Deliciousness was always high on Clem’s agenda. He was a demon, sure, but an affable one. Entirely non-threatening, and besides, he liked pretty things – why destroy them? Deliciousness, you understand, is both the visual and the tactile. All-sensory delicious was Clem’s favorite: smell, sight, taste, touch, sound, he was quite pleased – even moved – by it all.
Though, of course, certain special things grabbed the attention of the amicable floppy-eared demon.
- Board Games.
But mostly Spike. They were chums, Spike and Clem, a couple of guys just bonding. Spike was pleasant, in his I’m-still-bad-no-really-watch-I-even-cheat-at-poker way. A little vulnerable, now that he was all chipped up.
Cheekbones and cigarette smoke and moonlight and beer and icy eyes. Spike had a hardness; a cold-edged rigidity that Clem thought complemented his own softer, blurred lines of composition.
Spike was jonesing big time for Buffy, that sweet little slip of a thing, a nice girl, and a Slayer to boot. Pushed Clem into the background a bit when she came around. It hurt Clem a little more than he’d admit, but he couldn’t really blame Spike. Buffy was certainly a Pretty Thing, and generous as well – didn’t ever try to kill ol’ Clem, nope, not Buffy, despite their obvious ideological differences. (Demon hunter, demon. Quite the difference.)
No, Clem didn’t blame Spike at all.
And, even though Clem was pretty sure he didn’t want Spike to make a robot-Clem and get all moony with it, or go beat him up for attention all those times, just once he’d like to be the thing behind that quiet, faraway look he sometimes got in his eyes when he was thinking of Buffy or Dru.