Spike's Morning After


by: michelle/shelly



Spike woke quickly and completely, but unsure of where he was. Plain white ceiling above him and soft bed beneath him. It took a moment before he remembered the bar, and then he turned his head and looked at the body lying next to him with disbelief. It was still *breathing*. {Oh, right. The chip.} He grimaced and moved to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and planting his bare feet in the thick, ugly, green shag of the carpet. The body moaned and rolled over, moving closer to Spike, seeking warmth. Spike gave a silent chuckle when the body scooted away from his cold backside and instead grabbed a pillow to curl up with. "Fine." He murmured out loud, placing his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. "No killing for me, no cuddling for you. Fair's fair, pet." He sat there, just staring at his long, pale feet, and curling his toes into the carpet. He felt a moment of pure, unadulterated panic. What had he become? Picking up mortals in bars and shagging them in sleazy, green-carpeted hotel rooms? By itself, this was not an abhorrent, or even an aberrant, action. It was fine, really. Good, in fact, even *fun* but to have to *wake* along side a still *living* mortal body? Spike's panic quickly morphed into self-disgust and he rose from the bed, snatching up stray items of clothing, and he began to dress, his only thoughts now were of escape. He felt. . .not good. Bad. He felt *bad*. Not a feeling he was used to. This was not good. This was so very wrong. He searched his memory as he walked into the bathroom, trying to pinpoint the last time he had come awake from drunken sex with a mortal and found said mortal still alive with all of their lovely blood still flowing in *their* veins and not *his*. Never. Not once that he could remember. Drunken, forgetful, memories put aside, please. Not *once*. Spike shut the bathroom door behind him and went to the sink, turning on the hot-water tap. He busted the seal of the complimentary plastic cup and filled it with water from the tap. He drank, rinsing his mouth and spitting. His mouth still tasted like. . .he didn't know what. Defeat? Or maybe like that, still too much alive mortal, asleep on the other side of the door? "Well, not *too* much of a dive, is it, then?" He muttered, spying the plastic covered toiletries on the counter. He removed the cover from a toothbrush and opened a mini tube of toothpaste and scrubbed his teeth clean. {Not my fangs, though. No need for that.} He brushed his tongue too, not remembering clearly where *it* had been. He snatched a towel from the counter and thrust it under the running water, soaking it. He wrung it as dry as he could and then cupped the moist heat of the towel over his face and held it there. Memories of past times spent cleaning up in hotel bathrooms flooded him. Times when the bodies on the other side of the door were well and truly *dead*. Times when he had done his best to make certain that the body left on the bed would be found with almost *no* blood remaining. Times when he had been covered head to toe in blood and gore. Times when he had been grinning, happy and carefree, often *whistling* a jaunty tune through his teeth, not *brushing* them, as he washed away what was left of the mortal he had chosen for a one time encounter. Spike pulled the towel away and stared into the mirror, seeing only the wall behind him. Times past. Times gone. Spike threw down the towel in disgust, turned off the tap and slammed a fist into the mirror, shattering it. He looked at the sink full of mirror and felt. . .nothing. Not a damned thing. Pulling open the door, he stomped into the other room where he picked up his boots and sat in the room's only chair to put them on. Once done with that task, he snatched up his coat and moved to the door. He glared at the body on the bed, seeing only some anonymous-still living *thing*-that seemed to mock his very existence, as he thrust his arms violently into his coat. That body mocked *him* and, worse, all he *had* been. He gave it one last glare and then stalked with unconscious grace to the door and opened it, pausing to gaze once more at the body. "Bloody hell." He shut the door softly behind him. ~end.

1