly painted white door at the rear of the Rosenberg residence. "Every decent household in this fucking town has a bloody fichus" he scoffed.
He stepped in through the back door of the house and took a moment to listen carefully for any sign of a heartbeat. None. Looks like it was just him and the fichus. Good. Since it appeared as though he would have more time at his disposal than he thought, Spike decided he might actually be able to put the events of the past week to rights again.
He found himself wincing and reaching defensively for his groin as the memory of two very painful encounters with the red head flashed briefly through his alcohol muddled brain. "Bitch" he mumbled.
"First thing first, mate," he muttered to himself, lighting another cigarette and stalking through the dark house to the living room. He raised his eyebrows a little in appreciation at the entertainment system set up in a well-crafted wall unit. "Bloody big assed Telly the little witch has there."
He pulled open the unit’s cupboards in search of the first of the objects he had come for. Ah, there it was nestled on a shelf in the company of a quite impressive collection! Monty Python, Red Dwarf, Clerks, Dogma (he wouldn’t mind shagging that Salma Hayak chit) the Toxic Avenger, and last but certainly not least ……the Big Lebowski. He slipped the video into one of the many pockets of his duster and had another evil chuckle, it wasn’t necessary of course but he had been painfully short of reasons for a good evil chuckle lately that he was determined to make up for it.
Next objective – recovery of the Tim Tams, he could only hope that she hadn’t eaten them all. He would have, but then he was a glutton – all evil demons worth their salt were. Humans on the other hand considered that particular characteristic a sin and she struck him as a moral conformist. Just then his eyes landed on the menorah holding pride of place on the family mantle. "Maybe she has eaten em – no catholic guilt or puritanical self denial and what all."
He tried the most obvious place first. The refrigerator. It had all kinds of shit in it, mostly stuff he didn’t recognize since his diet was largely liquid, but after pulling every item of food out and throwing most of it over his shoulder he came to a shocking conclusion: "No fucking Tim Tams. The Bitch."
Butting his cigarette in the middle of a freshly made chocolate cake emblazoned with white icing writing that read "Happy Birthday Dad" he took a moment for another drink from his whiskey bottle while he thought about where she might have stashed the Tim Tams.
He smirked and headed back towards the living room, she’d have em in her bedroom no doubt. Prolly on the bedside table with a copy of some simpering piece of literature by one of the bloody Bronte sisters he’d wager.
On his way through the living room to the staircase he got a little distracted by the sight of a rather impressive liquor cabinet. He checked the level of his own bottle and was alarmed to find it as good as empty. Luckily for him the Rosenbergs had a very impressive collection of bottles, all of which looked very full, very inviting, and very bloody expensive. He shrugged, what the hell, he had time……
An hour and three bottles of gin later, Spike suddenly remembered where it was he had been going in the first place. "Tim Tams". He struggled to his feet with considerably less grace than he was universally renowned for. His boots slipped out from underneath him and he fell flat on his impressively firm arse. "Bloody hell." He grumbled trying again with more success.
The stairs were quite the challenge but he eventually reached the landing and was lucky enough to discover that the very first door he tried permitted him entry into a bedroom that was obviously hers. If the photographs of the idiot and the Slayer didn’t give it away then the copy of a well read Bronte novel on an impressively large desk next to an equally impressive looking computer, did. He sneered knowingly.
Pausing to light another cigarette, Spike grinned slowly to himself as the very germ of an idea began to blossom in the most evil recesses of his twisted mind. "Oh, yeah – I’m bad." He announced very seriously to the numerous stuffed toys that were his only audience. They neither confirmed nor denied his theory.
Spike had unlived long enough to know one very important thing about women all over the globe – they all hid their diaries in their underwear drawer. Why they thought it would be a safe place was one of life’s greatest mysteries in Spike’s considered opinion, because any self respecting bloke made sure the very first thing he did in some chit’s house the minute she wasn’t around was check out her knickers. Of course the second thing they did was read the diary that could almost always be found there nestled underneath meters of colorful silk (if a bloke was lucky) or cotton (if a bloke was unlucky.)
Willow’s diary, it turned out – was quite an interesting read and included, much to his secret delight, a blow by blow description of his encounter with her in the video store. She surprised him by devoting one very detailed description about his jeans, or more specifically how his ass looked in his jeans while he was bent over the counter strangling the clerk – pretty damn good according to the witch. "Ha! Knew it!" Her knicker drawer had also surprised him, lots of lace and little else…….interesting.
Scrabbling about in her desk drawer he located the pen he was looking for and settled down to work. Spike, like many of the older vampires, was quite the talented forger – a necessary skill for a bloke who needed to change his identity every couple of decades or so. His ability to mimic handwriting was about to stand him in very good stead once more and for a much more interesting and enjoyable outcome.
Backdating some entries he began to write.
December 5
Buffy wore the sluttiest outfit I have ever laid eyes on today, does she honestly believe that we want to see the cellulite…….
January 12
I caught Xander moaning over porn in the library AGAIN today. I can’t believe he hasn’t developed RSI yet because all he ever seems to do is eat and jerk o…..
February 15
After last night I have decided that it is ok to swallow…….
March 24
Angel admitted to me today that he prefers boys – I wonder if I should tell Buffy?……
April 2
I think Giles has been attending alcoholics anonymous, but only on the nights he isn’t at ‘Madam Lash’…………
May 30
I can’t stop dreaming about Spike’s hot body he makes me want to……
June 11
I’m sick to death of listening to Buffy whine constantly about her facial hair problem – I have one word for her ‘electrolysis’…..
June 16
Angel must be sick with jealousy over Spike, it must be humiliating for him to know that his grandchilde has killed two Slayers and he’s only ever managed to fu… $#@@……&^%*)……….!@#$%………and did he notice Buffy’s body hair problem while he was down there or did she finally get a clue? Blonde my ass!
Oh sure, it wasn’t his best effort, but checking his watch he realized he was quickly running out of time.
Scanning the relevant pages on the nifty little flatbed cannon, Spike thanked the Japanese for creating such user friendly computer accessories – he was an old fashioned vamp and he was still struggling with the information technology explosion, but he was adaptable and he’d learn, especially if he had motivation like this!
The witch had left her computer logged on so it wasn’t too hard for him to locate her email account. He would have to remember to congratulate her on her fastidious file labeling, it made it so much easier for him to locate the group send address for her computer science class.
Attaching the diary file to a new memo, he grudgingly entitled "Willow Rosenberg: Diary" he selected the urgent and confidential option and hit ‘send’ grinning maniacally when he heard the little ‘ping’ and saw the window flash up to let him know the message had been successfully sent. He almost giggled but quickly remembered that he was evil and squashed the impulse down with a halfhearted growl.
"My work here is done" he announced – the stuffed toys seemed to understand, luckily for them, they didn’t appear to be mocking him with their beady little eyes.
Stubbing his third cigarette out on her highly polished wooden desktop he scooped up his jacket, the Big Lebowski, and the half empty packet of Tim Tams he had found squirreled away next to the diary in the chit’s knicker drawer.
He paused just before exiting her room via the balcony doors when he chuckled to himself and turned around once again. Scooping up the most expensive looking lip stick he could locate on her dresser, he wound it all the way to the top and wrote in great slashing letters across the mirror:
WHAT CAN I TELL YOU BABY? I’VE ALWAYS BEEN BAD!
Leaping from her balcony and setting off for home Spike had a distinct spring in his step and even whistled a jaunty tune. He hadn’t felt this good about his unlife since he ran into her in the video store. Maybe his unlife in Sunnydale was about to take a turn for the better. "Teach her to kick me in the nuts. Bitch."
He lit another cigarette and pulled out the packet from within the depths of his leather duster. Sweet. He was finally on his way home to watch the Big Lebowski on his large screen Telly with HIS fucking Tim Tams……..