Happy, Texas

Setting: Season 4 Implied. A couple of things you need to know about the AU setting: Here’s the deal: lets pretend that Spike never made it to Sunnydale and got that nasty government chip, oh and that he and Dru resided in LA instead of Brazil. It’s fun to pretend isn’t it children? Yes, lets all suspend that utter disbelief – just let it go…

Author’s Note: I may have posted this on this site a long time ago (can’t remember) under the penname ‘Desire’. So consider this a repost and not some horrible act of plagiarism (Dee = Desire, same person). This is technically, the first real piece of fiction I’d ever written. Since, in my head anyway, I’m a better writer now then I was when I wrote this, I decided to clean it up a bit, and change some things that I don’t think work now –but hey, don’t let this note scare you off *smile*. The story’s completed (I’ll be posting the rest soon) and is the first part in three stories, but to save my self from posting overload, I’m squashing them all together.

**

 Booze and Busses

What was it with these women in Texas? Did they actually think big teased hair made them more attractive? Classier? Even a little bit desirable?!

He eyed some of the women that sauntered in and out of the bar; one in particular that had taken a seat a few stools down from him. She casually flirted with some guy in a NASCAR shirt, while playing with stray beer nuts in the basket in front of her. Her hair was a bleached rat’s nest and the low-cut top she wore revealed more than a few stretch marks, but he checked her out anyway. He hadn’t seen any play in weeks, though it felt more like months – maybe it was months…

Oh well, this truck stop bitch was better than nothing.

"Barkeep! Could use another round here."

The bartender eyed him warily, but poured more drink into the five, empty shot glasses sitting before him.

He downed two of them and took the time to savor the way the liquor burned the back of his throat. His brain was a foggy haze of bourbon, scotch, and tequila and the faint bitter taste of salt and lemon still clung to his tongue…

His sense of taste hadn’t altogether disappeared – obviously he wasn’t drunk enough.

Looming over a basket of congealed hot wings, he picked one up and ‘studied’ it before licking off the sauce and dropping it back into the basket.

"Funny thing is, I thought if I could just go back and be the man I was, everything would be fine, you know?"

"Mmm-hmm," the man sitting next to him mumbled and propped his head up in his hand.

He had come to the bar tonight just to have a few drinks before heading home and instead ended up being a sounding board for a freak. White-blonde hair, black clothing, Doc Marten boots, and a leather duster despite the ninety-degree weather – this guy had to be one of those pussy Goth kids. He’d heard about those kind of people, devil worshippers most of them, and he briefly wondered if he should call the police.

"But, she was just – just different. Quieter, distant, not accepting any of my presents – and those were damn good presents!"

"I bet they were."

"Do you know have any idea how bloody hard it is to get the still-beating heart of a virgin?! Well, I did it, and in Southern California no less! Must’ve found the last sodding virgin in the state, and does she appreciate it?!" He angrily slammed his fist onto the bar top, rattling the glasses, "Does she?!"

"Um, no?"

"Exactly!" he said a trace of bitter venom in his voice. "Barkeep, another round here…" He paused, turning to his companion and tried hard to focus on his face through the alcoholic haze, "What -- what’s your name again?"

"Stanley."

"Right, Stanley." He nodded as if it had all just come back to him. "You got a girl, Stanley?"

"I have a wife…"

"A wife?" He smiled drunkenly, "Well, isn’t that just peachy keen, Stan…" Another chicken wing in hand, he repeated his sauce licking ritual and dumped it unceremoniously back into the basket. "You buy your wife presents, Stan? Nice little ‘I love you’ gifts?"

"Yeah, sometimes…" Stanley nodded, "once, I took her out to eat at the Olive Garden for our anniversary."

"That’s downright decent of you! Honestly, I’m impressed – two hard working people such as yourselves enjoying the ‘taste of Italy’. Tell me did your wife --what’s her name?" Spike asked feigning interest. This was the mosnvernversation he’d had since arriving here, and he was lonely and bitter enough to keep it going, even if Stanley seemed liked a boring ponce.

"Gl."<."

"Gloria…" he said the name as if he were mulling it over. "Pretty name. So, did Gloria appreciate that nice dinner at the Olive Garden?"

Stanley nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

Spike reached over and patted the man on the back and smiled. "You’ve got one of the good one’s, Stan. Do you think Dru would appreciate a dinner at the Olive Garden?"

"Um…" he began, pulling a face, "I really couldn’t say -- I don’t know Dru…"

Spike let out a hiss cutting off poor Stanley.

His wounds were still fresh but the alcohol swimming in veins had broken the off switch to his mouth. As much as he wanted to shut up, was desperate to shut up, he couldn’t to save his unlife. He was going to sit here in this dive bar and pour out his heart to a little man who could give two shits about his problems, but was probably too polite to say so.

"That bitch would never appreciate that, like everything else I did for her!" he roared. Shutting his eyes, Spike took an unnecessary deep breath, sighing heavily, "So, she said this wasn’t working for her anymore. And, I said fine, you know, cause I’m not going to beg her again. I’m through with bloody begging her! And then she says that she’s leaving LA and I tell her go right ahead! You know, cause I don’t give a shit…"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Over a hundred years together and she just gets up and leaves…" The words fell from his lips in a choked sob.

Oh great. Now, he was going to cry in front of Stanley. In front of the barkeep with the huge snake tattoo on his arm, and in front of the big haired woman…

He could feel the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes and Spike put his head down on the bar, pushing away the glasses and the hot wings. He was going to sit like this until the pain went away, until he could be ‘Mr. Tough- Bad- Ass’ in front of this room filled with rednecks again.

He felt a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and heard Stanley sigh heavily. "Hey there, it’s okay, buddy. Sometimes problems in a marriage can make it feel like a hundred years."

**

He felt numb on the inside, almost dead – er – deader, but somehow his pain receptors were alive enough to feel the pavement hitting his face.

The bartender shouted all kinds of obscenities before shutting the backdoor on him. He couldn’t quite remember what had happened. Something to do with the big haired woman, her drink, and his dick. The words were mangled in bourbon, and scotch, and whatever else he’d had, oh yeah, tequila and didn’t register with him at all.

Nothing registered save for the garbage-y smell of the bar’s back alley and the constant voice bleating in his ear like a goat.

"Are you okay? Are you okay?"

Spike moaned and opened one very bloodshot eye.

Stanley stood over him, a look of worry on his face.

"Yeah mate, just peachy," he groaned sarcastically. "Could use a bi hel help here."

"Oh, right," Stanley said almost sheepishly. He pulled Spike to his feet, helping to prop him up and draped his lazy arm around his shoulders. "Okay, buddy, you’ll be fine. Just go home, get a bite to eat, sleep it off, you’ll feel better in the morning.

Yeah, that sounded good. His stomach-rumbled in spite of himself, he really adn’adn’t eaten. Those chicken wings didn’t count. He needed real food…

Spike found himself watching the vein in Stanley’s neck pulsate; he could never get over the funky little rhythm blood made while it was pumping, coursing through the body. It was beautiful in a way and the next time he was in close contact like this, he would take the time to appreciate it.

The living human body and all of its neat little functions and beats…

His mouth was watering: artful appreciation would have to wait.

 **

 Giles was cheap: plan and simple.

He was sending her off to fight some unspeakable evil; some really nasty being and she could die! Not come back ever, and he couldn’t loosen his wallet enough to get her a plane ticket.

"When you’ve gotta go, Buffy, go Greyhound," the Watcher’s words dripping with sarcasm lingered in her ears.

The people were scarier than any vamp or demon she’d ever faced and Buffy felt cramped beyond belief. Plus she was missing valuable school time! Not that waking up to a glaring Professor Walsh when she caught her napping and killer term papers were a thing to be missed, but getting quality stare time at Riley and smooches long after class had ended were.

She’d made up some lie about a precious dying aunt in Cleveland, earning the sympathy from her professors and her caring boyfriend. Bring on the guilt. She couldn’t tell him the real reason she was leaving town…

What had Giles called it? Calsistifore? It does some mystical something or other, she couldn’t quite remember. Buffy’s orders were to seek and destroy before a vampire cult hell bent on world destruction got to it first. She was to stay with one of his Watcher friends and take care of it. No Willow, no Xand, and god, even no Anya.

Just her. Just Buffy. All-alone.

She sighed loudly as she pushed the scrambled eggs around on her plate. The bus had made a pit stop in some run down Texas town, and to no surprise found a Wafflehouse for it’s weary travelers to grab a bite to eat at.

Buffy motioned for the waitress and got her coffee refilled.

A good looking, young guy sitting in theth ith in front of her flashed, her, a smile.

She smiled back, flattered.

She may have Riley but that didn’t mean she couldn’t play the flirting game. No harm in that, right?

She became so engrossed with the flirting and making circles with her cold eggs, that she completely didn’t notice the bus pulling out of the parking lot…

**

Shit.

A long walk to the ‘Happy’ bus station, in the middle of the night – jureatreat, the fun never stopped. As soon as she got back home she was going to do something really nasty to Giles to get him back for this -- maybe bring up sex and her mom again. That never failed to cause him to do his funny, extremely British constipated face.

"What do you mean there’s no bus to Cleveland for another five days?!"

There was no way she was going to stay in this shithole town for five days…

"I mean there’s no bus to Cleveland until next Tuesday. A whole five days," the little snarky guy in the window repeated for her.

Buffy suppressed the natural urge to hit him and instead chose to whine, "What am I supposed to do for five days?!"

He shrugged unsympathetically. "I don’t know sweetheart, you’re on your own."

Without another word, he slammed the metal shade down in her face.

Shit.

**

Spike stumbled along the sidewalk.

At least he thought he was stumbling…

For all he knew, the booze could have actually worn off and he could be walking like the normal, completely sober bloke would. But he felt lhe whe was stumbling.