Rating: A PG-13 for now, but that'll change to an R later for adult content (ooooh…naughty stuff)…

Part: (1/3)

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns all here. I'm simply playing out a few of my perverse fantasies with his characters, cause I'm single right now and so very, very lonely…*sobs quietly*.

Summary:{set within 'Chosen'} What really happened between Spike and Buffy in the basement the night before the big final battle? Joss left it wide open to our imaginations, and I'm filling in the blanks.

Distribution: Want. Take. Have. Just tell me where it's going (I like to keep up with my babies). Oh and what's this…Dee actually has her own website now?! She sure does. Still under construction but check out what's there if you're interested and don't forget to give praise to the wonderful, amazing Nikita, who put it all together.


Andrew wants him to be an elf.

"If you cross classes with a – a druid, you can call upon the forces of the Earth. Like, um, control wind and water, and – and animals…"

He stares at him for a second, hating the way his little scrunched up face is shadowed by that stupid cape. He's mocking him. Probably picturing what he would look like with the pointy elf ears and the peroxide hair…

Spike pulls a face, turning to Xander,

"What are you?"

He's busily filling in the remaining boxes on his character sheet. Doesn't bother to look up at him and squints, focusing his good eye, and tilts the sheet towards the candlelight. Stupid candles,

"A human/sorcerer, baby." Xander looks up, smirking at Giles. "Fully prepared to make your dwarf…" he pauses, brow knit, searching for the right word, "dwarfier?" he frowns.

"I want to be one of those."

He's doing it again, scrunching up his face. Andrew seems to do that every time you don't understand a Star Wars reference or if you can't name at least one Dr. Who episode title. It was some geek superiority twitch the boy had…

Spike hates it.

"Spike, Spike, Spike…" he sighs, flipping his cape. Wanker. "A sorcerer isn't a good character for a beginner to start out with," he laughs and shakes his head. "Plus, two human sorcerers. You would have all the same spells…" Andrew mumbles, still chuckling to himself. "So naïve…"

Fuck it.

He doesn't want to sit around with Giles, Xander, 'Red Riding Hood', and…what's her name again? She smiles at him while she attempts to explain the importance of elfin druids, and how they really aren't "lame" (her words), but he can't remember which one of the Potentials she is.

There were so many of those little girls running around the house, that they all began to blur to him. Never knew any names, except for a few of the earlier arrivals. They were reduced to being recognized as 'The One who only eats Tatertots', or 'The one who's always asking him for tampons'. Never actual names, Spike only knew them by their quirks or appearances:

'The One with the acne problem.'

'The One who leaves her toenail clippings on the carpet.'

'The Asian One, who won't let Giles anywhere near her',

And 'The Tall, Gangly, Homely One', who was trying damn hard to sell him on the idea of being an elf. He sighs and gives her a polite smile and nods his head in appreciation,

"I won't be a sodding elf," he says.

Spike carefully steps over the bodies of the girls whose names he can't remember as he makes his way to the basement. The house is so cramped, and crowded. No wonder he spends most of his time downstairs; it's the only place where he can have peace of mind and not be asked to buy products associated with the feminine hygiene isle in the grocery.

Most of the girls are tossing and turning, lots of sighing, and a few are actually sitting up…

They're restless. Terrified, more than likely.

And who can blame them? He pauses at the door, his hand resting on the knob as he watches them. A flock of sheep getting ready to charge into the wolf's den; Spike opens the door before he can finish the rest of that thought. Didn't want to think of these girls as just cannon fodder, not even the one he caught using his duster as a 'towel' on laundry day.

The basement smells like stale cigarette smoke and Tide.

Spike's nose turns up briefly. He shrugs. The cigarette smell actually makes him want one. He removes the box from underneath his pillow and lights one up, inhaling deeply. They don't make cigarettes like they use to. People became ponces, all concerned with their health. Stick a filter on the end of this, get the Surgeon General to say a few words of discouragement, maybe smack a big picture of the blackest lung they could find on the side of a pack, and bam! Every smoker is a leper and every cigarette is a watered down version of what it use to be long ago…

But it'll suffice.

He takes another long drag and pulls the pendant from his pocket.

Meant for a Champion, meant for someone not currently Angel…

His gaze turns to the punching bag and the perfect rendition of Peaches he tacked up there, and he grins,

"Not so cool with your soul and your hair gel now, are you? You're not the only game in town anymore, mate. Looks like someone fancies me a 'helper of the helpless' too. Defender of puppies and grandma's…"

He frowns suddenly.

How exactly is he supposed to be these things?

The White Knight routine was Angel's gig; the tortured man battling, his demon, trying to make amends was his job description. Maybe something got lost in the translation; Angel misunderstood and gave Buffy the pendant when he was supposed to keep it for himself. Or maybe Angel just gave it to her for shits and giggles, not really thinking she would be daft enough to give it to the likes of him.

His eyes narrow and he stands. The cigarette, which is burned down to the filter, is gripped between his thumb and forefinger,

and Spike glowers before putting the butt out in the middle of 'Angel's' forehead.


He dangles the bauble before his eyes, studying it as he settles back against the wall. He was never meant to be a Champion. This was all some cosmic joke, a couple of Gods, or Powers, or whatever, all strutting around in their Birkenstocks, on their puffy white clouds, laughing their asses off at him. He wasn't even capable of being great when he was alive. Always the simpering mama's boy, the one who couldn't pay attention in class, and later the sensitive fellow who would gladly hand over his purse to any robber if said robber would refrain from doing him any bodily harm…

What part of that screams Champion?

All of the disgusting things he did as a vampire. He can feel it, all of that blood on his hands like a stain that won't come out, but he isn't truly sorry. Can't take anything back, what's the point of repenting. It's always there; he's branded…

The men he slaughtered, the women and little girls he…

And Buffy…

There's your big hero.

He sighs, the sound of boots clunking down the wooden stairs grabs his attention and Spike climbs to his feet.