Buffy the Vampire Slayer Preferences + imagines/one shots

Spike Imagine - Job

"Got a lighter?"

I shake my head.

He huffs, inching closer to where the shadow meets sunlight. He sticks his finger over the threshold, his finger catching alight almost instantly. He retracts his hand and uses the fire at his fingertip to light his cigarette, before shaking the flame until it extinguishes. He doesn't so much as flinch.

He shrugs his shoulder and says, "Well. What was it you wanted?"

It's hot for spring, the sky bright and cloudless despite it being late afternoon. Nice for me, lethal for Spike. Maybe that's why he's in a grumpy mood. I don't acknowledge it though and tell him why I'm here. 

"I was just checking if you'll still walk me home after my shift. Last week you said you might be busy...?"

He takes a puff of the cigarette and shrugs. "Yeah, I'll be there."

I give him a half smile. "Cool."

Spike usually walks me back after my shift. I finish late and it's dark out when I leave - not ideal when you live on a Hellmouth. It makes me feel a lot safer but I do sometimes feel like it's a burden for Spike. That he only does it to keep himself in Buffy's good books.

He doesn't seem like he's in a chatty mood so I turn on my heel and head home.

-----------------

The restaurant I work in is a nice Italian place in the town centre with reasonably priced food. It's always busy so I'm always working hard. It's large with an upstairs and downstairs, a bar stocked full of more drinks than I can name and napkins that look like little swans (I make the best looking ones).

It's not too bad. I'd rather work here than at The Doublemeat Palace... 

That's why it catches me off guard how fast this evening goes downhill.

First, the other three waitstaff call in sick (which is a sick joke), leaving just me and the manager to do everything. The fact that I'm wearing cute new shoes also bites me in the ass because I start to feel the painful sting of blisters about an hour in. 

It's manageable at first, with three or four tables, but when it gets to the busiest time - and all the tables start to fill - it's horrible.

"Can you turn the AC off?"

"Can you make my napkin into a swan again?"

"Can you turn the AC on?"

"I don't like this radio station."

"My steak is underdone/overdone/too salty/not salty enough."

"Can you turn the AC off?"

I feel myself slowly losing my mind. The kid tapping me on the leg and asking where their pizza is for the sixth time does speed up the process though. So does the drunk guy slapping my butt when I serve him his carbonara. 

I'm out of my depth. I'm aware some people have got to endure worse than this just to pay the rent, but the words I do not get paid enough for this shit still ring in my head. A shitty minimum wage job is a shitty minimum wage job and I'm really feeling it tonight. But I need this job if I want to continue to be able to feed myself proper food and not just Kraft Dinner every night (even if I love mac and cheese). 

I try to keep myself calm with sips of water and deep breaths. When I skid on a spilt drink: deep breath. When I trap my finger in the door to the kitchen: deep breath. When I drop a bowl of salad on the floor: major deep breath. 

It's not enough. Apparently when I'm overwhelmed, my tear ducts activate. Amazing!

I escape just in time to the bins outside, a bag full of food waste in my hand which smells delightful and not at all like a swamp. I chuck it in the dumpster and lean back against the wall. The night air is cool on my sweaty skin but my tears taste warm and salty.  I still feel too hot and my heart drums under my button up shirt.