Sitting in a Tree
It had to be the morning after, because Spike couldn't remember how he got this pounding headache. It had something to do with buildings falling over, and dragons from hell, and everything smelled like spilled blood being warmed by the early morning sunlight.
Sunlight currently pouring over his face and adding to the pounding in his head.
Sunlight. There was something about sunlight...
"Shit!" Spike cursed and flung himself backwards onto something soft and squishy and stinking of rotten fish. However, it was no closer to shade than his previous resting spot. The adrenaline got the old brain cells knocking together, and Spike realised he was not burning up.
He was also pretty sure he hadn't gone into this fight wearing Dockers. And that hair falling into his eyes wasn't his shade of blonde.
"What the bloody hell?" he said, but it wasn't his voice. And a minute later, he felt his jaw move.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Spike."
"That's nice. What are you doing in my body?" Connor asked.
"Being very, very confused," Spike said, getting up and surveying the carnage. Bodies were stacked carelessly against each other, out of the roadway. "Looks like sanitation's already began cleaning up."
"Did we win?" Connor said.
"Dunno." Spike popped the cover off of a manhole and sat down on the edge. And sat. And sat some more.
"Mind if I drive?" Spike said.
Connor wrinkled his nose. "We're not going in there!"
Spike rolled his-- their eyes, and pushed off from the edge of the manhole. Connor fought him for control of their body, and they landed face-first in a puddle of raw sewage and demon blood. Spike pushed them to their feet, and as Connor wiped the muck from their face, said, "This better not be permanent."
They snuck into a seedy bar and discovered that, once again, they'd managed to save the world. And that Connor's fake ID wasn't up to snuff. A few days of scouting and some judicious bribery in the demon community turned up no trace of any of the others.
And no clue on how this timeshare came about. Until later that night, when they were walking down some random street. They were doing their best to dodge the homeless people and the prostitutes while keeping their thoughts to themselves.
A woman bumped into them, a woman with long, brown, greasy hair. "Shanshu," she said.
"Bless you," Connor said, and Spike grabbed her arms. "What?"
She smiled up at them. "Two for one deal?"
"We're not buying," Connor said, and Spike pushed them out of the main thouroughfare, into the mouth of an alley. "What do you know, love?" he asked.
She made a face at him. "I'm not her. The stars don't talk to me."
Spike smiled gently. "I know, darling, I know. What did you say earlier?"
"He signed it away," she said, frowning slightly. "He signed it all away and you won the booby prize. Not what he thought they promised, but you got it."
"Bloody hell." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, pushing them into her hands. She looked down at them for half a second, then made them disappear. She strode off down the street, workboots thumping.
Spike stole a bottle of Jack from a convenience store (Connor wasn't sure exactly where he'd hidden it, they were getting better at blocking each other out as well as working together). It only took a little bit of peer pressure for Connor to start drinking. They took turns.
About halfway through the bottle, Spike lifted it to eye level. "Is it just me, or am I a lot drunker than usual?"
"I don't drink," Connor said, taking a giant gulp.
Spike swallowed. "You do now."
"Tell me about him," Connor said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
So Spike did, and Connor kept the whiskey flowing.