Descriptions


by Saber ShadowKitten
Nightdreams 17





Idiot.

Simpleton, nincompoop, booby, fool, nitwit, dunce, ninny, dolt, imbecile, numskull, ignoramus, blockhead, moron.

Spike looked up and out over the town of Sunnydale. The matching red terra cotta roofs that sloped down the valley made the town picturesque, homey, a good place to raise a family. No one would ever know that Sunnydale was the home of the Hellmouth and the evil that decided Washington, D.C. was getting too scary. No one would ever know that there was a two hundred year old vampire sitting outside of the mansion on Crawford's Street looking down at the town.

Pathetic.

See pitiful.

That's what he was -- pitiful. He was sitting outside of the mansion he hated, overlooking the town he hated, acting like his sire -- whom he hated. He'd also gotten beat up by his sire and what could be more pitiful than that? Well, aside from waking up in the morgue with a toe tag on his foot a few days ago.

Brooding.

Moping, sulking, lamenting, moody, glum, morose, unsociable, withdrawn.

Spike laid back on the hard ground and put the open book over his face. Maybe the answer he was seeking would seep into his brain through osmosis. It was worth a try. Nothing else had worked.

He was at wit's end, at the end of his rope, at the edge, on the brink, one step away from letting the sun to come over the horizon at the edge of the scenic town and fry him. He felt as though whoever was in charge of writing his unlife was purposely not allowing him to figure it out. He knew he wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, the sharpest tool in the shed, the quickest draw in the West...or was that the fastest? Either way, he still couldn't piece together what he was suppose to tell the Slayer.

He heard footsteps approaching, but he didn't move. Maybe whoever it was would put him out of his misery.

"Spike, what are you doing?"

Or make him more miserable.

"The lambada, Slayer," Spike answered sarcastically. "What does it look like?"

"You're not up here to see the sunrise, are you?" Buffy asked. "I so don't want to go through that again."

Spike lifted the book off his face and sat up. "Go through what again?"

Buffy sat down beside him and pulled her knees to her chest. "Never mind."

He studied her for a moment. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a long, black leather coat over the top. Not her typical fare. Not her usual attire. Not her normal accouterments. Not her ordinary dress.

Unreal.

Imaginary, fake, false, illusion, fictitious, hallucinatory, deception, nonexistent, fantasy.

Spike put the book on the ground next to him, reached over and poked Buffy on the arm. She turned her head and gave him a puzzled look. He patted all the way down her arm and her brow lifted.

"What in the world are you doing?"

"Trying to discern if you're real or not," Spike replied.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Buffy asked.

Spike inhaled purposely and sighed. "I can't bloody tell anymore," he admitted. He tapped his forehead. "Something's not connected right up here."

"I could have told you that," she said with a grin.

He scowled at her. "You're a regular riot, Slayer."

"I know," Buffy agreed. She returned her gaze to the scenic overlook.

"So are you real or not?" Spike asked bluntly.

"I guess you'll never know."

Frustrated.

Irritated, resentful, annoyed, exasperated, bothered, disturbed, confused, perturbed, agitated, unsettled, confounded, disconcerted, rattled, upset...

Buffy reached over and took the book from his hands. She looked at the cover. "Have I ever told you that you are the weirdest vampire I've ever met?"

"Constantly," Spike replied. He tried to snatch it back from her, but she eluded his attempts. "Give that back."

"In a minute," she said.

Spike sighed in defeat and laid back down again. He crossed his ankles and put his hands under his head. The stars were twinkling happily in the night sky above him. He moved one hand up, took aim and pretended to shoot one. Then he brought the hand to his temple and pretended to shoot himself.

Insane.

Mad, cracked, screwy, nutty, nuts, looney, schizo, loco, wacko, batty, unglued, touched, crazy.

He put his hand back behind his head and closed his eyes. Maybe, if he was really lucky, a UFO full of Scottish engineers would come along and beam him up. Anything was better than not knowing if the Buffy beside him was real or a yet another nightdream, as well as his inability to figure out what the hell he was suppose to tell the real Buffy.

He could always just kiss her. If she punched his lights out, he'd know that she was the real Buffy. If she didn't, he could chose to have a nice little tete-a-tete on the hilltop. Why didn't he think of that before?

Spike sat up, grabbed the Slayer around the waist and hauled her onto his lap.

"Spike!" Buffy exclaimed, the book falling out of her hands.

"Here goes nothing," Spike muttered. He slid his hand up into the back of her hair and kissed her.

Hot.

Torrid, burning, fiery, flaming, blazing, scorching, searing, scalding, carnal, sensuous, stimulating, arousing, exciting, orgiastic, passionate, inflaming. Words that he didn't need to find in the thesaurus he'd been reading to described what kissing Buffy was like.

Spike broke away from her mouth gradually, reluctantly, not wanting to find out she wasn't real, yet not wanting to find out she was real and was disgusted by him kissing her. He licked his lower lip, then rubbed his lips together, savoring the tingling sensation her mouth had left on his. He took a purposeful breath and let it out slowly before opening his eyes.

She was staring at him, her hazel eyes wide and unreadable. Her breathing was rapid and he could hear her heart pounding beneath her breast. Her lips were slightly red and swollen from kissing. Her skin was flushed a light pink. She looked so very real.

"Slayer?" Spike said quietly, uncertainty tinging his voice.

"Why did you kiss me?" Buffy asked.

"I...," he trailed off and swallowed. For some reason, telling her he was only trying to see if she was real or a figment of his imagination wasn't the response he wanted to give her. He dropped his head as he tried to think of an answer and saw that the book was sitting open in her lap.

Love.

Adored, fancied, infatuated, charmed, enamored, yearned, enraptured, enchanted, desired, besotted, smitten, passionately devoted...

Spike's head shot up and his eyes snapped to hers. He didn't hesitate or mull over it or take the time to call himself names because he didn't realize it sooner. He didn't stop to worry that she might be another figment of his imagination. He just raised his other hand and cupped her cheek and told her what he knew was the truth.

"I love you."

He waited for her to disappear or for his name to be called, pulling him out of the nightdream. If that happened, he knew he would lose it.

But it didn't happen.

"Oh," Buffy breathed. "Is that why you...um, the other day...the, er, door...?"

Spike watched as her face turned bright red. She lowered her eyes and plucked nervously at the front of his shirt. He searched his mind for what she meant and his mouth dropped open in shock when it hit him. "That was really you...and why Angel...holy fucking shit."

Moron, blockhead, ignoramus, numskull, imbecile, dolt, ninny, dunce, nitwit, fool, booby nincompoop, simpleton.

Idiot.



End 1