TITLE: Dear Graham
AUTHOR: Ragna (writinggoddess@aol.com)
RATING: FRM for language & violence.
CLASSIFICATION: Spike/Willow, Angel/Willow, Spike/Buffy
SUMMARY: Spike finds a half-written letter he was never supposed to read...
SPOILERS: My own damn universe says there's no real place in the canon for this, so I guess it spoils season 4 of BtVS and maybe season 5 of A:tS, but with no real specifics for either.
DISTRIBUTION: Any sites with my fic up; you all have unspoken permission. I write it, you can post it. Everyone else just keep my name on it and let me know.
DISCLAIMER: If you don't recognize it, chances are it's my own creation. If you do, I don't own it. Joss Whedon, Kazui Sandollar, The WB, UPN, et. al. most likely do.
FEEDBACK: Please send it offlist and let me know it's feedback; I do rapid delete on my account due to a lot of spam.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Went to Challenge In A Can and got "Graham," "furious" and "letter." I don't know why I wrote this, honestly; I wasn't even this mad at my boyfriend who cheated on me...
***
I should have seen the signs. You had to go somewhere to get comfort. Maybe this would have been easier if it was Giles. Or even Xander...he's had a thing for you for a while, any blind man can tell.
My hands are still shaking, I'm that furious. I hate you. I can actually say I hate you. Of course, saying I hate you for being with him makes me a hypocrite, but I don't care. We'll get to the hows and whys later.
I fucking hate you.
I found a letter. If I'd never found the letter, I never would have known. I had no clue you'd been friendly with one of the Initiative blokes and had been writing him since they all packed up and left town.
Graham. Wonder if I should go to wherever the hell he is and demand to know everything you've told him. I'd hold him up by his throat, maybe a foot off the ground, and bash his head into a bloody brick wall until he tells me.
Or I'd do something else, maybe something with spikes since I'm so bloody well known for using them. Ram them into his forarms and pin them to a tree, just like a butterfly in a display case.
Who knows? Maybe I will do it.
My sire. My bloody, fucking sire. Doesn't matter that I hate him with all the passion I can muster, you had to go fuck him the last time you were in Los Angeles. You'd been to Los Angeles a lot. Should have guessed it wasn't to help Wesley with some fucking spells.
Maybe you fucked him every time you went. Don't know. Don't care.
Damn you to hell. He can have you, after I teach you both a right lesson or two. I don't know what I'll do to you, but him...wonder if you can castrate a vampire and watch them pass out from blood loss, since Lord knows they won't die. At least that way, you'd have no fun.
"Dear Graham," your letter went. "I went to Los Angeles again. I saw him again. And...well, you can guess what else we did again. Cordelia almost caught us this time...we thought we'd have his room to ourselves, the whole place, actually, since it's a law firm and it was a Sunday. I hope Spike never finds out...he'd kill me."
No, Red, killing you would let you off easy.
I'd rather fucking torture you.
But you know what? Doesn't matter. No matter how mad I get, I got something better. Lord knows what she'd say if she heard me refer to her as "Angel's dream," but that's what she was. She was until you went to Los Angeles.
Buffy's in my life now. Won't let her out of it, either, not until she wants to go. I know she won't pull the shit that you did, not to me. There's something more here...
Something pure.
So, Red, you can show this to him. Show this to Buffy as well, for all I care. You think my homicidal tendencies were bad? You should hear what Buffy'd had planned. I'd get the fuck out of Sunnyhell if I were you, because this little tryst of yours pissed off two very dangerous people, and we're on the same side now.
And it isn't yours.
Cheers, you fucking bitch.