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Fools Are My Theme
Shrift

Harmony's makeup always left orange stains on the sodding pillow cases.

Out of all the reasons he hated her -- and those reasons were legion -- that was the one that annoyed him the most.

That, and her habit of destroying all his bloody Sex Pistols CDs whenever she felt like her Blondie Bear didnít love her enough.

The silly bint never seemed to realize that her Blondie Bear didn't love her at all.

In fact, love's bitch was taking a vacation from love. An extended vacation into hatred, humiliation and bad blood. Harmony was useful, in her own vapid way, and he could easily soothe her with pretty lies and the knowing press of his hands.

Drusilla had never tolerated lies from him. Not real ones.

Then again, he'd never had to lie to Dru about loving her forever.

He could hear Harmony coming down the passageway, her ridiculous platform heels clacking like a coked-up queen on cobblestones.

Neither stealth nor subtlety were Harmís forte, but this was simply ridiculous.

Harmony bounced into the room, finally blocking his armchair view of the stained pillow case when she flung herself, belly-down, onto their bed.

Spike hated bouncy vampires. It just wasn't done.

He didnít look up from his collection of Byronís essays when Harm started talking, his attention stirring sluggishly like old marmalade as he sensed more inanity spilling forth from her mouth than usual.

"And Dravon goes, 'You're positively glowing, Harmony,' and so I go, 'You're so sweet! and he goes, 'What kind of skin care regimen do you use?' and I go, 'I'm dead, silly!'" Harmony abruptly turned over and got to her knees, her hands rubbing a circle over her spandex-covered abdomen. "You donít think I could be pregnant, do you? They always say pregnant women have this glow."

"I suppose that's up to God and EPT, Harm," he said.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth hung open, manicured hands pressed against her flat tummy. Her top was hot pink. "Spikey?"

Her soft pink nails would never slit the throat of a Slayer. Idly, he wondered where she found a manicurist open after sunset in Sunnydale.

He snapped shut the book, disturbing dust motes that twisted on air until they left the circle of candle light surrounding his chair. "Fools are my theme, let satire be my song."

Harmony responded with a resounding, "Huh?"

Spike closed his eyes, black fingernails digging into the leather cover of his book. Ruining a first edition. "You can't get pregnant, Harmony," he said. "Not physically possible, and all that rot."

I hate you, he wanted to say. You're beneath me. I hate you.

Harmony tilted her head and smiled. "Oh," she said. "Okay."

**Lord Byron, "Fools are my theme..."

Harmony. Glowing. Pillow.

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