FIVE

Stalking along the sewer conduit considerately prepared for vampires who needed to get crosstown at inconvenient hours, Spike performed furious dialogues in his head and sometimes aloud. He hurt about 30% of what he had, but that was nothing, that just fed into the blazing frustration.

"What do you want from me, woman?" he demanded of the Buffy in his mind, waving both arms. "You agreed: got to start over, different. That other, that was no good for anybody. So what do you goddam expect-I'm gonna hammer you into the fucking floor, when I-"

He hauled off and punched the wall a few times, which broke some knuckles and bloodied his hand, and whatthehell difference did it make, turn himself inside out, do anything except the one thing she required of him-to strike out at her, full-force.

Which he would never do. No matter what hung by it. Never once, made him dizzysick even to think about it. No, no, no, not gonna do that anymore, and you agreed to it, you damn stupid bint! It's all one thing, can't take the part you want and the rest ain't there too, you want the water except you don't want it wet? Have a clue, at least pretend you got the least scrap of a goddam clue. Let me fucking be, let me take the idiot children out for fucking strolls in the park, let me be what I'm for, don't-

He spun and flung himself to a seat on the walkway that edged the channel, wrists tight against his ears, fingers locked across the back of his head, rocking and breathing himself toward something closer to calm.

"She doesn't want you," he heard his own voice say, and there he was, like a skewed mirror because what he saw was all complete: hair short, curly, and silver, fucking eyeliner he hadn't used since he'd had Dru to put it on for him, sleeveless vest; careless, indifferent, amused, leaning at ease on the far side of the channel. The damn duster, the bloody New York Slayer's trophy, hanging off his shoulders like black wings.

So that was how he'd looked. Not bad.

"Right face," he snarled in reply, "wrong version." He shoved himself up and continued down the edge of the channel.

"What in hell," said his voice, from behind, "does a Slayer need with a vampire?"

Suddenly the image was before him again, standing in slow-flowing shallow water that wasn't deflected around the boots. "A doorstop? A nanny? You're no use to her," his not-self commented. "You're no bloody use to anybody. Why-"

"Get stuffed." Spike set his shoulders and walked directly through the phantom, that scattered and dispersed the second he touched it.

That was when he caught the sound of solid feet, running. Sometimes in water, sometimes on cement. Not close yet but converging on him from two sides: pipes he could see intersecting up ahead. If they were more of those goddam Turok-Han, he was cooked. Not so much as a knife on him.

Glancing over his shoulder, he started back the way he'd come, where he knew there was a grate. It was still light out, but if he circled wide-

What burst into the central channel were two pairs of raggedy vamps, one set from each side, gaping around them like the idiots they were to see where he'd gone. All in game face. Spike laid the notebook safely on the ledge. Then he turned on his heel, stuck his hands in his pockets, and grinned, strolling back toward them.

"Well, you're up early," he commented cordially. "Missed your beauty sleep, looks like. Hope you got paid in advance for this because I don't fancy your chances of collecting afterward."

The smaller one on the right said something to his partner. Then they all rushed him: all together, down a channel that would only allow two abreast. Idiot fledges. One stumbled against the walkway, and the one next nearest shoved Stumbles at being bumped, and before they'd invented any more entertaining antics, Spike sprang onto the walkway and twisted Stumbles' head off. That put him in good shape to drop down, light, and punch his bladed hand through Shove's ribcage and pull the heart straight out while Stumbles was still dusting, an image momentarily hanging on the air. Spike hurled the heart splat into the gaping face of the closest of the two that remained, which left that moron pawing at the thick blood in his eyes. Spike turned, dropped onto his hands, and kicked both boots sideways into the neck of the other one. The head came right off with some mess at the chinline there for a second. When the last vamp got his vision cleared, Spike was sitting at on the edge of the walkway, hands neatly folded on his knees, except for the blood of course.

Spike let his demon surface, to give his smile that certain something that said no problem, they were all demons here. Vision sharpened, and he could have heard a rat fart a mile off. It felt good all down his arms, and the pain in his hand faded so he could shake the bones back in place with just a quick a flick of the wrist. The stink was something amazing, but the moron fledge and grooming had obviously not been introduced and it wouldn't be a problem for long.

"Now, then," Spike said. "How about we talk, or would you sooner fight first? 'Cause if that's how you want it, I'll oblige you, but then we'd miss the chat. Your call, mate. I'm agreeable either way."

 

When Spike returned to the house, the streetlights were just coming on. He circled to the back door and went in that way, to make less of a noise of himself. Didn't see anybody abroad, which gave him a clear shot at the shower. Children might be upset by him wearing demon guts and liberally coated with blood that tasted even more rancid than pig blood.

Pity vamps couldn't feed on each other. Well, they could, but there was no substance to it. Sort of like blooming onions, except for the taste. And the texture. And the lack anything remotely edible.

Catch it fresh enough, though, from one who'd just fed-second-hand, so to speak-not too bad. Except for the taste. No improving that.

He didn't like the bathroom. Kept clear of it mostly. But his good mood of the morning had revived, and once the room was full of steam, it wasn't too bad. Done was done, and they both knew the truth of it, so let it be; let it rest.

Shaking water out of his hair, he thought vaguely about getting it cut. Bet the pup knew how to do that, had that look about him. No need to advertise he'd just come off six weeks of...well, neglect was one word.

Didn't want to scandalize a houseful of little birds, so he wrapped up decently in the biggest towel he could find, then ducked down to the basement and got himself changed. When he climbed back up, Buffy's voice was coming from the front room, and Dawn was hanging about just outside in the hall.

Joining her, still toweling his hair, he asked softly, "So what's this, then?"

"You left your disgusting clothes in the bathroom, you know," she hissed back.

Well, there was always something, he thought.

"So I knew you were back."

"Thought you'd got rid of me, did you? Sorry to disappoint."

Dawn managed to seem as though she was looking down at him. He checked her feet, but no: it was just something she did with her head. "Are you drunk again?"

"Nicely warm, is all. Just nicely warm. So what's this, then?" He gestured at the front room, packed with the Slayers In Training and the Scoobies, the former mostly sitting on the floor or the couch, the latter scattered around the wall where it was harder to escape, since there was only the one door. Spotting Anya, he nodded to her. Her hair was auburn at the moment, so for a second, until she turned her head, he'd taken her for Willow. Anya smiled and nodded enthusiastically back, then flashed solemn and darted her eyes around to check whether Harris had noticed her being in danger of fraternizing. The whelp was being adequately entertained by his third or fourth beer and disapproving of the woodwork. Well, he should know. There was the witch not far off, but still inside the room. Red made a hands-opening gesture like a book and nodded brightly to say she'd gotten his books, and he signaled appreciation.

It was a mercy she so far was keeping out of his head. He'd never liked it and had more company in there than he really wanted anyway. Didn't need the witch poking around besides.

Dawn leaned against him to whisper, "It's Friday."

"And...?"

"The Briefing."

"Oh. Right."

The longer he watched, the more he wondered what it was in aid of. Nobody was listening except one of the rounder and more earnest of the SITs and the tallish lanky homely one: Amanda. Everybody else looked as if they'd sooner be in hell, but didn't dare let Buffy catch them slipping out to go there.

And as he listened, he was further puzzled: if this was supposed to raise morale, all rah rah and Slayers United, he'd seen it done better at funerals.

"She's terrible," Dawn confided.

"Needs practice, maybe."

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Every night? Please!"

"Well, there's that. Anything doing, pet? Any news for me?"

Dawn jabbed her pointy little elbow into his ribs and he realized Buffy was staring at them, at him in particular, and looked not at all pleased. He thought about being annoying, it wasn't as if didn't know how, but then again he seemed to be doing that nicely without trying and so might as well leave it. Contented himself with admiring her ferocity. Wasn't altogether sure what she was being fierce about, but at least she didn't seem to be enjoying it too much, which was probably for the best.

Would've been nice to have had her down in the sewer with him, and the two demon bars afterward he'd decided to look in on, since he was out and trolling for information and all, but she probably wouldn't have enjoyed it and the Slayer's presence did have a dampening effect on conversation. And his Slayer was, truth to tell, a mean drunk. Took some people that way. So best that he'd kept his visits solo.

Some other night, maybe. Go to the Bronze, shoot some pool, that'd be nice. Dancing, maybe.

"Yeah," Dawn whispered when Buffy was safely turned away. "Some. Later. If..."

He found her looking at him like he was the pup.

Didn't take much thought to figure what she'd choked up on. "No, seems not. Didn't pass muster, quite."

"But you're OK?"

"Except for being dead, yeah...."

She gave him the elbow again. Little bit of a thing, he...didn't want to think about things he'd done to girls about the same size and shape as her. Done was done. Had nothing to do with him and the Bit. He set a hand on her shoulder and she kicked his ankle but let the hand stay, which was probably progress.

That was when he decided to patrol on his own after everything settled down.

The night was young.