Cotton Candy: Tangled Up In Blue

Cotton Candy: Tangled Up In Blue

Looking for a place to hide the party favors for Sorcha’s birthday party, you open the door to Giles’ guest bedroom and catch sight of Spike sitting on the bed, sliding a hypo into the soft skin of his inner elbow.

"What the hell are you doing?" You scream at him, dropping the little toys in their bright wrappings as you slam the door shut behind you with a bang, "I know stuff like that won’t kill you. You’re already dead. But to bring it into my house, to shoot up where Sorcha might see you??? Leave, leave now!" You bear down on him, furious. It was bad enough that your old lover showed up without warning after sundown last night with Cordelia, Cordelia’s wheelchair, Cordelia’s fifteen-piece designer luggage set, and a bag of gifts for Sorcha that has your little niece in a loud tizzy because she has to wait until tomorrow to open them, but this is too much.

Spike looks up at you as he works the plunger. His blue eyes glaze over, their pupils huge in the bright overhead light. His mouth works, and then a long, slow shudder runs through his entire body as a thin film of sweat coats his face.

You pause, both appalled and fascinated, your anger at having your home invaded while you were trying to prepare for tomorrow morning’s party, at Wyndham-Price frantically calling you at 2 am trying to find Cordelia because she’s missing from her room at the Watcher’s private hospital in L.A. and Spike isn’t answering his pager, of seeing Sorcha sitting in Cordelia’s lap while Cordelia French braided her hair this morning after breakfast when you didn’t have time for such luxuries, all temporarily forgotten.

He shakes his head violently, gasps, pulls out the syringe, and says, "Buffy, it’s not what it looks like." The band around his knotted upper arm flies free with a snap, landing on the floor near his feet.

"I don’t believe you!" Disgusted you begin tossing paraphernalia into the open leather case that rests next to him on the bed. "Out. Now. And take this, this… this crap with you!" You snatch the syringe from his hand, snapping it in half before it joins the rest of the contraband.

In a startling burst of speed Spike grabs your wrists.

They’re warm.

He smirks up at you, "Haven’t been a channel swimmer since ‘52, pet. Bloody well quit because Dru needed a minder and not some vegetable happily droolin’ on himself while sittin’ in a puddle of his own piss."

You try to disengage, but Spike’s holding you in such a way that you can’t get any leverage short of kicking him in the balls. You’re not quite ready to go that far so you relax slightly, "Then what the hell is it then?"

Freeing one hand, Spike picks up a vial and waves it in your face. You catch a glimpse of the name of one of the doctors attached to the Council printed on the label.

"Insulin?"

"Gets me past the Customs wankers," he smirks, before tossing it back into the case, "Easier than saying, ‘I’m dead mate, and need a hit.’ Just say ‘I’m insulin dependant’ and they’ll forgive you pract’ally ennythin’."

"Since when?"

"Since Wes found Fred’s notes after she died."

"Notes?" Confused you pause as swallowing heavily he stands up. You knew Spike was strong, but the speed, the… warmth?

"Smart and skinny, she noticed things. Things that…" Spike suddenly releases you. You stumble back against the Cordy cluttered dresser, rubbing your wrists. He looks down between his feet at the floor, wavering ever so slightly. "Before Illyria, well before Illyria killed her trying to manifest, our Fred… took samples."

You’d heard of Fred, though you’d never met. "Samples?"

"Blood." He quickly looks away.

"O.k., Fred drew blood. So what?" You pick up a tiny bottle of something expensive by Dolce and Gabbana, turning it over and over in your hands before spritzing some on yourself.

"Fred caught me jolly popping, you know… sipping."

"Joll… sipping?"

"You know, took some off of someone who was… don’t ask! There was a car accident, they were already dead, I was hungry, it wasn’t worth it. Fred caught me, I stopped, end of story, all right?" Spike glances sidelong at you while absently scratching at the visibly fading needle track and rocking back and forth on his heels, "Didn’t kill anybody, pet. I just… sipped. It’s not unusual, I’ve done it before."

"That’s disgusting!"

"Buffy!" He snarls at you, and then catches himself, "Buffy, you don’t know what it’s like."

"What, looking at people like walking Frappacinos?"

"It’s more than that and you know it."

The two of you stare each other down for a long time. You hear cars out on the street, and Cordelia watching Tweenies downstairs with Sorcha. Giles is practicing children’s songs on his guitar out in the garden for tomorrow’s party.

Finally Spike closes his eyes before saying "Buffy, it’s like, it’s like your first time bumpin’ uglies every time… it’s everything. It’s life. Pig’s blood or even donated human plasma is like… wearing a condom." He opens his eyes, leans hipshot with arms folded against the wall before hooking his thumbs in his belt and adds with a suggestive half leer, "Not that I would know."

"All right, what did Fred ‘notice’?" You cross your own arms.

"That I got faster, smarter and meaner. Then I crashed five hours later, got the shakes; like goin’ cold turkey." He pauses, "Same thing happened to me when they put that soddin chip in my head, same as what happened when the soddin’ First got hold of me… remember that time when I went through a wall to grab Andrew. I’m not the only one; I’ve seen Angelus do it on short rations, same with Darla. Dru too, fast and hard. Scared the hell out of me the first time it happened to me."

"Oh."

"Animal blood isn’t enough, never has been." Spike pushes himself away from the wall and starts pacing, his movements gaining in grace and speed, "Buffy, do you know what its like being next to you? Or walking down a crowded street? I hear hearts beating, and I want to stalk, to chase, to feed even after I’ve had my fill of animal blood, but this damned soul of mine won’t let me. It’s worse than the soddin’ chip ever was!"

"And Fred?"

"Fred discovered that dead blood, animal blood, is missing something. She cooked up this stuff - I don’t know what’s in it. All I know is: I do up, I feel better. It cuts the cravings." He stops pacing long enough to glance out the window behind the heavy drapes, "I take a hit around sundown and things go clear again even though it burns like hell. It’s what lets me be comfortable around Cordy - around anybody for that matter. It’s what keeps Angel from staking me. That and the soul." He releases the heavy fabric, crosses his arms, and looks at you; challenging you to say something, anything.

"How’s it feel now?"

Spike runs a hand over his face, briefly covering his eyes, "Everything tastes like rust. Just wish Fred’d lived long enough for me to thank her, is all." He moves the curtains again and looks out. Sundown stains his face red; he keeps licking his lips and swallowing.

"You loved Fred, didn’t you?" You try not to be jealous.

Why be jealous when what the two of us once had wasn’t love, but two drowning people dragging each other down?

"Fred was… very kind to me when I… when I came back." Spike says cautiously, "I had no-one, and she... stuck up for me in a couple of bad patches when nobody else would because I wasn't welcome." His voice thickens slightly and he turns his face from you. "Fred was what Dru could have been had I gotten to her before Angelus and Darla did – crazy as a bedbug, but not all broken inside. And I let her die. I couldn’t stop Illyria from taking over and killing her – Peaches and me, we tried, but it wasn’t enough." Spike finally looks at you, as he unrolls a pack of unfiltered Camels from his sleeve and lips one out without lighting it. "Who am I fooling? Fred loved too many already - there wasn’t any room left for me in her heart."

"Does Cordy know about Fred?"

"Our Cordy remembers Fred as somebody she met a long time ago while on the vacation from hell when she’s not mixing her up with Willow. Her memory’s getting better all the time, but I think being in a coma did something to her mind. She needs me, Buffy. Someday, when she doesn’t need me any more, it’ll be just the same as it was with Dru, with you…" Looking uncomfortable, Spike abruptly removes the cigarette from his mouth and fiddles with it before tucking it behind one ear and smoothing his bleached-out hair. "That’s the way it always is, innit? I took good care of her while Peaches sat ten floors up in his posh office at Wolfram and Hart with his head jammed up his arse with guilt. Fella’s gotta have something to do with his spare time - I got a lot of that." He laughs, just a little, before adding, "And yeah, Cordy knows about this." He gestures at the elastic band on the floor, "She’s never asked me what it’s for and I don’t feel like telling her all my dirties; not yet anyway."

I don’t like Cordelia, but she deserves to know that her knight in shining armor may be one hypo away from tearing her throat out.

"You need to tell her everything soon. You owe her at least that much."

"Sod off Buffy. I’ll tell her in my own good time, which if I can help it, is never." He picks up the case, drops in the band, and zips it shut before locking it in the bedside table drawer and pocketing the key. "Don’t want the Platelet to get into it, pure poison, it is."

"Is Angel…" You pause at the name, "Taking this stuff?"

Spike gives you one of his patented disgusted looks compounded of one part ‘I can’t believe you had to ask’ and two parts ‘Are you really this stupid?’ before replying, "Peaches won’t touch it. Rather sit in his room at the L.A. Center with the lights off listening to scratchy Manilow records when he’s not on the job. Soddin’ waste of time if you ask me. Could be out killin’ things, ah - evil things - right? Could be livin’, right? Not our Peaches, he’d rather sulk! ‘Oooooh, I gotta soul! Oooooh, I’ve done bad things! Ooooooh, I failed!’" Now Spike’s in your face and you didn’t see him cross the room. There’s a snarl and something else in his voice. "Rather let me do all the work. Rather let the world go right past him. Rather let strangers take care of our Cordy than deal with what’s outside his own door. Rather let our Sorks have another birthday and miss it so good ol’ Spikey has to do everything for him, bloody pouf!" You duck as he slams both fists into the wall on either side of the mirror that shows only you. The muscles in his arms are standing out so distinctly it looks almost as if he’s been skinned.

"Spike, stop it!"

"I told you to sod off, Buffy!" Spike snarls, but he pulls his fists out of the shattered lathe and plaster and jams his bleeding hands into his back pockets.

There’s a knock on the door, "Is everything all right in there?"

"Knocked over the bedside lamp, Giles." You call back trying not to cough on the cloud of plaster dust that’s now drifting around the two of you.

"Of course." Giles isn’t buying, but he’s polite about it. "Cordelia wishes to know if she and Spike may join us this evening when we go out to purchase Sorcha’s new birthday dress and have dinner afterwards."

Dress? What dress? Oh God, I forgot, the dress!

Yesterday Giles promised Sorcha a new dress to wear to her birthday party if she didn’t pick any fights with the other little girls at the London Center preschool for one whole day. Surprisingly, Sorcha didn’t so much as yank another pigtail or call anybody a "poopy head" while biting them today; probably because Faith’s been out all week on assignment in the Ukraine.

I am so not up to this: an ex-non best friend and an ex boyfriend plus a sugared-up two year old because Spike’s been feeding her jelly babies all afternoon after pre-school behind my back and denying it, crammed into Giles’ itty-bitty Mini in London traffic with Giles telling me how to drive on top of it all - never mind that I finally got my license after three tries and a fender bender involving a phone booth and a sheep? No. Way. In. Hell.

"Giles," you say, "I’m not done getting the house ready for tomorrow’s party. You guys go on. Have a good time."

"We will be leaving in half an hour should you change your mind, Buffy."

Spike lets out a derisive snigger while sucking on one of his bloodied knuckles. You grab his wrist and pull his hand away from his mouth, "Don’t do that, it’s gross!"

"No worse than a lollie for the likes of me." Spike’s calmed down. There’s a rare humorous glint in his eyes and his hair’s starting to stick out in all directions; he’s ready to play nice.

Maybe.

"So you won’t be coming then?" he adds innocently with one eyebrow quirked.

"I wouldn’t. Not even if you offered to set me on fire for free."

---

If someone had told you back in High School that one day you’d be helping wedge the Queen of Mean into the loo of a London curry palace so small that they had to move three tables just to get her wheelchair in the front door, you would have laughed in their face.

I only got the job because this is the one place she won’t let Spike help her. "Sweetie, cool it. Some things a girl just has to do on her own. Buffy, follow me." Grrrr, Cordy hasn’t changed one bit!

After supporting Cordy across the restaurant floor, into the loo, and onto the toidy crammed in the tiny facility you close the door, turn your back and try fix your makeup in the tiny mirror over the dribbly fauceted sink because when you tried to leave, Cordelia panicked, afraid to be left alone even in the loo. So, while Cordy fusses with her skirt, you find yourself remembering the rare times you and Willow slipped out of the library to try on new shades of lip-gloss when you should have been studying demony stuff. Willow was predictably reluctant, but you could always talk her into it. Sometimes Cordy and her pack would intrude and the two of you would shut up, standing off to one side, ready to snipe back, an inevitability that left you feeling victorious whenever you managed to outbitch Queen C.

Now Bitcherella thinks you’re her best friend and not Harmony. You could use your real best friend for moral support right now, but Willow’s busy setting up housekeeping with Xander out in the English countryside in some decrepit old farmhouse that should keep his inner contractor deliriously happy for at least a decade. You’d like to call them to let them know that Cordelia’s arrived, but the last thing you need this evening is Xander exploding at the sight of Spike pushing Cordy around in a wheelchair and picking up after her. You’ll deal with it tomorrow when they come to help you and Giles celebrate Sorcha’s birthday party along with Faith, if she gets back in time, and the two little girls from the Slayer center preschool that are Sorcha’s current best friends.

Even if you had invited them to join you tonight, Cordy isn’t interested in anything that happened to anybody after she left Sunnydale for L.A. She tries to concentrate when you tell her about Dawn and Glory or The First; but she can’t focus for long. Maybe Spike was right, the coma did do something to her mind.

But then again, since when did Cordelia ever pay attention to anything that didn’t pertain to Cordelia?

As far as Cordy’s concerned, Sorcha’s her niece, the two of you are half sisters from her dad’s first marriage and that you both used to spend your summers together on Catalina Island or something. Angel’s an old boyfriend of yours, nice but too broody for words, that she once did part-time secretarial work for while waiting for her big break in Hollywood. Wes is just some guy. Connor who? Dawnie ditto, when she isn’t the annoying little stepsister getting into her makeup! Giles is still the high school librarian that she owes a big fat fine to. Xander’s still on her mind but in a good way; she can’t wait to see him, and how about that wacky Willow? Real brainiac, but a dead loss in the clothing department…

"What about your boyfriend?"

"I don’t have a honey."

"Yes you do," you say as you touch up your mascara, "What about the weirdo with the peroxide fixation that won’t go away?"

"Oh, William?

Huh??? Warn me next time Queen C, I nearly put my eye out with the brush!

"He’s just some hottie I met in the hospital. He says he used to go out with you until you dumped him. Boy, were you dumb, he’s great! We’re just good friends - I think he’s gay. Maybe he was just trying you on for size to see what he was missing and he dumped you because it wasn’t worth the switch? I mean, hello! He’s a guy and he knows how to dress himself without his mother’s help."

If only Spike, I mean William, could hear us now… "Do you know what he is?"

"Vampire, all bitey fangy grrrr, no reflections. But he’s got a soul and all that – if you ask me, he’s way more fun than that Angel guy. Good thing you dumped that loser. I mean, a real hottie to look at but MAJOR BORING NO-FUN BROODFEST HERE!"

She barely remembers the last five years of her life but she can accept vampires like she would a copy of Vogue magazine on her coffee table. Oh God, what did that Jasmine-chick do to her?

"How do you know he’s gay?"

"Who?"

"Your slave, you know, short, pale and gruesome!" You start combing your hair.

"He’s not my boyfriend. God knows I’ve been sending out signals but he just ain’t receivin’. "

I don’t believe you. Spike with a female body, living or dead under the age of thirty in the same room? Not only that but one unable to flee at the first sign of danger?

"Then," you ask casually, "What the schnikes was all that rumpity-bumpity, soft music and smell of pretty candles coming out of the guest room about last night? Thanks to you two sex-bunnies I had to field a lot of embarrassing questions from Sorcha who wanted to know, ‘Why Aunt Cordy cryin’ like dat?’ and ‘Where Unca Spi? He pwomise he read!’"

Long silence from Cordelia.

Long, long silence from Cordelia.

"Physical therapy." She finally replies in a very small, quiet voice. "It hurts. It hurts a lot. The candles and the music help me pretend that I’m at some expensive spa, and not.. and not... and not s-s-s-some…" Cordelia makes a loud, gulping noise.

You turn around, banging knees with your guest thanks to the cramped space of the loo. Big fat tears are silently rolling down either side of her nose in a lava trail of molten eyeliner. You can’t help but stare.

Jeepers! I didn’t think Cordy could "do" tears.

"Why didn’t they just let me die? Sometimes I think I’m being punished for doing something bad, but I don’t remember what it was. It’s not fair." Her voice is steady, level, like she’s discussing the latest Spiegel catalog. "I have a huge ugly scar on my tummy from the feeding tube they shoved into me so I’ll never wear a bikini again even if I could afford cosmetic surgery and one leg’s shorter than the other and that foot turns in - I can’t even walk across the room by myself without falling over." Cordy drops her head and starts to sob with her panties around her ankles and her royal blue cashmere skirt rucked up around her now emaciated hips, beautifully manicured hands dangling limply at her sides. "I know daddy’s in prison for not paying his taxes, and so is mom, but what about grandma and grandpa? Not even a letter, or a get-well card or a bouquet? They’re ashamed of me because I’m hideous!"

Cordy starts falling over sideways and you catch her, your comb clattering to the cracked linoleum. She quavers as you try to steady her, "The nurses say out of my whole family only you came to see me. So did that Angel guy when he could, but he’s not family so he doesn’t count. William isn’t family, I have no idea who he is, but he came every day and helped them take care of me… If it hadn’t been for him massaging and stretching my legs every day for hours after the physical therapist finished for the day, I’d look like a croquet hoop!"

The Nastiest Girl in Sunnydale is now clinging to you, face buried in your blouse and you’re getting a cramp in your legs from kneeling there next to the stool. "He did my nails and my hair, he kept me pretty. He even tried to hide how bad I smelled, and I don’t remember who he is. He tells me that we met a long time ago. Wouldn’t I have remembered someone that kind?"

Oh wow, she really is crazy.

Cordy goes on, "William is so considerate, he takes care of everything. He takes me for walks at night and I feel safe with him. What can you tell me about him? Do you know what he likes? Why doesn’t he like me in that way if he’s not gay? It’s only because he feels sorry for me – who’d want someone who looks like me? Why did you break up with such a great guy?"

You start to say, "Because we were eating each other alive, that’s why." But before you can, Cordy’s already off and rambling again as if you’re not even there.

How did mom do it? How did she put up with the hysterics of Dawn and me and stay sane?

"William even sneaks me into the therapy Jacuzzi at night so I don’t have people staring at me. The water feels good, but I look at myself in the mirror, wearing that dowdy old one-piece, and I know why he isn’t taking my hints. Daddy was right, nobody wants an ugly girl. I’m sorry daddy, I didn’t mean to disappoint you!" Cordy starts crying even harder.

Oh God!

Cordelia’s last statement hits you in the pit of the stomach like a fist, mercifully distracting you from the disturbing image of Spike in a Speedo, probably a black one.

How could anybody be so… so… So damned mean? Dad was never like that. When he still loved us, when we were little, when I cut my hair with mom’s pinking shears or that time on vacation when Dawnie got poison ivy on her face so bad she had to go to the doctor he never said anything like that, he just took me to the salon before mom got home from visiting Aunt Jennie in Wisconsin and poured calamine lotion on Dawnie. He called me his "Pinking Shear Princess" and Dawn the "Sultana of Scratch" which made her laugh, and left it at that.

You can almost forgive Cordy imperiously dragging everyone from Harrods’s to Harvey Nichols’ and back until the "right" dress was found for Sorcha. The whole thing pissed you off so much that you nearly grabbed your niece and took a cab home; the dresses you thought were appropriate, the little matching shoes, hats and purses – every last one just got pointedly disdainful looks from Cordy while Giles and Spike fidgeted in the background before fleeing to the nearest pub to avoid getting caught up in the estrogen fireworks. Now you know why and it pisses you off even more.

"I’m sorry daddy, I didn’t mean to get ugly…"

Someone knocks on the door.

Thank God.

"Oy, you two all right in there or should I send in a rescue party?"

You glance at your watch. It’s been almost half an hour.

Cordy takes a deep breath and says levelly as her makeup slides down her face, "Just girl talk, William."

"Right." Spike pauses before adding, "Can you two bloody well heart to heart someplace else? Platelet’s about to burst and I don’t want to clean up the mess."

"Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz! Wanna wazz!" Sorcha yells as she drums on the door in time to her demands. Giles must be having a cow right about now from embarrassment. Thank God the youngest of the owner’s six daughters is a Slayer-in-Training and coming to Sorcha’s birthday party tomorrow or he would have banned you last year.

"That’s enough O+. Let’s give the nice ladies ten more minutes - then we kick the door down, right? I’ll let you get in the first kick if you sit still and stop flicking peas at the waiter. You can flick all the peas you like at Giles though; I’ll give you mine." Spike’s voice trails off with distance as he drags your niece away from the door.

Cordy pulls herself together as if none of the last half hour has happened. She leans against the sink while she repairs her face, which forces you to stand on the toidy. You watch her reflection in the mirror, thinking. Finally you come to a decision.

If it works, they’ll keep each other out of my hair. And if things go bad, oh God, ugh! I’ll be in the next room and close enough to break things up. I am such a bitch!

Feeling evil, you say casually while teetering on the seat in your good heels, "Tonight, while Spike, I mean William’s working on your legs? Bite his ear. Hard."

---

After putting Sorcha to bed and reading to her for nearly an hour, you lie in the dark trying not to listen to what’s going on in the guest bedroom that shares a wall with yours after Spike carried Cordy upstairs and closed the door behind them as usual.

It starts out with the usual moans and the occasional yelp followed by a soothing murmur.

That’s therapy. It has to be.

This goes on for a while until you hear without warning a loud, "Ow, hey!"

The moaning stops.

Soon you hear the rhythmic bouncing of old-fashioned bedsprings.

You turn on the bedside radio and wrap your pillow around your head. No luck.

Eventually the slow smell of cigarette smoke ghosts into your room.

Feeling more than a little ambivalent about the whole thing, you doze off.